Archive of Our Own

It’s ass o’clock in early winter at Heathrow international airport as Wooyoung drags his feet to the locked door of the shop. The ID scanner beeps too loudly, and he groans softly, breath catching in a cloud and sound catching glances from the other shopkeepers and passengers scattered about. Not that he cares about them much; Wooyoung’s got doughnuts to bake. Unfortunately.

It had been a bad idea to stay up late, but what can you do when most of your friends are at the other side of the world for the day. San had messaged him from some random hotel in Vancouver at 9 in the evening, immediately and profusely apologising the moment he had realised the hour. This lead to, of course, video calling the whole ATZ cabin crew for an hour as they showed him around the hotel, far too fancy for Wooyoung’s personal tastes but he’d imagine very much a joy to stay in.

It did mean, however, he only got less than two hours of sleep between that and now.

The morning routine happens without Wooyoung realising—sleepwalking and going through the motions fully automatically, even postponing turning the overhead lights on as long as he can lest his headache worsens—and so when the first batch of doughnuts are ready, he desperately digs into one for some much needed energy.

“You look like death,” his coworker says, arriving fashionably late as always.

“Feel like it, too,” he growls at her through a mouthful of doughnut. “D’you mind if I make some coffee?”

“Employee coffee is discounted,” she shrugs, turning back to the till to prepare for the first customers, who are waiting behind the glass doors already. “Just don’t overwork yourself. And make one for me.”

“Too late,” he mumbles, but nonetheless readies the coffee machines to warm up.

And so the day begins. It’s not high season, thank God, but it’s as busy as ever at their gate. Many children yell at their parents to buy them a pastry, usually their sweetest doughnuts or the triple-chocolate muffins need many batches exactly for that reason. Somewhere near, a flight is cancelled and a crowd gathers too close for comfort. It gives them an unpredicted rush hour at 10am, people buying and eating away their frustration and misery.

He’d forgotten to charge his Bluetooth earphones after last night, as well, so his break is spent alone without music or endless scrolling on social media videos to entertain himself.

It’s too quiet. For someone like Wooyoung, who thrives in chaos and laughter, it’s far too quiet.

It often is, when your only friends are all on a trip abroad and you’re stuck behind.

Though, he shouldn’t be angry at them like this, Wooyoung thinks to himself as he taps an order into the till. It’s their job, after all. If anything, he’s the odd one out. The last to join the friends, an honorary member of the ATZ flight crew—but honorary means he’s neither steward nor pilot. He’s just the coffee and doughnut guy. And no matter how many times Seonghwa tells him how essential that role is for their survival, it falls a little flat when he’s the only one left in England, as the rest of them are prancing around the world.

“Mocha latte for Maddie,” his coworker calls out just as Wooyoung finishes his own orders. “Woo, you good?”

Wooyoung shrugs. “Kind of bored. And tired.”

A lady comes to pick her up her drink, and finally, there’s a moment of rest. “Jake’s almost here,” his coworker says, then. He really should learn her name sometime. “You could have an early leave, if you’d like.”

“The manager won’t like that,” he frowns. “Besides, I can handle it. Got nothing better to do today.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffs, turning away from him to clean the counter. “Except maybe hang out with your boyfriends on call the whole afternoon. Where are they now?”

“Not my boyfriends,” he mutters. “Vancouver.”

“The fact you knew immediately who I was talking about, says more than anything you ever will,” she sends a wicked grin his way. “Bet you an oreo doughnut they’re right now missing you like crazy, too.”

“I have absolutely no desire for one of those, the sweetness bomb makes me sick. Besides, they’re in a beautiful hotel in Canada,” he reminds her, “with a pool, a spa, a gym, and a zoo nearby. Why would they be missing me?”

She looks at him incredulously, as if saying ‘are you fucking with me?’ with just her eyebrows. “Woo, you’re an idiot.”

“Wh—hey!”

“Why are you exhausted?”

Wooyoung stutters out his reply, blushing. “I—I didn’t sleep much.”

“And why is that?”

“…San called me.”

“Well there you go!”

“That doesn’t prove anything!” Wooyoung fumes.

“It proves he’d rather chat with you than go to the gym,” she says pointedly. “Now, either take another break or leave. I can handle this.”

‘This’ being three roaming customers, of which two had kids babbling at the display items. Wooyoung groans. “Oh, fine.”

His nametag is discarded in the back of the shop as he hangs up the apron on his designated hook. An early leave sounds heavenly, if he says so himself, and the other guy—Jake, was it?—was already on his way, Wooyoung wouldn’t be missed.

Wouldn’t be missed here, at least. The point she had made about San’s phone call lingers in his mind as he takes the bus to his flat. He opens the door with a giddy smile, even when the cold air greets him from within as he takes off his coat.

San would rather chat with him than go to the gym. In Canada.

San misses him. And that warms Wooyoung’s heart more than he will ever confess.

--

It had been a series of very strange circumstances that had Wooyoung befriend the ATZ crew, of which only one was truly by his own making. He’d always watched them from afar, enjoying their little catwalk moments with their aviators and pretty-as-all-hell uniforms. ATZ, a silly acronym of Timbre Skyline Airways, consists of Captain Kim Hongjoong, copilot and maknae Choi Jongho, and their cabin crew; Park Seonghwa as purser, Jeong Yunho, Kang Yeosang, Choi San, and Song Mingi.

They’re not the only flight crew at Timbre airways, but ATZ was infamous for staying consistent in rotation: never has Wooyoung seen them with another crew configuration (and Wooyoung has seen them a Lot. Embarrassingly). Now—as a Doughnut shop attendant—Wooyoung isn’t very well-versed in airline crew grouping, but even he knows it’s Highly Unlikely for that to happen on accident. At the airport, even other Timbre employees dub the seven ATZ, or ateez if one wanted to be taciturn.

And by God, they really do belong together.

It’s by complete coincidence that Wooyoung overheard Park Seonghwa speak French. He’d been lousing at the till, bored of the lack of customers, when the man had passed by their shop, speaking to someone on the phone rapidly in warm consonants and close-mouthed vowels. Wooyoung had been so entranced by the elegance of the tongue that he didn’t do much but stare in front of him for a good while, only blinking out of the trance when his coworker snapped his fingers in front of him.

Later that night he went to the internet, deciding to shoot his shot, now that he had an idea where to begin.

“Baise-moi contre le mur,” he said the next time he had seen Seonghwa at their gate, grinning. “I heard it means ‘you caught my eye, handsome’.”

Seonghwa had stared at him for a solid 10 seconds. Then, by a miracle gifted from heaven, he had giggled. “You’re endearing. What’s your name?”

Wooyoung, of course, had floundered a reply with difficulty. “Woo. Um. Wooyoung—Jung Wooyoung. But you can woo me anytime?” The comment had the delivery of a question more than a flirtatious sentiment, but Seonghwa laughed nonetheless.

“I see. I’m Park Seonghwa. Is that a Korean name I hear?”

“Yeah! My parents are both from South-Korea, actually,” Wooyoung smiled. “They went back a couple years ago, but I’m settled in the UK well, so I stayed.” Not a lie, but it would be a little awkward to spill financial problems in the first conversation with someone. “How about you? How did you get to learn French?”

“I was born in Gyeongnam, but studied in Paris,” Seonghwa explained in turn, sheepish grin creeping up. “I used to work for Airfrance, actually, before I ended up at KQ—ah, our parent company that is.”

“Whoa,” Wooyoung said. “You must’ve travelled all over.”

And so, miraculously, the first conversation Wooyoung had with ATZ continued remarkably normal, positive even. Seonghwa seemed somewhat amused by him, though without any disdain like he’d expected. In fact, at some moments Wooyoung could swear Seonghwa was flirting back.

But he couldn’t hope for too much.

He returned to his station when Seonghwa said he had to leave, giddy and dreamy from their exchange, then still unaware of Seonghwa watching him leave. Unaware of him texting Hongjoong as he left.

--

-> Cap’n

     >A guy asked me out just now.

     >You’d like him. He’s silly

     >I think he’s a fan

     >Shocked me with an awful pickup line and stared at me with puppy eyes

     >Works at the doughnut shop near gate 55

>haha only you hwa

>didn’t realise we had fans to be honest

     >I swear those puppy eyes made me so weak. It’s my weakness

>we know darling

>you realise how much the kids like to exploit that little factoid?

     >Don’t remind me. San blinks and I’m already gone

>at least you’re self aware

>ill meet him if you want?

     >Please do :-)

     >Tell me what you think.

--

The second time Wooyoung meets someone from ATZ was a surprise to him. He’d had a shit day, to say the least: he was the only one on shift for the opening hours because of a call-in for a sick day, had a Karen scream at him, dropped a coffee he’d made for a customer, dropped a coffee he’d made for himself, and realised his headphones were still charging at his desk in his flat.

Heading back out with a sigh and a new batch of doughnuts and croissants, Wooyoung nods at the small queue that’d formed in his absence. “I’ll be right with you!” he calls to the first one as he unloads his tray into the displays.

“Are you Wooyoung?” a voice interrupts instead.

Not expecting a personal query, Wooyoung shoots up, hitting his head on the counter hard. “Fuck!” he yells, dropping his empty tray loudly on the floor.

“Shit,” comes the same voice, now a lot closer. “Wait, don’t move, let me help.”

Wooyoung rises slowly, guided by gentle arms, to his full height. His sight still wavers slightly, not to mention the bump on his head throbbing with every heartbeat. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he mutters. “Can I help y—oh. Hello?”

Captain Kim Hongjoong is blinking up at him with concerned eyes. “Maybe sit down first? The only guests in your shop right now are me and Yunho.”

Wooyoung’s eyes shoot to the person hovering behind the captain, Jeong Yunho. “Uh,” he says eloquently. “Sure.”

By what feels like practised hands, Wooyoung is led to and subsequently is promptly dropped at a customer table seat. “Are you feeling dizzy?” asks captain Hongjoong worriedly, looking over Wooyoung’s scalp with kind fingers. “Any black spots within your vision?”

Wooyoung certainly feels dizzy, but not because he had hit his head. “Um. I don’t think so. It’s a small bump. It’s not that bad—I’m usually clumsier.”

“We apologise for scaring you like that,” Yunho says, voice calm and controlled, and Wooyoung’s heart flutters.

“’S no problem,” says Wooyoung. “Like you said, no customers. Um, can I help you? Would you like a doughnut?”

With a slow blink, captain Hongjoong and Yunho turn to one another. “A doughnut would be nice,” the captain says as Yunho walked off to the counter. “Anything else you recommend?”

“Um.” Not the time for his brain to wipe every single item on the menu off his mind! What else does the shop sell? Croissants, apple pie… Coffee! “I can make you two some coffee? Or more, if you’re on your way to, uh.” What is he supposed to say here? To your crew? Wooyoung has spoken to one (1!!) member of the captain’s crew, why should he assume he’s going to make coffee for all seven?

“To…?” When Wooyoung doesn’t reply and the blush on his face darkens, the captain wipes some hair from his eyes. “You must be dizzy, still,” he says. “Stay here until it fades. We can gather our doughnuts, and you can ring us up when you feel better.”

“I’m really ok, captain,” Wooyoung mutters, even though he really just wants to stay within the captain’s reach.

“Call me Hongjoong,” the—Hongjoong says with a smile. “I’m not at work right now.”

“I’m Yunho,” Yunho says from behind the counter, grabbing three doughnuts from the display. “Nice to meet you, Wooyoung.”

“…Nice to meet you?” Wooyoung says. Then, as if he isn't already sure, he adds, “You are from ATZ, right?”

Hongjoong laughs heartily, sitting down next to Wooyoung at the table. “We are. Captain Kim Hongjoong, at your service. Though, like I said, right now I’m no captain—just a friendly face.”

“You’re always our captain, Hongjoongie,” Yunho interrupts as he returns with three plates of doughnuts and a small receipt that shows he’d somehow correctly operated the till without Wooyoung noticing. He turns back to Wooyoung, who has been staring unabashedly. “We see you here a lot: Our gates change often but this one is basically home-base.”

“Ah,” says Wooyoung. “…Is this for me?”

Both look over at the plate with the third doughnut Yunho had placed in front of him. “…Yes?” Yunho says. “It’d be a bit rude to start eating without you while you’re here.”

“Oh.” Wooyoung smiles shakily. “Thank you.”

“I hope you enjoy,” Hongjoong says as he bites into his own. “Besides, you seemed to have captured the heart of our dear purser.”

Captured his heart?! Wooyoung’s eyes widen. “I what?”

“It was quite the memorable meeting, he told us, so we had to check you out of course,” Yunho says with a chuckle. “Besides, it’s a shame we’ve never been able to try your doughnuts before this.”

“You should try my coffee,” Wooyoung blurts out. “I mean. I can make coffee for you guys. And the rest…?”

Hongjoong, with another bite in his mouth, hums. “Maybe,” he says, muffled from behind his hand, “Mingi doesn’t enjoy coffee very much, so maybe a tea for him. And a latte for Yeosang, he’s got a bit of a sweet tooth.”

“Captain,” Yunho says gently. “Don’t go overboard with a coffee order like that. He’s still dazed.”

“Oh! Sorry!”

“It’s really ok,” Wooyoung sighs nervously. A seven-part coffee order for ATZ. Sure, no pressure. “It’s my job. I’ll get on it when I finish this?”

“No rush,” Hongjoong reassures.

And the captain had meant it, Wooyoung thinks as he returns to work. He’d been able to spend his lunch break snacking at a doughnut he’d made himself, with company he’d thoroughly enjoyed. They’d ended up laughing a lot more than he’d expected, hearing of tales from ATZ’s crew mishaps and shenanigans. The captain—Hongjoong when off work, now— turns out to be kind, gentle but a stern gaze took over when he needed it—something Wooyoung respected immensely, whereas Yunho on the other hand is gentle and well-spoken—every time he spoke Wooyoung felt as if he’d been embraced in a warm hug.

He did eventually get to making that coffee order, which captain Hongjoong paid for in full—with an additional (thick) tip—as the shop was still quite calm. Four regular coffees, a tea, a latte, and a mocha for Seonghwa apparently. Wooyoung stored that little bit of information away into the back of his mind.

The duo left Wooyoung with their hands full and his heart warmed.

And that was the second time Wooyoung interacted with the ATZ crew.

Somehow, it got more common a lot quicker than could ever expect.

--

SEVEN MAKES ONE POLYCULE <3

     >WAIT YOU TWO WENT TO SEE HIMT ODAY?

Cap’n

>haha hwa yeah we did

>right before boarding

>he was very cute

>just like you said

puppy

>he hit his head on the counter the first moment he saw us

>we gave him a doughnut as an apology

     >You gave him a doughnut.

     >He works in a doughnut shop. Don’t you think he eats enough of those?

Cap’n

>wait shit was that a bad way to apologise?

SUNnie

>im sure you did gr8 cap!!!

>now i wanna meet him :(

     >We can visit after we come back?

     >Wait, were the drinks today from him, too??

fixon

>what do we want for dinner? asks sangie

>oh are we talking about hyungs crush??

     >We are NOT.

Cap’n

>yeah

puppy

>yeahh

SUNnie

>yep

     >You’re all dead to me.

cocap

>he’ll be right there when we return. for now

>theres a pizza place a minute walk from the hotel. if yall want a date night?

     >At least someone here is sensible.

     >Pizza sounds great Jong!

--

The third time Wooyoung meets an ATZ member, it’s again at the doughnut shop. Wooyoung debates asking if the coffee is actually that good, but just for his sanity (and the large probability that they really are just here for coffee) he doesn’t.

Choi San and co-captain Choi Jongho stand politely in the back of the till line, waiting their turn—Jongho looks regal in his pilot gear, and San holds a pen behind his ear for some reason, distracting Wooyoung from further swooning over how the cape of his uniform flows in the nonexistent winds of the airport gate. When Wooyoung spots them, San sends him a wide smile, waving enthusiastically.

Wooyoung waves back, though the other customers take back his attention by starting a conversation before he can do much else.

“Do you have a coffee recommendation?” the lady asks. “My daughter doesn’t enjoy coffee very much, but she wants to try new things.”

“Our lattes are mild,” Wooyoung offers. “Or a frappuccino. Does she enjoy caramel as sweetener?”

“The mocha is phenomenal,” chimes San from the back of the line. “If she likes chocolate, go for that one.”

The lady turns around, smiling kindly at the steward. “You think so?”

“A, uh, friend of mine tried it recently, and hasn’t stopped talking about it,” San explains with ease. From behind him, Jongho rolls his eyes but doesn’t refute the claim.

Wooyoung’s cheeks flush. His coworker bumps her hip against his, poking his red cheek pointedly. “You hear that, loverboy?” she says teasingly, tying her hair back up as if preparing for a rush hour. “Let me handle the others after them, you focus on these two.”

“I’ll take a mocha with my order, then,” the lady decides before Wooyoung can argue back. “Thank you for your help.” She says at San, who nods kindly. He takes her place in the queue as she steps away with her order being prepared by Wooyoung’s coworker, leaving him together with San and Jongho and the counter between them. Only now their arms become visible, and Wooyoung squints at the two hands entwined tightly in front of him.

Before he can ask, Jongho gestures at the doughnut display. “Which one is your personal favourite?”

“Mine?” Wooyoung asks, caught off guard. He scratches at his cheek, thinking back to the week before, where Yunho had grabbed him a simple coconut one. He points at it. “That one, I think. I’m not too keen on sugar bombs, but the coconut sugar isn’t too sweet.”

Jongho nods. “One of those then.”

“Anything else?” asks Wooyoung, already reaching for the tongs. “Coffee or tea?”

“Four regular coffee,” San chimes in, twirling the pen within his fingers. “And one tea, a latte, and another mocha, please.”

Pausing with the doughnut in the hands of the tongs, Wooyoung turns to San with a knowing grin. “Long flight ahead?”

“You know it,” Jongho mutters. “Plus so much paperwork this morning alone.” He cocks his head at San, who’s playing with the pen on the counter. “But your coffee was nice, last time. Thanks.”

“It’s what I’m here for,” says Wooyoung carefully as he puts the doughnut in a paper bag. “Let me ring you up, and I’ll get a head start on the coffees.”

Dutifully, San pays for the order, still playing with his pen, then steps aside to allow the next customer their turn. With a wink into his direction, Wooyoung’s coworker jumps to the till.

“Busy day?” San asks him as he dances around the coffee machines. Seven drinks isn’t the most within one order he’s ever had to do, but it’s definitely a lot nonetheless. “The gate’s pretty full.”

“We got reinforcements coming,” Wooyoung says casually. “It’s busier than normal, I think a flight got delayed.”

“Have you taken a break yet?” asks Jongho.

“Nah,” Wooyoung shrugs. “I’m almost done with my shift, anyway. But it’s nice to see you before you leave.”

San lights up when he says that, and Wooyoung can’t be embarrassed by his own courage just for the sake of that smile. “It’s nice to see you, too. Nice to meet you, really, I mean. I’m Choi San—call me San. The captain apologises, by the way.”

Apologises? “What for?”

“Making you hit your head last time he was here,” Jongho snickers. “He feels guilty, and then Seonghwa made him aware of the fact he bought you a doughnut when you work in a doughnut shop. How much of those do you eat, and how are you not yet sick of them?”

Wooyoung laughs. Actually laughs, quite loud, embarrassingly enough. “I mean,” he quickly shushes himself with a cough, and continues preparing the mocha. “I don’t actually eat many of these. Like I said, sugar bombs and I don’t mix.”

“Don’t mix?” San asks.

“I get nauseated from the sweetness, then I get a massive sugar high.” Wooyoung snorts as he remembers a year ago when some of his high-school friends dared him to eat a bit more of a cake than he ought to have. He shudders. “Then I crash, and nothing can get me up from the couch, I swear. I’ve made my choice to abstain, instead.”

It makes the two of them laugh, and Wooyoung flushes with pride.

“Here you go,” he says, putting the last lid on the drinks.

“Thank you,” Jongho says. “I don’t think I introduced myself yet. I’m Choi Jongho, copilot of Kim Hongjoong.”

I know who you are, thinks Wooyoung. “Nice to meet you, Jongho,” he just says, with a smile. “Jung Wooyoung at your service. Choi…are you two family?”

“Nope,” San just says. “Or, well. In our eyes, our crew is one big family.” Jongho nudges him with his elbow, and San laughs. An inside joke, maybe? “Kind of. But we’re not blood related.”

“You’re not? And yet you found one another. Coincidence or fate, do you think?”

“That’s a question with an answer too long for the time we have left,” Jongho says as he nudges San’s side. “But we’ll be back to chat some philosophy, if you want to?”

And oh, that’s a clear invitation, isn’t it? Wooyoung can’t help but smile even brighter. “I’d love to.” Then, he waves his hands, shooing them away. “Now go, you have a flight to catch, if I recall correctly.”

San chuckles as he turns, grabbing Jongho and making their way to whatever gate they need to be at. From the look of things, it’s not near gate 55, as they’re dashing off to somewhere far away.

The doughnut is left in the bag on the counter, a little ^_^ drawn in the corner.

Wooyoung can’t stop grinning the whole day.

--

And so it goes. Every week or two, two or three members of the ATZ crew visit the shop, buy their usual, and one pastry on Wooyoung’s recommendation, that they then ‘forget’ to bring. When Yunho and Jongho actually give him the bag, instead of leaving it on the counter for him to grab, it’s so ingrained already that he thoughtlessly accepts the bag from their hands. When he realises, they’re both grinning at him as if they tricked him into it. Which, to be fair, they did. Unfairly handsome people shouldn’t make casual conversations with him when they have an ulterior motive.

“You know it’s really not worth coming here for the coffee,” Wooyoung admits to Hongjoong two weeks into the hangouts. “Everything at the airport is overpriced as shit.”

“We can afford it,” Hongjoong just says. “Plus, we see you adding your own employee discount to our total. You don’t have to, but it’s sweet of you nonetheless.”

It leaves him blushing that he was caught so easily, but when they’re the only returning customers he has, he thinks it’s fine to offer them discount. “You work for the airport, too,” he retorts, face crimson, “technically. So.”

“So,” Hongjoong repeats with a grin.

When it’s busy, ATZ wait patiently for a moment of his time, and when it’s not, they all sit at a table to hang out as Wooyoung chats with them from behind the counter, or sometimes—when his break coincides with their timing—at the table with them.

San is the one who asks for his number first. “I wanted to show you this meme,” he said, frowning. San should never feel the need to frown, Wooyoung decides right there and then. “But I don’t have your contact info.”

Wooyoung acts like he gives it out of pity for San, but inside (and, let’s face it, externally it’s just as visible) he’s cheering with joy. It was the first indication of their interest in him, not just as a barista but as a friend.

Seonghwa watches the two of them, smiling softly.

--

The wildest meeting is the second-to-last one, a month since the first conversation with Seonghwa. Wooyoung had yet to meet Yeosang, who decided to join San when he was heading Wooyoung’s way when they had just arrived back in London. Yeosang had, for reasons yet unknown, asked for highly specific childhood photos of Wooyoung, who, on his break, had asked his mum for some, just to humour them.

“That’s me!” Yeosang yells then, more animated than Wooyoung has ever seen him from his time watching the crew from afar. “I knew it! I knew you were the same guy!”

“Whuh?” Wooyoung blinks. “What?”

“We met on vacation, like, fifteen years ago!” Yeosang says as he grabs Wooyoung’s hands, pulling them close over the table they’re seated at. It’s through the thorough confusion that Wooyoung, miraculously, hasn’t yet exploded into a blushing mess. “I should have some more pictures on my laptop, if you want to see them?”

Of course Wooyoung wants to see them. He nods, but all that exits his agape mouth is, “This is insane.”

His stupor only got worse when, at that, Yeosang sent him a bright smile.

The same night, Wooyoung had called his mum, who picked up from the morning in South-Korea, and before she can start rambling about his brother’s wedding he quickly asks about the one holiday in Seoul fifteen years ago.

“Oh, yes, I remember! I sent some of those photos last night,” his mother says with a smile apparent in her voice. “They turned out so well, your father has them on the office wall here. Sangie, was it? You two were inseparable the whole month—he lived close to your dad’s sister, I believe. We wanted to keep contact, but his parents didn’t respond to their email a lot. I could check if I received any, around then?”

Wooyoung stares into nothing for some time at that. His mother fills in the silence.

“What’s the sudden interest, Youngie dear?” she asks. “I’d almost thought you had forgotten about Yeosangie a long time ago.”

“I…had,” Wooyoung admits. “Could you forward those emails, if you still have them?”

“Of course,” his mother says immediately. “Now what brought this on?”

“I met Yeosang today. He says he knows me. From then.”

Of course, this only delights his mum more. He has to calm down her exciting squeal and explain the situation—befriending his airport celebrity crush and finding out you’re childhood friends is an odd sensation. Yeosang grew into a beautiful young man, after all. To combine the two images is a little difficult, after seeing him as ATZ’s Kang Yeosang for so long. Now, telling his mum all of this would embarrass the hell out of him, nevermind reveal some things to her he would rather keep a secret.

“Maybe you can bring him as a plus one for your brother’s wedding. It looks like meeting him again did you good,” his mother says after. “You sound like you’re smiling, Youngie.”

Wooyoung is about to dismiss it with a shake of his head, but. But he is.

His mother is right. He’s smiling. He’s been smiling like a fool at nothing while recounting the tale of the last month, fondly and mesmerised by the giddy feeling that wells up within him as he remembers.

“Mam,” he says, but his voice wavers.

“Oh, darling,” his mother’s voice coos softly. “I wish I could hug you right now. Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying.” He isn’t. He isn’t.

“You really like them, don’t you?” whispers his mum. “From what you’re telling me, you’re dear to them too. Allow yourself that pocket of happiness.”

“Yes mam,” Wooyoung replies softly, thinking about how excited Yeosang had been when he had realised. Thinking about how San had gently grabbed Yeosang’s hand to calm him down. “I’ll try.”

--

A pocket of happiness. The phrase haunts him the following week. Wooyoung watches pensively as the ATZ crew dance around him in the café, claiming a table that is now in his mind permanently theirs. Mingi went along this time, finally completing the little meet-and-greet round Wooyoung had been privy to, but it changes very little. They’re joking and laughing together, pulling him alongside them, yet he is like a caged bird behind the counter, stuck sending them semi-genuine grins from a distance as they enjoy themselves.

They really do belong together, the seven of them. How can Wooyoung ever compare, let alone create a pocket for himself between them.

“Wooyoung?” Yeosang’s voice calls out kindly from their table. “Are you ok?”

“Ah, sorry.” Quickly, he waves off the thoughts with a wild shake of his head. “What’s up, Sangie?”

Yeosang’s eyes brighten at the nickname. “Would you like to hang out more—outside of the airport, I mean? The hyungs have paperwork this afternoon, but if you want you could join us five for dinner, tonight.”

“Oh?” Wooyoung grins, raising his eyebrows not at all inconspicuously, settling into a role he isn’t sure he wants to play. “Why, Sangie, are you asking me on a date?”

Yeosang smacks him on his head with the rolled-up newspaper in his hand. “We know each other a day Wooyoung-ah.”

It’s not a no. “Oh but technically—” he begins, but Yeosang cuts him off, still grinning.

“Stopping you there. Are you in or no? Yunho’s going to join later, so it’ll be us five and you.”

Wooyoung’s shift is supposed to end at 4 today. More than enough time to go home, clean himself up, and head out again. “At what place would we be meeting?”

“At mine,” San says without missing a beat.

At… At San’s. Dinner at San’s? Wooyoung’s smile falls faintly. “Like, at your house?”

“Well, it’s more of a flat, but yeah. Hyungs will be at the Captain’s house, don’t wanna disturb them,” San reasons easily, leaning to the side into Yeosang’s chest.

Jongho snorts. Wooyoung is too distracted to decode whatever that means.

Dinner at San’s, then. Not a pub or restaurant. “Should I bring something?”

Jongho shakes his head, which is leaning on Mingi’s shoulder in exhaustion. “’Re gonna order in, pr’bably.”

“If you want to bring anything, feel free,” Mingi continues. “San hasn’t been at his place for literal months, so all we got is tea and coffee.”

“I can cook?” he blurts out.

A quiet falls between them, all eyes turn to him.

Wooyoung blinks, realising he has in fact spoken before thinking. Not one to backtrack, he starts digging his own grave. “I mean, I learnt how to cook from my parents. And, uh, I live near a big Tesco, so I can take the bus to yours and stop there? Getting takeout all the time must be expensive, plus all these coffees add up, aha.” When no one says anything, still, he starts panicking. “I- only if you want to, of course. It’s your house, San, I can’t believe I just invited myself to cook there like it’s nothing—sorry, I would offer my own flat as a place but it’s a bit of a mess, plus I don’t think all six of us can fit around my table, I. um. I’ll shut up.”

He shuts up.

San has sat back up and is fidgeting with another pen on the table; Jongho has raised his head from Mingi’s shoulder, looking back and forth from Wooyoung to Yeosang, as if gauging their reaction.

“Wooyoung,” Mingi speaks first. “You realise the offer for a homecooked meal sounds like heaven for us right about now?”

“I—oh. Alright?”

“Maybe not tonight,” San proposes. “I wouldn’t want to look bad as host making you cook for all six of us, after all!”

There’s some forced laughter from Mingi and Jongho, but Wooyoung looks away, embarrassed.

“Youngie,” Yeosang says, using his nickname for the first time since they were children, as if he knows how Wooyoung’s eyes threaten to water at the faux familiarity. “Can you look up at me?”

Yeosang’s eyes are gentle, and so is his smile. Not at all angry, or disgusted, or unwelcome. Wooyoung’s heart changes its rapidfire beat from anxious to flushed, a little hummingbird within his chest.

“We appreciate the offer,” Yeosang says to him, looking him straight in the eyes, “but you don’t have to buy and carry groceries for six people across the city just to treat us well. We will have fun with you there, homecooked meal or takeout.”

“Ah,” Wooyoung nods. Then blinks. Then nods again, more timidly. “Alright, next time then.”

The moment is broken when San reaches over the counter to ruffle his hair, to which Wooyoung yelps, as they all expected him to.

“Next time sounds great, hyung,” he hears Jongho murmur under the shrieks and laughter.

--

San’s flat is quite out of the way from his own commute, which gives Wooyoung plenty of time on the tube to get the nerves out of his system by fretting the whole way. It doesn’t work very well, as even when he stands in front of the building, ready to ring the intercom, he still feels his heart flutter like a hummingbird.

“Right,” he mutters to himself. “No backing out now. They’re actually friends, now. You better rise to the expectations.”

Yet, he can’t make himself press the button.

It’s staring at him menacingly, forming a firm stalemate between the two of them.

“Wooyoung?” comes a voice from high above.

Wooyoung jumps at the direct address. “God?!”

There’s a fading cackle, as if someone dove back inside. Wooyoung can’t spot anyone above any more, but there is a window cracked open at the fourth floor.

From the same window, a smiling head pops out. “92-4,” calls Jongho through a chuckle, a different voice from the original one. “We can buzz you in!”

As if Wooyoung had forgotten the number. Unfortunately, being spotted means he no longer has any means to procrastinate.

The button yields easily to his thumb, and the intercom buzzes the door open with neither delay nor any conversation. It’s unfortunately not a maze inside, and the front door of the flat is cricked open a tiny bit to let him in without effort. There’s no way he can dawdle any longer.

With a long exhale to brace himself, Wooyoung enters.

“You made it!” Yeosang immediately greets him at the door, waving him further into the flat. He’s out of uniform, wearing a soft, skintight crop top with light jeans under it—and it looks fantastic on him. Wooyoung swallows, but allows himself to be pulled along. He hadn’t needed to wear a coat in the late spring weather so they ignore the coat rack in the hall in favour of heading straight to the living room. The flat isn’t small—Wooyoung’s is much smaller—but the arrangement San has created makes it look infinitely more spacey. It’s not quite minimalist; there are some personable objects like stationery and small bowls with collected clutter, but most of it is function over aesthetic. Which makes sense for a place that doesn’t house the tenant for more than half a year. Wooyoung looks around for a bit as the others talk, taking it all in.

Besides the beautiful interior, the people within it are all out of uniform, and all are (as expected) drop-dead gorgeous: Jongho is wearing a leather jacket over black skinnies—which ought to be illegal, Wooyoung has just decided—while San looks like he just came out of the gym. Wooyoung doesn’t know how he’s going to survive the night. Both look up when Yeosang pulls him into the dining area.

“You’re just as funny outside of the airport,” San—clearly the original window voice—chuckles. “Who would’ve thought.”

“Don’t insult him, he just got here!” Mingi yells from the bathroom, which has the door wide open. “He won’t want to come back!”

“We’ll just have to pull him back here,” Jongho shrugs. He’s moved away from the window and has settled on the couch opposite the kitchen. “Anyone heard anything from Yunho-hyung?”

“Just his preferred order,” says Yeosang, pushing Wooyoung into a chair at the dinner table. “He’s expecting an extra helping of sauce.”

“About that,” Wooyoung interrupts now that he’s seated. “What exactly is the plan for dinner?”

“Tacos, if that’s ok with you?” Yeosang says. He pulls up a chair next to Wooyoung, patting San’s shoulder until he sits. “You two can order while I get you something to drink. Any preference?”

“Um. What do you have?” he asks as San pulls a macbook air towards the two of them to start a delivery.

Mingi walks in at that moment, towel covering his hair and a loose tank top covering his chest, raw edges curling at the armscyes in what feels like a taunt aimed at Wooyoung personally. “What’re we doing?”

“What do we have on drink offers?” Yeosang asks him.

Maybe he should’ve just asked for tea, Wooyoung considers internally as the two start digging into San’s cupboards for every single drink offer. Though, he regrets nothing when it ends up looking adorable: Mingi enthusiastically presents some old hot cocoa mix, holding it high up in the air; Yeosang ends up pulling a pack of unopened long-lasting milk from the depths, as well as some cartons with strange looking tea flavours at which he stares unblinking and slightly warily.

“What kind of tacos do you like, Wooyoung?”

Wooyoung shakes off his staring to let San distract him. “What’s the options?”

In the midst of the quickly overwhelming chaos of Yeosang and Mingi loudly trying to get Wooyoung’s attention for drink choice from the kitchen while San taps his shoulder at taco options, Yunho enters the hallway. The hubbub halts immediately when he drops his bag.

“What the hell is happening.”

“Believe me,” Wooyoung speaks before anyone else can. “I wish I had any idea.”

It rekindles the commotion, this time everyone trying to defend themselves from the accusation while Jongho laughs from the corner. Yunho sighs, though he grins fondly through it nonetheless.

The dinner goes well—or, perhaps as well as a dinner with six people can go. It’s chaos, but a warm and comfortable kind—music, laughter, joy. All the tacos are thrown on one plate to share, and conversation never really halts at all. Wooyoung learns that, even though all of ATZ is some part Korean, only Jongho has lived there his whole life. He learns that the MATZ, a wordplay on the Korean term mats and ATZ, consists of the two eldest that are absent from the dinner. He learns that all of them are sickeningly sweet and affectionate with one another, going as far as Yeosang mindlessly playing with San’s hair while deeply involved in conversation. At some point Yunho sits on Mingi’s lap and refuses to move until Yeosang points out he’s fallen asleep in the chair.

“He’s been tired all day,” Mingi reasons when San attempts to wake him up. “Let him be.”

And so they do. The conversation dims down to a soft chatter, and Wooyoung is enjoying the afterglow of the evening far too much. They watch the sunset through San’s windows, until finally, Jongho also nods off at the couch.

“I should maybe head out,” Wooyoung sighs. “Work tomorrow.”

“Luckily you’ll see us there, too,” Yeosang grins, and helps him up. “Let me walk you—Oh!”

A cold cup of coffee tips over, spilling on Wooyoung’s shirt like a bloodstain. He blinks.

“Shit,” Yeosang swears, panicking as he quickly rises from his seat fully. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise that was still full.” With leftover napkins from the tacos he starts dabbing at Wooyoung’s shirt, though it’s not doing much—especially as the coffee sinks into the pale grey colour of his sweater.

“You can borrow a shirt from me,” San pipes up quickly from Jongho’s corner. “It’s cold at night. Do you have a coat?”

He doesn’t.

“Come with me,” Yeosang says, and doesn’t give him much of a choice as he is dragged by a strong grip on his wrist, to where he expects San’s bedroom to be.

“It’s really no problem,” Wooyoung tries to reason. “It’ll dry on the way to the tube—”

“No way am I leaving you out in the cold with a wet shirt and nothing else over it,” replies Yeosang severely. “Besides, I’m a bit cold myself. And I wanted to talk to you alone, anyway.”

He what? Wooyoung’s heartbeat picks back up. “Ah—about what?” he stutters.

Yeosang shrugs. He stands in front of the open wardrobe, silently debating on what to give Wooyoung, likely. “It must be weird to you, for me to recognise you that easily,” he says, then turns around. “Here, try this.”

He throws a simple long-sleeve tee, and Wooyoung stares at it in his hands. San’s shirt is light, a cotton blend most likely, but warm enough for the weather. It’ll be too long on the sleeves, but maybe, just maybe, if Wooyoung pushes his luck and asks for a loose fitting short-sleeve to layer atop it, it could work very stylishly.

Then the comment sinks in. “What do you mean, weird?” he asks.

“It’s been fifteen years,” Yeosang smiles sadly, turning back to the wardrobe. “Hasn’t it? That’s a long time to recognise a face, especially if said face has grown mature over the years.”

Wooyoung wonders where this is leading. Besides the fact that it’s not leading to a dress-up session, like he’d expected, as Yeosang doesn’t seem to be leaving the vicinity any time soon. “What are you trying to say.”

“I’m saying I’m glad I found you again,” admits Yeosang, pulling out a large sweater from its back and pulling it on in one smooth motion before looking back at him. “My life back then was pretty miserable. It’s much better now,” he hurriedly adds when he sees Wooyoung’s face fall. “And I can’t blame nine year old you for not noticing, of course. But those photos and memories got me through some shit times. And…” he sighs.

Wooyoung wants to take a step towards the man in front of him, but Yeosang has turned his eyes to the floor. He doesn’t know if it’s out of shame or sadness or something else. “Sangie,” is all he says, a whisper through the space between them that feels infinite.

“Heh.” A sheepish smile replaces the vulnerable frown Yeosang was sporting, and he curls his chin into the collar of San’s sweater. “You know, when ATZ found out my mood could be instantly bettered just by saying that silly nickname, they started saying it a lot more. Only because you gave it that warmth I still cling onto today.”

“I’m not gonna ask for details,” Wooyoung says, “but I’m glad I could help, Sangie. Even for just a month.”

An abrupt laugh escapes Yeosang, spasming his whole body, as if it hadn’t meant to be much of a laugh at all. “You say that so kindly. Wooyoung, thank you,” he says. “Is what I wanted to say. Thank you, for then, and for now, too.” With just one step, he crowds into Wooyoung’s space, pushing the hands still holding the tee towards Wooyoung’s chest. His eyes are enchanting, his birthmark shining in the dim light of the bedroom so close to Wooyoung’s breath. “You’re doing so well. Take care of us, yeah?”

And then Wooyoung is alone.

--

SEVEN MAKES ONE POLYCULE <3

Cap’n

>I despise tax filing with my entire being

>how was dinner kids

>did you end up talking to woo sangie?

yeosang

>i did

>he came to dinner, actually

Cap’n

>he did??

Star

>He did?!

     >San is cleaning up

Star

>Pray tell, Mingi, why are you not?

     >I got a puppy napping on my lap <3

     >And a snoring maknae to watch over also

SUNnie

>so unfair

>It was nice w woo tbh hes rly fun

yeosang

>it was. he is

>i explained abt the pictures

>not all

>but what was necessary.

Star

>Proud of you, Sangie.

yeosang

>he also stole a shirt from san bc i tipped over a coffee cup lol

>’on accident’

SUNnie

>it looked good shuddup

yeosang

>it was much too big on him

>the sleeves at least

>i swear he wears the baggiest of shirts himself on purpose

SUNnie

>you say this, wearing my baggiest jumper

>RIGHT in front of me. and him, might i add

yeosang

>its comfy and im cold

SUNnie

>wait this was the first time he saw us out of uniform wasnt it

>is that why he looked so shocked when he walked in? HAHAH

yeosang

>... :o

>stuff to think about

--

The grey jumper’s coffee stain doesn’t leave after the first wash, nor does it at the second. It’s pretty much unwearable, but Wooyoung can’t bring himself to throw it out. It becomes his favourite pyjama shirt, instead.

The black long-sleeve becomes his favourite shirt to wear to work. San doesn’t even blink the first time he sees him in it, just looks down to what’s visible above his apron and sends him his usual smile. There’s no indication San expects it back any time soon, so Wooyoung…decides to hold on to it for just a bit longer.

(Guilt gnaws at him whenever he recalls how snuggly Yeosang had worn San’s other sweater. Sometimes the thought trails away into wandering curiosity of how far he could take it, but it’s always quickly replaced by a wave of dread and anxiety. No, Wooyoung will take what they give him, and nothing else.)

--

Even throughout all the stupidity and negative charisma Wooyoung presents himself with, Yeosang, San and he are, not at all slowly but surely, becoming besties. Over summer, ever since San has asked for his number, the amount of memes and videos of puppies he is sent has exponentially grown, and the three of them now have a small group chat.

It’s a bit pathetic, how Wooyoung has started anticipating their messages. He’ll admit it. He’s not ashamed. His maths skills have drastically improved with how much he’s had to calculate time differences, waiting for them to land, ready to receive San’s obnoxious ‘HAHAHAHAHAHA’s and Yeosang’s more muted emojis, or a ‘lmao’ when he found something particularly hilarious—not to mention all the times another member of ATZ snatches one of their phones to reply instead. The warmth in his chest when even the someone is typing appears blazes to life, and he too often catches himself smiling down at his screen, distracted from the outside world.

“You’re so embarrassing,” his coworker says.

“Shut up,” he whines. She’s cut her hair short and curly and thus he can’t ruffle it into a mess anymore, so he just bumps her hip in passing. “They’ve just landed.”

He ignores her catcalling, focusing instead on preparing the orders that have come in as he was hiding in the back.

His mother calls him in the morning after that, chatting absent-mindedly about the excitement surrounding his brother’s wedding, but he can tell she’s holding back her curiosity and questions.

“Just ask, Eomma,” he eventually says, as he drops himself onto his bed after pacing around his flat three times already. “I can hear you hesitating.”

“Oh let me be concerned for my son,” she whines without grace, and he laughs. “You sounded so forlorn last time we spoke. I want to see you thrive. Like your brother.”

“Ah,” he just says. “I haven’t found a girl, if that’s what you’re asking.” Just seven boys, but he doesn’t think that’s a good idea to mention.

“Oh pish, I didn’t think you would!” she says, and Wooyoung’s mouth drops open.

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Just that you were so fixated on those boys, the ones with Yeosangie, yeah? Tell your mother all the gossip, will you?”

“...There’s no gossip, Eomma,” he grinds out. “They’re in Chile for two days, I’m planning to see them when they return, probably. We had dinner at San’s some weeks ago—”

“You did?!”

The squeal makes him tear the phone away from his ear, and he sighs before rolling over on his side. “Eomma, it’s nothing big.”

“You never talk about your friends, Wooyoungie,” she says, almost teary. “They sound lovely.”

He doesn't talk about his friends because he used to not have any, but that's a bit too pathetic to confess to your mother across the world.

“They are…” Wooyoung says, and he bites his lip in hesitation. Then, he goes for it. “I actually am considering taking Yeosang to the wedding—”

Another squeal. Wooyoung rolls his eyes.

“Everyone is welcome to a plus one,” his mum quickly says, anything to encourage him. “Did you get the invitation yet? They’ve sent them out last week.”

Ah. His stomach drops like a stone, and his cheeks flare in shame. He hadn’t yet told them he moved away from the dorms, now that he’s not in university anymore. He’s shut them out of his finances a good while back, doesn’t want them to pity him or send him money out of worry. Plus, even though the doughnut shop doesn’t offer really profitable wages, it pays the bills well enough. “Ah, yeah I did!” he lies. “Thanks.”

The simple agreement allows his mum to ramble on while Wooyoung himself zones out to her voice, until they separate their ways and hang up. He doesn’t move off the bed for a good while after, guilt gnawing at his throat in the quiet of his room.

He’ll come clean after the wedding, he tells himself—but his hands turn sweaty as he does, a hollow feeling in his chest overwhelming him into a restless noon. Just three months.

--

Luckily, three months turn out to move more quickly than expected, and autumn turns into early Winter with meetups between him and ATZ scattered all over London—not often as large a party as that first time at San’s flat, but usually Wooyoung is accompanied by at least three others. He’d made good on his promise of a home-cooked meal a couple occasions in, which has rewarded him with the title of ‘best cook in all of ATZ’.

As if he’s just a part of them, and no one batted an eye.

He’s still reeling from that tidbit when San asks Wooyoung if he’s free to hang out with just him one day. As much as Wooyoung wants to accept, he has prior arrangements of babysitting for his neighbours, something he in good faith cannot cancel within less than twenty-four hours. He tells San this, fully expecting him to drop his smile in that heartbreaking puppy-eyed way.

“I can join?” San asks him, instead. “If the parents are fine with it, of course. It’d probably lift the pressure from you, really, wrangling two kids.”

The day after, he stands in a flat he well knows, ruffled to his core. In front of him stands Cloé, a four year old girl with curly blond hair and an obsession with kittens ever since she got one. Behind her, in his little cradle, lies her little brother, Benji, a wee baby of barely 10 months old. Wooyoung’s been babysitting for them since Cloé’s first steps, as their parents, Wooyoung’s neighbours, aren’t too well off and often have to work through the day. They’re meeting San in the park, with the parents’ permission.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to survive this day.

It’s still midwinter, so Cloé is stuck in Reception until the Christmas holidays. She rambles about the Christmas play she and her classmates prepared and how Wooyoung is invited (it is, unfortunately, on a doughnut shop work day, so he has to respectfully decline the glittery invitation card). Without much hassle, he ushers her into a warm fuzzy coat, and does the same with her brother.

“Where’re we going?” she asks him as they stand in the doorway, as Wooyoung watches her close her own Velcro shoes. “You never want to leave the house when it’s cold.”

“A friend of mine will be meeting us, actually,” Wooyoung grins. “His name’s San, and he’s a big teddy bear.”

Cloé’s eyes start sparkling. “A friend? We’re meeting Wooyoung’s friend?”

“You will!” he says as he bops her on the nose playfully, before moving on to Benji. The baby is lazing on the floor, swaddled by the chonky winter coat. “Have you ever flown in a plane, Cloé?”

Cloé blinks, shaking her head curiously.

“San flies all over the world, all the time,” Wooyoung brags. “He’s a flight attendant, do you know what that is?”

“Of course!” Cloé shouts excitedly. “…But say it for me?”

Externally, Wooyoung sighs fondly, internally he chokes a laugh. “Of course,” he says. “It’s someone who helps the plane fly safe. They take care of the passengers, bring them food and blankets, and check if the plane is safe.”

The girl oohs and aahs as he explains. “Your friend keeps the plane safe?”

“And they have very cool uniforms!” adds Wooyoung. And honestly, it’s true. Personally, he’s quite weak for the ATZ uniforms: sleek navy suit slacks with a white-collar button up, small capes with slits on the sides for free arm movement and golden accents of frills, buttons, and ribbons on their lapels. They all look like princes, in Wooyoung’s opinion. Which is just, really unfair.

“Do you have pictures?” Cloé asks with an excited yell, and Wooyoung shows her all the photos he has on his camera roll proudly.

It takes far too long to get to the park, especially having to wrangle a baby stroller through the icy winds whilst still keeping an eye on Cloé’s adventurous spirit wandering off from the grip he has on her hand. This is honestly why he usually stays home with them, he thinks.

Luckily, San is already at the street corner they said to meet. He jumps up from his seat when he sees Wooyoung approach, already smiling so bright his eyes turn to squints. “Wooyoung!” he shouts, waving them over.

Cloé hides behind the carrier within seconds. Wooyoung doesn’t know her to be very shy, so it’s odd to see her so withdrawn. “Cloé?” he murmurs as he holds up a hand to San.

“He’s bigger than I thought,” Cloé whispers. “He’s your friend?”

“He’s really kind,” Wooyoung reassures, kneeling beside her to look her in the eye. “And if you think it’s too scary, you can always just come to me for a hug. Cus I’ll always protect my little princess, haven’t I promised so many times?”

Cloé nods slowly, but holds up her fist, pink sticking out. “Do it again.”

“Of course, darling,” Wooyoung grins, and links his pinky. “Now let’s conquer this lunch!”

San, in the meantime, has been watching from a distance dutifully, brightening once more when he sees them approach. “Heya,” Wooyoung grins in greeting, going in for a hug. San’s arms receive him with ease and comfort, and Wooyoung keeps himself from melting into them like a puddle. Living alone does make one a little touch-starved at times, and Wooyoung is an affectionate person—he needs his hugs!

“Hi,” San says softly into his ear, and God does that gentle hum preen the warmth within Wooyoung’s chest. He lets himself fall into the embrace a little more, as close as San will allow.

He exhales his shaky breath into the cold winter air, unseen from behind San’s shoulder, before pulling back. (He doesn’t think about how San had let him stay within his arms, making no move to step back before he had done.) “Hey, man,” he says. “Ready to spend your holiday with two tiny terrors?”

San laughs. “I’m sure they’ll be fine. Hi there!” His voice goes higher-pitched and even more gentle as he crouches in front of Cloé. “My name’s San. What’s yours?”

“…Cloé,” Cloé says shyly, enunciating her Kloo-ay as she always does.

“Cloé,” San repeats. “It’s very nice to meet you. Wooyoung’s told me loads about you.” With that, he holds out a hand.

Wooyoung feels more and more (fondly) impressed as he keeps a tight watch. He’d told San beforehand that Cloé doesn’t enjoy being belittled or babied, and treating her as an adult would definitely be one solid way to get her to like you. Cloé shakes the hand that’s at least three times the size of her own, but she looks to be more confident. “Say,” Wooyoung interrupts before it becomes awkward, and both heads turn to him. “San said he knew a good place for pancakes near here. Are we up for those?”

Twin smiles shine brighter than the winter sun upon his eyes.

--

The pancake place turns out to be a small restaurant near the park named ‘Ye Olde Dutch’, which sells a large variety of types of pancakes, even ones that Wooyoung has never heard of before. “What are Poffer-jess?” he asks San as they take a seat near the window.

“Poffer-ches, Small puffy pancakes,” replies San, clicking the stroller wheels onto their brakes. “They’re a very popular sweet street food from the Netherlands.”

Huh. “You been there?”

San laughs. “Mingi’s got some family there, so we’ve travelled there more than some other places—just like Paris is important to Seonghwa. We tend to take a day off when we’re flying to those locations. We’ve basically all met each other’s extended family.” He grins. “Also, you did say you don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but I think you’re overruled today, Woo. Sorry.”

He’s not wrong. Cloé is reading the menu out loud for her little brother in the carrier, pointing excitedly at the toothrottingly sweet options on offer. “It seems like I am,” he admits. With a soft pat to Cloé’s head, he leans over the carrier to pick up Benji from his seat. “This little man enjoys his syrup pancakes when I make them, and the little lady always drowns hers in chocolate spread.”

Cloé pouts. “Nutella, Wooyoung. Not just chocolate spread. It can’t be Tesco’s.”

“Of course,” Wooyoung lies. “Tesco’s chocolate is unacceptable.”

San watches them banter, bemused. “You think Benji would want to try poffertjes?”

One way to find out. They order—Wooyoung takes a Dutch bacon pancake, San an apple pancake, Cloé a Nutella crêpe (which San explains is actually a French pancake), and the poffertjes for wee Benji. San has taken it upon himself to entertain Cloé with a colouring print placemat, taking her on his lap as she points to the different shapes and shades she is expecting him to colour. Wooyoung has Benji in his arms, who is sleepily watching his sister giggle and squeal at San’s antics. The poffertjes are, as San had said, small puffy pancakes covered with icing sugar and a lump of warm butter—after cutting them up a little more, they are a gooey mess perfect for a child less than a year old. Benji slowly eats at his portion with glee, flapping his arms at every bite and pointing towards the plate when his chewing has finished, giving Wooyoung a hard time to slow down his pacing.

“He’s such a fairytale prince,” Wooyoung murmurs softly into Benji’s ear. “Isn’t he? Charmed your sister within the minute. Charmed your Woo within a minute, too.”

Mum would love him, he catches himself thinking. What was that about a plus one to the wedding? Before that thought can take shape, he shoves it aside.

“Let’s not go there, shall we? That’s going to end in heartbreak.”

Benji doesn’t reply, merely chews at his poffertje in silence.

“Yeah,” Wooyoung sighs. “You’re right. I’m embarrassing.”

“You’re what?” San asks, confused. “Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”

“I said you’re embarrassing,” Wooyoung says with ease, nodding to the little artwork San and Cloé are working on. “Colouring outside the lines like that. Are you allowing that, Cloé?”

Cloé laughs. “San, you’re supposed to stay inside the lines!”

“Aw, man!” San whines, looking down to Cloé in his lap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I’d gone over. Forgive me, princess?”

Cloé’s eyes shimmer. “Ok.”

Wooyoung should really teach Cloé to up her standards in men. Though, Wooyoung supposes if anyone’s a safe bet to train with, it would be San.

--

It is a tumultuous day for Wooyoung’s heart, going from the pitter-patter of a hummingbird at the beginning to now a gentle coo of a mourning dove as they walk home. San had insisted to bring them to the tube, and Wooyoung couldn’t bring himself to decline, in fact he had caved easily—San had looked like a puppy begging with his eyes not to be left, and Cloé had tugged on his arm to keep San with them longer.

San has taken Benji into his arms, walking with the carriage a little ahead from Wooyoung and Cloé, who are hand-in-hand on the pavement behind them.

“You really like him, don’t you?” Cloé says suddenly, after a long bout of silence. “Sannie?”

It trips him up a little, losing his balance on the pavement tiles while they walk. “Uh,” he stutters. “Why would you say that?”

“You’re blushing?” Cloé says as if it’s not one of the most damning things she’s ever done, with San walking maybe fifteen feet away. Wooyoung slows down their pace, so the distance grows. “Maman’s cheeks become all red like strawberries when papá kisses her.”

“I mean-” he starts uttering a lie, but pauses.

And lets go.

“Yeah,” he says. “I really like them.”

“Them?” Cloé asks.

“San has a lot of friends,” Wooyoung says. “All of them are very cool. And I like them a lot. If they would have me, I would take them up in a heartbeat. San, as well.”

“Do you want to kiss him?” Cloé asks.

“Sometimes,” Wooyoung says. “When he’s being silly.”

“He’s silly a lot,” says Cloé solemnly. “So why don’t you kiss him?”

“It’s a little embarrassing,” says Wooyoung. How does one even explain such a thing to a four year old? Have her parents never given her the Talk?? “He might already have another person who does that with him, like your mum with your dad.” He feels a pang in his chest at the reminder of what Yeosang seems to be to San, but he shakes it off, not letting it ruffle his feathers. “But mostly because I don’t know if he would like me to. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

Cloé nods at that. “Ok. So why don’t you ask him? You always ask me if you can give me a rasberry kiss.”

Wooyoung chuckles. He does often blow raspberries onto the kids’ bellies—something he found out will instantly put both of them in a giggly mood: Cloé always says it tickles but never pulls away, and Benji just smacks Wooyoung’s head between loud laughs. “I’m scared he will say no,” is all he says.

It’s quiet after that. Cloé puts her hands up, and Wooyoung carries her the rest of the way to the tube, where San and Benji await them curiously.

“You were slow, today,” remarks San with a smirk. “Where’s your usual pep-in-your-step, Youngie?”

“The pancake is slowing my pace,” he just says, putting down Cloé to the floor. “Little guy all good?”

“Didn’t so much as sound a peep,” San says proudly. Benji is indeed in the carrier, relaxed and blanket tight within his hold, looking around curiously.

“Thanks for today, San,” Wooyoung starts, but Cloé interrupts.

“Is San leaving now?” she asks with a high whine.

It’s the slow-building of panic when he spots a spark in her eyes that hadn’t been there before that has him quickly go through the whole confession of just now, in case she is indeed planning something. Children are, somehow, phenomenal blackmailers, he had unfortunately found out very quickly, and watching her reach for San only spikes his anxiety.

“I live the other way, darling,” San says sweetly. “Youngie has to bring you two home.”

“But I want you to stay!” she yells.

“Cloé,” Wooyoung warns. “San has to leave now. I can’t bring him into your parents’ house. That’s rude.”

“But—but…” she sniffs. “I’ll miss you.”

It’s incredible to see San melt in front of him. “I’ll miss you, too, princess,” San says, kneeling right there on the pavement tiles to reach her eye level. “Today has been very fun.”

“Will we see you again?” Cloé tries.

“I’m sure you will,” Wooyoung says, trying to pacify, but San waves his answer away.

“You definitely will,” he says. “I’ll be flying around a lot, but when I can, I’ll come visit. Ok?”

It’s a hefty promise, especially from someone whose schedule takes him around the whole world. It takes a few moments, Cloé biting her lip and twiddling her thumb and rocking her feet on the stone, but she nods. “Ok.”

Thank all that is holy, Wooyoung sighs internally.

“But I want a kiss,” she adds.

“A kiss?” San asks, surprised.

“Yeah!” Cloé yells. “I’ll kiss you, right here!” Her finger rises to San’s cheek, poking it softly. “And Benji and Wooyoung will, too! So you have a good trip!”

And there it is. “Cloé,” Wooyoung grimaces, but San is already nodding. How is this his life.

“Of course,” San says seriously, then leans forward. “After you, princess.”

Cloé’s eyes shimmer with excitement, and she presses her lips to San’s cheek, flat, then exclaims an exaggerated ‘mwah!’ as she returns. “Now Wooyoung!”

Wooyoung blushes.

“Yeah?” San says, rising from his heels. “You good, Woo?”

“Perfect,” Wooyoung says hoarsely. “Are you?”

“Perfect,” San repeats more gently than Wooyoung expected. He takes his hand within his own, and steps forward. Then, with audacity he cannot even begin to comprehend, San taps his cheek twice with his index finger. A challenge if Wooyoung ever saw one. So, never one to back down, Wooyoung closes his eyes, tilts his fingers along San’s chin with a tender, lingering trail, and leans in.

From a distant star he hears clapping and cheering, but San’s cheek is soft below his lips, and much warmer than he expected from the cold winter air so he doesn’t regard it any attention. There isn’t any music, fanfare, there isn’t anything other than a ringing between his ears and a muscle spasm below his lips. It’s only a peck, ephemeral and infinitesimal but at the same time an eternity until Wooyoung lets go.

And he does.

Cloé is still giggling, applauding their little smooch like it was a theatre play, and Benji is none the wiser nodding off in his carriage. San, however, watches Wooyoung, unblinking and mouth slightly agape, soft puffs of warm air exit his mouth and condense between them, so close Wooyoung can feel them on his nose.

His cheeks must be crimson. He’ll blame it on the cold.

“And now Benji!” Cloé says, pulling on Wooyoung’s sleeve.

“Uh,” Wooyoung says. “Benji?”

“Benji’s almost asleep, darling,” San says—to Cloé? To Wooyoung?—clearly having stolen the brain cell from Wooyoung during the kiss. He’s still staring at Wooyoung, intensely and far too close. “Maybe I can give him a kiss, instead?”

“Uh, sure…”

With Cloé’s careful guidance, San leans into the carrier to gently kiss Benji on the forehead, and Wooyoung can’t stop a smile from creeping onto his face. Somewhere far in the back of his mind, he wishes he has a camera, just to capture the softness and fragility of the moment, but his memory will have to do.

--

“I need some advice,” says Wooyoung as he turns to his coworkers, the till finally emptied of customers.

Jake blinks, turning to their other coworker—who Wooyoung really should learn the name of—as if to ask ‘is this normal?’.

“What’s up?” His coworker asks, nonplussed.

“I…have this friend,” says Wooyoung carefully.

Jake looks doubtful; the girl rolls her eyes, unconvinced.

“No, listen! I, um. This friend, they just went on a not-date with their crush, right?” he rambles. He now has a towel in his hand, unsure of how it got there, but he nervously starts wiping the counter. “Except, that’s very much not h—their only crush.”

“So you’re poly?” the girl asks plainly.

“I’m what?” Wooyoung halts. “I mean, my friend is what?”

“Poly,” she says, slowly, as if saying it more articulate would make it more comprehensible to him. “Polyamorous? Falling in love with multiple people at once?”

There’s a word for that? Wooyoung reels. He honestly hadn’t expected to get this far this quickly. “Explain that to me like I am 5 years old.”

She chuckles. “That’s really all there is to it. Some people are mono-amorous, meaning they will only fall in romantic love with one person at the same time. Others don’t, hence polyamorous.”

“And…that’s beside being gay or whatever?”

“Sure. Besides, the LGBTQ-defined boxes are more guidelines than anything else, right?” She shrugs, nonchalantly. “Sexuality and gender are both pretty fluid concepts, not to mention incredibly personal. The key is in the communication between partners, especially if you’re going to try to date multiple people at once.”

“I think I’m too straight for this conversation,” Jake mutters. “But you guys do whatever you want.”

That makes both his coworker and Wooyoung laugh, and it breaks the tension easily. Sometimes, Wooyoung misses going to college, just so he has a stable group of friends that don’t just take off to a faraway land to gallivant around the place. The banter at the doughnut shop brings this longing to the forefront of his heart, and not for the first time that day he wants to just spread his wings and fly after them.

“Hey,” his coworker snaps her fingers right in front of his eyes. “Ground control to major Wooyoung?”

“Didn’t peg you for a Bowie fan,” he snaps with a grin as he refocuses. “Aren’t his songs a bit old for you? You’re, what, five years younger than me?”

“What?” she drops her jaw. “Bowie is an icon! Take that back! And just when I gave you indispensable advice on your chaotic as hell love life? How dare you insult me!”

Her fists smack softly into his shoulder in faux-anger, and he waves her away. “Are you actually a fan? You're always quite vocal about music, but I never hear you speak about 80s rock.” He quickly adds, “I- I mean, you're right, the guy’s an icon either way.”

She halts, thinks for a moment. Then murmurs, “Fine, I know maybe two Bowie songs. Honestly, I’m surprised you do. You vibe more like a twenty one pilots kinda guy, if I may say so.”

“Well, you got me there,” he grumbles, going back to cleaning one of the coffee machines. “Hongjoong made me listen to Bowie a lot, even made me some playlists to ‘study while he’s away’. His words, not mine,” he immediately adds when her eyebrows raise into her bangs.

“…Right.” She snorts. “Who did you say you are actually in love with, again?”

“I didn’t say shit.” The hot steam spurts into the towel around the spout, hiding his blush.

She looks at him deadpan. “Spill.”

He shoots a quick glance around the shop, but all tables are loudly talking over each other, and Jake is still in the back, ignoring the two of them likely until he is called back to the front. “I—” he starts, but stops. If he says it out loud, it’ll be either massively cathartic, or embarrassing as all hell. But Wooyoung’s dug himself a grave, and his coworker is unfortunately waiting. “…All of them.”

And there it is.

She stares. “No cap? All of them?”

Squinting his eyes closed he looks away. “I’m absolutely head over heels with all of them. But San came to see me while I was babysitting yesterday and I’m weak for kids already and seeing him treat Cloé like a princess absolutely broke me into pieces and now I can’t stop thinking about him but also Yeosang who seems to maybe be in a relationship with him? And the rest is always so affectionate with each other, I’m pretty sure Seonghwa and Hongjoong are dating and what I wouldn’t do to put myself between them either—”

“Ok, stop. You are rambling like an idiot, Woo.”

He breathes in shakily, and finds his hands trembling.

His coworker—fuck what is her name?! Where the hell is her nametag?—pulls him away from the steaming machine, into a quieter corner. “Hey, calm down,” she says softly. “They’re not here, right now. Process your own feelings first. You didn’t even know polyamory was a thing half an hour ago.”

He nods.

“Good,” she says. “First question: you’re really in love with all seven?”

Nod, again.

“No one excluded?”

Shake.

“Woo, that’s beautiful,” she says, soft smile appearing on her face. “Honestly, I’m jealous of that big heart of yours—my partner and I get jealous of each other’s celebrity crushes, so sharing love like you do really is something amazing.”

Beautiful? Amazing? That’s…not how he would have called it. In fact, even in the most utopian of timelines that this situation could bring, he hadn’t even considered anything other than an undercurrent of guilt running at all times. “It feels shameful,” he admits. “As if I’m already cheating on them.” He’s 90 per cent sure Yeosang and San are a thing, not to mention Yunho and Mingi being confusing shits, falling asleep on each other’s laps and all. The last thing he wants is to be a homewrecker. They deserve the best, and Wooyoung can stay at a distance, admiring their affection like he’s always done. It’s honestly a miracle Seonghwa entertained him after that shitty pickup line, anyway. He hadn’t expected any affection, he shouldn’t be expecting reciprocation now either.

“Thought crimes are not crimes, idiot,” she says, flicking his forehead and bringing the despairing train of thought to an abrupt halt. “Now think about how you feel. Really feel. Ask yourself what you want.”

What he wants.

…

What he wants?

He wants to come home to the seven of them laughing and chatting. He wants to make them a warm dinner after a long flight. He wants to cuddle in bed with Yunho and Mingi, the two of them engulfing his small frame between them. He wants Seonghwa to teach him French, for him to meet Cloé, too. He wants to join them at the stupid fancy hotels and take a dive in the stupid fancy pools and have a water fight. He wants to understand Yeosang’s past so he can be a comfort to him during difficult times. He wants San to share more jumpers with him when he’s cold, wants Jongho and Hongjoong to pick him up and manhandle him when he’s teasing them. He wants to kiss them all silly and share his life with them.

Damnit.

His cheeks are on fire, and his coworker smiles up at him, knowing. “Got it?”

“Yeah,” he croaks.

She pulls him into a hug, and a lump in his throat threatens to overflow into tears. Now that he knows what he wants, it’s even more devastating to realise it’s not going to happen. There’s seven birds singing their own song among the clouds, and Wooyoung’s hummingbird heart can never keep up.

“…Sorry for being so pathetic. You’ve been a great help,” he whispers into her shoulder.

“Someone had to get your head out of your ass,” she jokes. “But Woo, I really hope the best for you. Get ‘em, tiger.”

He snorts, then bursts out laughing, the tension within him snapping as the ice around them breaks. He really should count on her more often. “You’re good at putting things into perspective. Thanks, man. I owe y—hey, you good?”

She‘s gone tense in his arms.

“Um…” Wooyoung pulls back, mildly alarmed. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Just realised something I think. I guess we’re both due for some introspection at home.”

“Sure?” says Wooyoung, confused. “…Are you like, slash pos, here?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Or, I guess I will be. Thanks, man,” she repeats him. “But don’t you dare talk to me in twitter slang ever again.”

“Oh, and ‘no cap’ is allowed? Hypocrite.”

Wooyoung has no idea what he did, but if it made her happy, then he’ll take what he can get. Now to figure out what to do with himself.

--

Somehow, the acceptance of being in love with your seven best friends and the consecutive dread of revealing said feelings and ruining everything, does not stop Wooyoung from agreeing to their ideas of hanging out. This is how he finds himself sat within a crooked circle at Hongjoong’s living room.

Because Hongjoong owns a house. Wooyoung is friends with a homeowner. In this economy? Unheard of, really. Nevertheless, the house is warm and welcoming, clearly a place of love: soft rugs cover the hardwood floors; the metal frame of the spiral staircase at the side wall is covered with little magnets and photos from cities across the world, photos and cards pinned underneath them; laughter and cheerful buzz sound from behind the kitchen door, where Wooyoung can recognise Jongho say an unintelligible joke, to which Yeosang and Mingi shriek a reply.

“Would you like anything to drink, Wooyoung-ah?” asks Seonghwa from the side. “We have wine—or something stronger, if that's your preference.”

He’d given Hongjoong a small packet of Tesco bonbons when he arrived, but now he’s doubting if he should have brought some hard liquor instead. “Wine is fine,” he says, then pauses. “I mean. If the rest is doing anything stronger, I suppose I could join.”

“We're keeping the soju for karaoke, I think,” says Seonghwa, looking at San for confirmation, who is sat opposite them on the floor in a comfortable crosslegged position.

Hongjoong nods instead, patting San’s head from where he is leaning against the wall. “Do you like something specific, Wooyoung?”

“I’m more of a fruity beer kinda guy, but anything that gets me drunk will work with me,” he shrugs, making the others laugh.

“I say we spice things up.”

Right then, Mingi walks in with two bottles of red held high, catching the attention of everyone in the circle. Jongho follows suit, holding a variety of glass cups and mugs. When he sees the disapproval in Seonghwa’s eyes he merely shrugs. “Eight wine glasses don't fit in the dishwasher, hyung. I’m just thinking ahead.”

It makes Wooyoung wonder how often the others visit here. It sounds like this might be their homebase. “Spice it up how?” he dares ask.

“We can all speak English, yes?”

Huh? “I mean, right now maybe,” jokes Wooyoung. “I thought the intention is to get drunk enough not to?”

San slaps his shoulder, but laughs nonetheless.

“Can you speak Korean, Wooyoung?” Mingi interrupts him.

Korean? He only speaks it with his parents over the phone, mostly, but he’s practically fluent. “Yeah?” he says, hesitantly.

Then, Mingi’s speech shifts language. “I say we can't speak any English until we’re starting karaoke,” he says in a mischievous tone, round vowels of the Korean language sounding like gravel in his rough voice. It sounds nice, and a wave of gentle melancholy flows through Wooyoung—as if he’s back to being a preteen visiting his halmeoni in Seoul for the summer.

“Oh,” Wooyoung says, choked.

“Ok,” says Yeosang, the enabler. And, perhaps to make Wooyoung drop his jaw specifically, he continues in effortless Korean, just as Mingi had done. “Do loan words count or no?”

“Depends, I think,” argues Yunho, also entering the room with some snacks. He takes a seat in the wonky circle and switches language like it’s nothing. “If there's no other word for it I think it should be allowed. If I say the word for coffee and get a shot handed to me I’m going to kill someone.”

“So that's the first rule,” Hongjoong grins. “Now that everyone's here, how about a game to really get it going?”

“Like what? Beer pong?” jokes San, and immediately is handed a mug of wine for saying the English game name. “Oh. Damnit.”

“I was thinking more like never have I ever?” continues Hongjoong, having learnt from San’s mistake and translating the name into a silly sounding Korean variant. “We gotta get to know Wooyoung a little better, anyway. I’m sure he has some funky escapades.”

Wooyoung flushes.

Mingi divides the drinks evenly, refilling San’s with a smirk, and raises his own in cheers. “I’ll start. I’ve never done a road trip through the UK.”

Wooyoung drinks, and sees Yeosang and San drink too. With his elbow, he nudges Mingi. “Don’t want to alarm you, but road trip is English.”

The group devolves into laughter as Mingi halts in realisation. “Shit,” Mingi sighs, and also drinks.

“This might be more difficult than we anticipated,” giggles Seonghwa. “Tell us of your trip, Wooyoung.”

“Oh, that's nothing interesting.” It had just been a trip between uni years, going to Edinburgh with a few friends to visit his brother up north—he says just that, plus a small anecdote about how their car broke down and they had to ask the owner of the single house a mile away to help them get it towed. “I swear my feet have never hurt more than they did that day,” he sighs. “I’d like to go back, one day. Edinburgh is beautiful.”

“I don't think we’ve ever been,” San says curiously. “Any of us, I mean. What was so beautiful about it?”

Hmn. “The atmosphere, I think. The architecture?” he shrugs. “I dunno.”

“Ooh,” San grins, as if he’s tricked Wooyoung into a trap. “That’s English!”

English? Wooyoung realises too late he’s said ‘dunno’, out of habit. “Fuck,” he mutters lightheartedly, and downs his drink.

“This is going a lot quicker than I expected,” remarks Yeosang, the traitor. “Anyway. I’ve never gone to church.”

Yunho drinks, grumbling, but both Jongho and Hongjoong also do. Jongho just shrugs, but Hongjoong explains to Wooyoung, “My mum took me when I was small. I didn't care much for it,” he looks away, then hums. “My turn? I’ve never… Hm. Oh, I got one! I’ve never gone biking.”

“Seriously?” Wooyoung exclaims. “But that's so—” easy? Efficient? All of those?

“Never learnt,” Hongjoong just says, watching everyone around him down their drink with a grin. “Let me grab some more wine. We’ll keep the next rounds shot size, so we don't get shitfaced before starting karaoke.”

So it goes on. Through rounds Wooyoung finds out Seonghwa never got his driver's licence and isn't planning on getting it any time soon either, Jongho couldn't swim for a long time and thus has never swam in anything but a pool, and Wooyoung, Yunho, and Seonghwa are the only ones without an older sibling. With all the banter between rounds, all of them have gotten plenty buzzed, making slip-ups into English a lot more common down the line.

At this point, the rounds turn into personal attacks. It starts with Yunho, mildly sloshed by now, giggling through his turn as if it’s an inside joke rather than any anecdote, and Wooyoung wonders if he should be starting to feel left-out—it’s not like he has known them for a long time, and he doesn’t have the advantage of joining their flights together all the time either.

It turns out to be, to affirm both Wooyoung’s fear and curiosity, an inside joke within an anecdote: “I’ve never spilt a drink onto a customer passenger,” he sniggers, and the rest of the circle bursts out laughing, save Mingi. Wooyoung chuckles along, sounding only a little forced.

“There was turbulence,” Mingi pouts, but drinks nonetheless. “If anything, it’s the captain’s fault.”

“Oh no it’s not,” Hongjoong immediately retorts, greatly insulted. “Jongho, back me up.”

Jongho does quip a small “it’s not”, but it’s overshadowed by Yeosang throwing his head back with a loud laugh. “Remember the hot towels? Man, I think we went through our entire supply of those. The panic in Mingi’s eyes!”

“Well—” Mingi grunts. “How’s this. I’ve never got Radiant rank in a first person shooter.”

Now that’s something Wooyoung actually hadn’t known about—he knows Yunho games in his free time a lot, but Radiant rank? That must have taken years! Wooyoung gapes as Yunho drinks easily, shoulders jolting through giggly aftershocks. “I’m not embarrassed about that—that took time and effort and I take pride in that achievement.”

“If we’re spilling tea on people,” Jongho starts, “I’ve never repeatedly taken an emotional support plushie onto my work trips.”

San frowns, pulling his cup to his mouth. “That was a secret you were supposed to take to the grave,” he murmurs over the wine. “How dare you.”

Yeosang pats his shoulder. “It’s ok, Sannie. We still think you’re cool.”

Wooyoung nods from his seat on the couch, which he’s partly sunk into. It’s, perhaps, a little too comfortable for his mind which is halfway to hammered. “Buff and strong and cool,” he notes.

Somehow, this cheers up San, to the point where his eyes squint in a bright smile. “Thanks!” he squeals. “Mh, what should I say.” He hums and ponders for a bit, but when Yeosang starts pulling at his sleeve to hurry up, a spark appears in his eyes. “I’ve never, um, stolen someone’s Amsterdam sweater. A, uh, blue sweater with the white bike and the I’m—” he stumbles over his words a little. “The IAmsterdam logo? Who stole that.”

It’s quiet, no one daring to move.

With the slowest of movements, Yeosang, sweating mildly, drinks.

And all hell breaks loose.

There’s slurred voices overlapping one another in desperate attempt to be heard, and Wooyoung laughs himself to pieces. For the panic in his voice, Yeosang holds himself quite steady, and it’s mostly San and Seonghwa pointing fingers condemning Yeosang for his actions.

“I can’t believe he kept blaming me,” Seonghwa sulks.

“Cus you always wear it when you head to the hotel pools,” San accuses, then turns back to Yeosang. “I’ve been looking for weeks!”

“Be better,” Yeosang grins.

San falls back with a yell. “Unfair!”

“Anyway,” Yeosang continues. “I’ve never not had any of my uniform button-ups on a flight before.”

He looks at San as he speaks, but to his, and clearly everyone else’s surprise, it’s the captain who drinks. “Hotel laundry messed up, so San lend me his,” he murmurs into his cup, embarrassed. “He was wearing a tanktop underneath, all I had was a band tee.”

“And Eden just laughed,” San grinned. “I didn’t get fired.”

“Eden?” Wooyoung asks.

Not all, but most heads turn to him when he speaks out. “Oh,” Seonghwa realises. “You don’t know Eden yet.”

“He’s our boss,” Mingi just says from the floor, lying back on the cushion he had taken from the couch as neck support.

Seonghwa nods. “Our manager at ATZ, who allows us to travel together. KQ—Timbre’s company—is pretty small, and with Hongjoong being one of their best pilots, he gets first choice on crew. It was Eden who said it’s just easier to let us fly as standard crew of seven members”—“That’s English, hyung!” yells San, referring to how Seonghwa used the word ‘members’, and Seonghwa throws a pen at his head before continuing—“seven colleagues, so that’s why we’re always together. Even if sometimes we lack manpower, and we overwork a lot. But Eden always calculates and compensates. We’re really lucky.”

Wooyoung’s mouth drops open. “Whoa. Are you all so close because Timbre is a small company?”

“Some of us knew one another before,” Hongjoong says, by now having refilled his cup, and instead of retaking his seat near Seonghwa, he sits at Wooyoung’s side on the couch, hips aligned and arm thrown over his shoulders, pulling him close. “But we got to know each other a lot better after we started at ATZ.”

Wooyoung blushes, hoping against all hope it’s hidden underneath his wine glow, but he lets his head fall on Hongjoong’s shoulder. Hongjoong doesn’t push him off, just starts petting his hair softly as he continues speaking. “I’ve never recommended a movie to a passenger just so I could watch along.”

With a disgruntled pout, Seonghwa says, “Star Wars is always the correct choice. Just because it’s someone at the very end of the isle doesn’t mean I did it for any ulterior purpose.”

“That’s not what you told me,” said Hongjoong in a singsong voice. “Plus, I remember you being quite excited about being able to quote some lines by heart.”

“Oh, fine.” He drinks dutifully, then looks around for a moment when his eyes fall upon Wooyoung. He grins, sinister as a snake, and a shiver climbs down Wooyoung’s back. “I’ve never gone on Reddit for French pick up lines.”

Oh shit oh fuck. A shot of adrenaline-fuelled panic shoots through him and, Wooyoung buries himself into Hongjoong’s chest with a groan, pressing both hands into his face as the others laugh around him. He feels Hongjoong’s chest spasm underneath him, somehow grounding him more than his hands do. “Don’t remind me. I don’t know why you entertained me with that.” Slowly, he turns away from Hongjoong’s chest and faces the room again, but he dares not remove his hands from his eyes yet.

“You were cute,” Seonghwa says, and his grin is audible from the blindness. “Now drink.”

“Don’t tease him too bad, Hwa,” Yunho’s voice says, taking pity on him. The captain’s soft hands, from behind Wooyoung’s head, peel away his own hands from his face, and after a moment, Wooyoung is squinting at a bunch of fond grins and smiles watching him from the crooked circle they’re still in.

It’s his turn once again, cheeks flushed with both humiliation and a pleasant buzz (and a certain pilot still holding his wrists in a gentle cradle on his lap), Wooyoung blurts out, “I’ve never joined the mile high club.”

Smiles fade, and it goes quiet. A panicked, guilty sort of quiet.

Jongho points out that mile high club is English and thus he should drink, but Wooyoung instead pays attention to Hongjoong above him, who watches aghast how the rest of the group—San, Mingi, Yunho, Yeosang, even Seonghwa—takes a shot. Holy shit, thinks Wooyoung. ATZ can get some.

“I mean,” San reasons, “we’re flight attendants. What do you expect?”

“On duty?!” Hongjoong cries, to which Jongho starts laughing uncontrollably. “What happened to professionalism?!”

“Sorry, captain,” Seonghwa mumbles into his mug.

“You're not sorry at all,” says San pointedly. “At least these two admit that much.” He wiggles his fingers, very much not soberly, into the direction of Yunho and Yeosang. Both shrug nonchalantly.

“It was fun,” says Yeosang. “Can't blame me if it was on my break.”

“It was night mode,” Yunho says. “No one was awake.”

“My own crew,” Hongjoong wallows, lying back in faux misery and, still holding Wooyoung’s wrists hostage, pulls Wooyoung along with him (ohshitohfuckohmygoditssowarm). “I cannot believe it. The betrayal.”

“How did I never realise,” says Jongho through giggles, then grabs the bottle directly to take a swig. “You guys are insane. I'm opening the soju.”

And that's how karaoke begins.

--

It takes their collective tipsy minds a good while before the karaoke setup is well and truly working—which is a miracle in and of itself, since all it is is a laptop with a HDMI cable connected to the TV, and some app Hongjoong had discovered the day before. Wooyoung and Jongho, being the closest the group has to tech-savvy people, had to muck about with the audio settings until a Very Loud rendition of the Timbre safety speech—the video they had decided on to do the trials on for audio settings—started playing from the telly.

Of course, only then does Hongjoong take over for the app installation and payment, and Wooyoung convinces him to replay the safety video to make a silly dance in the meantime. He knows some of the moves from films he’s seen, some from prior chats with ATZ, but it’s easy to make a goofy dance from it: exits on all sides means he can do a simple little rendition of the wave, to which Seonghwa bursts out laughing.

“We should hire ‘im to do that,” he comments in giddy drunk tears when Wooyoung pulls an ‘oxygen mask’ towards himself exaggeratedly. “People would actually watch for once.”

Wooyoung bows to applause when the video is finished, looking at Hongjoong as he asks, “You’re not done yet?”

“Oh no, I’ve been done for a bit,” Hongjoong grins. “You were just too into it, wouldn’t want to stop you.”

Wooyoung flushes. It feels like it’s all he’s been doing tonight.

And finally, karaoke starts. In the hour that passes they make Hongjoong sing Baby by Justin Bieber, Yunho goes all in for Hollaback Girl, and Wooyoung finds out that not only do all of ATZ apparently sing really well for fun, San and Jongho can fucking perform. The two of them belt out a duet made up of an old Taylor Swift song, San holding the lower harmonies and Jongho fucking hitting all the high notes and then dares to go even higher, without missing a cue OR making any discordance. Wooyoung applauds their turn with mouth agape, only blinking when Hongjoong taps his chin. “They're great, aren't they,” he says, back to English. Wooyoung closes his mouth, swallowing down the words he would have liked to say, and instead listens quietly. “Jongho took singing classes when he was younger, and San was always fascinated by idols in South Korea, and thus trained himself. They'll be going all out tonight for sure.” He leans in to whisper into Wooyoung’s ear (far too close, why is he basically touching, Wooyoung panics). “Give them the loudest cheers, will you? They were looking forward to showing you specifically.”

Wooyoung swallows again, before he’s able to speak. “Why?”

“To impress you, of course,” Hongjoong says far too easily. What the hell, man, thinks Wooyoung desperately. Leave some of my dignity intact, maybe?“Are you?”

“Don't think I could ever not be,” Wooyoung answers honestly. By the way Hongjoong nods, it was the right answer.

(I’m going to get a good grade in being good to my crush, thinks Wooyoung, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve)

“I saw you can dance, too,” Hongjoong goes on effortlessly. “That safety bit might have been a funny little haha, but your moves looked way too professional to be just for giggles.”

How the fuck does he even see that from just one and a half minute of stupid— stupid…ness? Ugh, Wooyoung is too drunk for this. Seonghwa would probably have said some shit like frivolity, there. And, oh, the captain is waiting. What was the question again? “Huh?” is all he says. Eloquently.

Hongjoong chuckles. “Where did you learn to dance?”

Oh! “I had classes when I was young,” he explains, just as Yeosang is setting himself up for a song called ‘That’s not my name’ by a band Wooyoung doesn't recognise. “After a while I grew out of the group,” A.K.A. got too poor to maintain frequent classes, but there is No Way In Hell he will ever say that out loud here, “‘nd started training by myself. Shoving all my furniture to the side ‘n watch myself in the mirror. Still do.”

“So we’re gonna see a real performance in a bit?” jokes Hongjoong. And if that ain't a throw of the gauntlet, Wooyoung doesn't know what is.

“Course,” he says, never one to back down. “I think I know a good song. Who do you think is a good rapper here? I need an assistant.”

“Joong and Mingi are both good rappers,” Yunho cuts in before Hongjoong can get a word through. When he receives a glare for his effort, Yunho shrugs. “‘M jus’ saying. Seonghwa also, but he would rather like to be prepared beforehand.”

Just then, Yeosang’s turn starts, and all of them focus. The song is clearly made for someone with a higher pitch, but the unexpectedly low tones of Yeosang’s voice give an entirely new energy, bringing it to more of a sultry groove rather than fizzy soda pop rock. Near the end, San takes over for backing vocals, and together they end the song on a banger. Once more Wooyoung is amazed, cheering along with the others as Yeosang grins lightheartedly when it’s over.

“Thanks, Sannie,” he croons, hugging the man near and pressing a small, drunken peck on his temple. “Who’s next?”

Not just from nerves does Wooyoung feel his stomach churn, but he raises his hand nonetheless. “I’ll need Mingi, if that's ok.”

“Me?” Mingi asks, confused. “Sure?”

“What song are you doing?” San asks, but Wooyoung grins, putting his finger to his lips.

“A surprise,” he says with a wink that sudden bravado of standing in the centre of attention has made possible. Mingi nonetheless gets up as well, hiding the laptop screen from the others as they set up. “Yunho said you can do rap. You think you can do this?” He gestures to the song he’s selected, and Mingi nods.

“Lyrics will be on screen, right? Shouldn't be too hard.”

“Then we’re set.” Rising from his hunches, Wooyoung motions to Mingi to start, and the sweet sweet piano tones begin playing. “Welcome, one and all,” he calls out into the mic, grandiose and elegant in his hand movements, “I am Wooyoncé, and this is Lady Gigi!” That already earns him choked laughter, mainly from Hongjoong, whose soju might have entered the wrong pipe. “This is”—one last nervous comb through his hair with his hand—“Telephone.”

It's been years since he danced on this song, but he remembers some moves like it’s yesterday. Singing into a mic simultaneously does obstruct some of the detailed hand movements, but it’s not like he’s dancing for any competition—just his honour and the approval of ATZ. Which. Isn't a great thing to think of in the middle of his bit, as he stumbles over a turn directly after (oh god he is well and truly hammered), but he catches himself on Mingi. The other man laughs as Wooyoung goes with the flow of the fall, tumbling into a more flirtatious position and joining Mingi in a duet rather than performing separately. It’s actually fun, and Wooyoung catches himself grinning at Mingi as he twirls, receiving a bright smile back.

With the focus instead of on only Wooyoung now shared between the two of them, Wooyoung risks a short glance at Hongjoong, curious and daring. The man is watching him like a hawk, barely blinking through the rapid movements. It’s the intensity that has Wooyoung almost trip once more, his voice wavers in the rhythm of the song. Shit, no classes for five years really got him stumbling like a newborn—he really did use to hold control over his limbs a lot better. Gathering his bearings, he blames it on his drunken state, a light haze blurring his thoughts and vision together, hyperfocused on the captain’s glare.

That’s how the song ends. They let the ending fade as the rest applauds loudly, and through the dazed focus he feels buzzed and bubbly, the happy atmosphere sinking into him from the waves of affection. Yunho and Yeosang throw themselves into a hug between Mingi and Wooyoung, Jongho smiling softly as he slow-claps, and San whoops loudly over Seonghwa’s shoulders—Seonghwa, who watches him with stars in his eyes as he claps the loudest.

And Hongjoong, grinning laid back as if the couch is his rightful throne, never taking his eyes off him.

His drunken mind soaks up the attention greedily. God, he can really get used to this. Too bad it’s never going to happen for real.

It’s a daze between that moment and the next songs: As he’s pulled back onto the couch he vaguely recalls San doing a rendition of Everytime We Touch, and Yunho and Jongho did a rendition of Owl City or something like it, which cheered up the mood into giddy singalongs, but Wooyoung’s eyes kept trailing off to the side to take a peek at Hongjoong, who has laid himself across Seonghwa’s lap as if he were a cat in a cardboard box—comfortable and curled up as if he is meant to be there—pushing his head into the crook of Seonghwa’s neck and talking (whispering?) too quietly for Wooyoung to hear.

and what I wouldn’t do to put myself between them either—

An echo of his own voice rings between his ears through layers of foggy exhaustion and soju, but the shame nonetheless cuts deeply. Neither Hongjoong nor Seonghwa had ever mentioned anything about a relationship, but seeing them together it’s impossible for them not to be, and Wooyoung has no right to intrude. Hongjoong’s hand trails slowly from Seonghwa’s elbow to his shoulder, up to his neck, and all Wooyoung can do is stare at Seonghwa’s cheeks flushed darker and darker. Look away, he orders himself. Look away. This isn’t for you to see.

Then Seonghwa blinks, and across the room his pupils—widewidewide—meet Wooyoung’s.

And his heart stops.

Because that blush isn’t one of shame, or anger. Seonghwa’s eyes don’t judge him as he watches at all—no. That’s desire.

And Wooyoung is stuck, his gaze a bird in Seonghwa’s, an endless sky between them yet more connected than he’s ever been. What is Hongjoong telling him? Anxiety tells Wooyoung it’s shameful mockery—how obscene must Wooyoung himself look to garner such a reaction otherwise?—except Seonghwa’s eyes don’t tell the same tale, neither does the shudder that goes through his back when Hongjoong’s hand grips his nape and doesn’t let go.

Don’t look away, that grip is saying. Keep your eyes on me.

As if he knows Wooyoung is never one to back down.

The noise of the song has blended into the background, overshadowed by tension. Hongjoong stretches out, repositioning himself on Seonghwa’s shoulder. His hand falls over it like a perfect fit—delicate and gentle caress almost, had it not dug into skin through the fabric of Seonghwa’s shirt. Wooyoung doesn’t know why he ever thought it belonged anywhere else. Hongjoong presses a lazy kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek, and Wooyoung should stop looking. But he can’t. He is mesmerised, drawn in like a bee to the heart of a flower.

Hongjoong’s murmurs are a steady whisper in Seonghwa’s ear. He glances through the thick strands of Seonghwa’s dark hair, and Wooyoung’s breath hitches in his throat. The eyes of a predator, ready to pounce. Wooyoung is glued to him, frozen. In fear? In wonder.

The bass presses Wooyoung’s heart through his ribcage.

And then a mic gets pressed into Seonghwa’s hand.

“You’re up, bunny-boo!” Yunho sings, crashing down next to him. The thread of tension snaps, and Wooyoung finally blinks away the dryness that’s collected. “What’re you singing?”

“I-uh,” Seonghwa breathes, just as dazed as Wooyoung feels. Instead, Hongjoong gestures Yunho to come closer, then hides his lips behind his hand as he holds his stare.

Yunho seems to understand whatever he said, merely shrugging with a smirk aimed at Seonghwa and heading back to the laptop.

“C’mon, Hwa,” Hongjoong says as he slides off Seonghwa’s lap. “Show us what you got!”

“I swear you just want to see me suffer,” Seonghwa mutters, but obediently rises from the floor, accepts the microphone from Yunho’s hands, and takes his spot in the middle of the circle. With a final, unsure, glance at Wooyoung, he nods, and Yunho starts the track.

And then the first violin from Toxic reaches his ears.

God, Wooyoung is going to die.

Seonghwa moves closer to the couch, a playful glint in his eyes, and Wooyoung's pulse quickens, heart pounding louder than the speakers in his ears. A dainty, practised hand slides slowly up Wooyoung's shoulder, fingers lingering just a moment too long as they trail downward, and with a grin between the lines of lyrics, Seonghwa lowers himself to his knees, framing Wooyoung's legs between his own. There's cheers in the background but Wooyoung has eyes for only Seonghwa, who moves with fluid grace, brings their faces inches apart. Wooyoung can feel the warmth of his cheeks, the smell of his breath with a hint of sweetness leftover from the soju as the song continues its hypnosis—

Two hands rest on his chest, his gaze never breaking from Wooyoung, and Seonghwa, still singing, sways with the rhythm of the music as he leans over, light shining bright around his figure as he hides the ceiling luminaire behind him. Barely, Wooyoung spots Hongjoong across the room, nodding with a sharp grin, and it’s in that moment that he understands.

They’re not backing down.

Of course they aren’t. They’re just as stubborn as Wooyoung is, and now it’s landed them in a stupid game of chicken where the only casualty will be Wooyoung’s heart. The world fades for a moment as the realisation sets in, a flash of imminent heartbreak and pity and fragility that will follow around the corner short-circuiting any thought he had before. From around him he can hear the rest cheering, he can see San from the corner of his eye throwing two thumbs up at him, he can feel the heat of the room melting him from within, smell the soju every line Seonghwa sings, can almost taste him—

Wooyoung’s breath freezes.

And Seonghwa stops.

“Wooyoung?” Seonghwa worriedly asks, sliding off his lap to kneel in front of him. “Did I—”

“I—” Wooyoung whispers, “I need some air.”

The music is pounding into his ears, blinding him into a frantic daze of panic. All he sees is Seonghwa’s frown inches away, all he feels is Seonghwa’s hands on his own, holding him close.

“Please,” Wooyoung begs. He doesn’t register rising from the couch, but when he sees the mortified eyes watch him go, he can’t help but trail his hand through the other’s soft, beautiful mess of hair.

And he runs.

--

“...Did we fuck up?” whispers San, right as the music fades to a stop. It’s dead silent.

“No,” says Seonghwa, rising from the floor. His knees are shaking, from stiffness or from nerves, Hongjoong doesn’t know, and his hair is still out of sorts from Wooyoung’s fleeting last touch. “I did. Let me—”

“Don’t,” Hongjoong immediately jumps in. “It wouldn’t be good to confront him with yourself right away. You stopped right when you needed to. Let me handle this.”

“How? He won’t want to see any of us right now,” San lashes out. “Besides, this is basically him rejecting our offer, shouldn’t we respect that?”

“He needs a bit of quiet, yes,” Yeosang interjects, “but he’s going to isolate himself if we don’t follow him right now. That’s how Joong was, too. Remember?”

Hongjoong looks away, guilt flashing across his face. “I’ll go on my own; explain it in terms he understands.”

“Be clear about it,” Yeosang says to him. “It’ll be even more confusing for him otherwise. Actually, does he even—”

A door slams upstairs, and all of them jump, startled into silence.

Mingi is the first to speak. “Don’t wait too long, cap. We’re counting on you.”

--

Wooyoung has locked himself in the first room he found as he bolted up the stairs, now huddled in a corner of what looks to be a guestroom—or something akin to it. There’s too much personality to it, and Wooyoung can gather from the many different weights and tank tops scattered around the general space, next to the many lego sets on the shelves of the bookcases against the walls that this must be where San and Seonghwa are staying.

You’d think Seonghwa would stay with Hongjoong in the master bedroom, and that San and Yeosang would push the beds in here together. It’s odd. ATZ is odd. Nothing they do makes sense. Especially Hongjoong, tonight. Or Seonghwa, for that matter.

Wooyoung tightens his hold on his knees, bites his lip to distract from the anxiety bubbling within his chest. He’s really ruined it now, hasn’t he? Seonghwa was practically propositioning him, right there on the sofa, with everyone watching. No one was unhappy about it—if anything, they were cheering him (them?) on. Why didn’t Wooyoung just let it happen? Let him have a go, and sneak out the morning after? It would have been fun, wouldn’t it?

Wouldn’t it?

…Who’s he kidding. It would’ve ruined him for anyone else. Damned him to a life of pining from a distance, knowing he can touch but never own, never possess. Never satisfied.

Three knocks sound at the bedroom door. “Wooyoungie?” Hongjoong’s voice calls out.

Wooyoung doesn’t dare take a breath. He’d expected Seonghwa to follow him upstairs, or that they would leave him alone to wallow in self-pity. But Hongjoong…

Hongjoong was tonight’s director. The author, the choreographer, the one who held Seonghwa’s strings over Wooyoung’s own as they danced. How could he not have anticipated Hongjoong.

The door opens slightly, and Wooyoung watches how the pilot’s face peeks through. He blinks as he spots Wooyoung on the floor, then opens the door wider and steps inside.

“Is this okay?” asks Hongjoong carefully, as if he can see the cracks in Wooyoung’s porcelain from. “Would you rather have Hwa here?”

“Please don’t,” Wooyoung says quickly, then slaps his hands over his mouth. God, why must he open his gob like this. Shut the fuck up, Jung Wooyoung.

“Okay,” is all Hongjoong says. He shuts the door behind him, sits down next to Wooyoung on the floor underneath the window. There’s no moonlight from here, so all that accompanies them is the darkness of the London night over Hongjoong’s small garden.

Somehow, it’s pleasant. Hongjoong doesn’t force him to speak, doesn’t get close either. And, even though Wooyoung’s skin is getting visible goosebumps from the sobering chill seeping through the old windows above them, neither of them make any move to grab a blanket or turn on the heating.

The sounds downstairs have quieted down. Wooyoung feels guilty for ruining the party. And stealing one of the bedrooms. He wonders if Seonghwa is still worried—the memory of the humiliation in his eyes as Wooyoung left still flickers past his retinas when Wooyoung blinks, and the shame it brings along burns within Wooyoung’s chest like a piece of kindling, threatening to flare alight.

Hongjoong is looking at him. Wooyoung wonders if it’s in pity or in concern.

“...Please tell him sorry.” Wooyoung shifts, but not as far as to turn to Hongjoong entirely. Just to see his face. (Concern it is. It doesn’t make him feel better.) “This wasn't his fault.”

Hongjoong shakes his head minutely, slowly. Making sure Wooyoung is watching. “Nothing went wrong.”

Wooyoung stays quiet.

“I mean it,” Hongjoong stresses. “You set a boundary, that's something admirable.”

“I guess.”

The captain cocks his head a little, leaning against his own knee. The other leg stretches outward, reaching under one of the beds. “May I ask… What stopped you?”

What stopped him, pah. Wooyoung’s cheeks burn with the shame of a thousand suns. How can he even begin to explain why he pulled back. Even confiding in the fact that he panicked over possibly being just the thrill of the chase to them is laughable and worthy of a lifetime of mocking from them. He knows they aren’t like that. Of course they’re not. But…What if. And even that possibility is enough for Wooyoung to hide himself away like a coward.

“I...you were egging him on,” he says. “Weren’t you?”

“I was,” is all Hongjoong says. No denial, just blunt honesty.

“I’m sorry.” I’m sorry I ran. I’m sorry I was a coward.

“Don't be. It seems I miscalculated—”

“You didn't.”

It slips out before Wooyoung can stop himself, but as it echoes between them, he can’t help but feel relief.

“Oh?” hums Hongjoong.

It’s as much of a confession he’ll be getting out of Wooyoung, both of them know it.

“I’m still sorry,” begins Hongjoong. “I should've put a stop to it the moment you were uncomfortable.”

“You couldn't have known that—”

“I was watching,” says Hongjoong, and Wooyoung keeps his mouth shut, lest an I know you were slips out like his little blunder before. “But you were so determined to continue, I thought it would be fine.”

“It’s on me. I’m just.” Wooyoung hesitates. “Too stubborn for my own good sometimes.”

Hongjoong laughs. “We all are. But I think you were already aware of that.”

Maybe, thinks Wooyoung. But I thought I had it handled. I wanted it so bad. Why did he refuse? It would have been fine with Seonghwa, wouldn’t it? Have Wooyoung entertain him for one night, then go back to Hongjoong. Why is Wooyoung holding onto hope of more rather than accept what he is given? All it will give him is a life of pining into eternity until eventually feelings fade. If they ever do.

Hongjoong speaks up, breaking Wooyoung’s train of thought that’s apparently been going on for a little too long. “We discussed it beforehand,” he says into the quiet. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

They’ve discussed it? Like, sharing each other with others? Or just Wooyoung? The hummingbird in his heart sings as he considers the latter, considers the possible implications it brings. He ignores it, and asks, “I—a little. How would it have worked, anyway? Would I have, just. Been a one-night stand for Seongwa?”

Hongjoong winces. “If you wanted that, I suppose… but honestly Hwa and I would probably have propositioned you together. Especially after the contact between you and me tonight.”

Wooyoung supposes ‘contact’ is a way to call the eyefucking they’ve been doing, sure. “A threesome?”

“For the night.” Hongjoong shrugs. Then, with only a slight indication at any hesitation, he continues. “If you would be open to something more, we would discuss that in the morning.”

His heart takes flight once more. “…Something more how?”

“I mean. If you want to date one of us I suppose you could.” His hands start fidgeting in his lap, and his gaze points anywhere that isn’t Wooyoung. “This is a little awkward, but you could join our relationship—”

“I realised I’m polyamorous a little while ago,” Wooyoung cuts him off.

“Oh. Oh!” Hongjoong blinks. “Well, that makes this talk a little easier. I'm happy you figured that out for yourself. What was the reason?”

“I talked to a friend, they gave some advice. That’s all.” It’s not quite the full truth, but all Hongjoong needs to know for now.

Except—maybe not all. People have said there is a thin line between bravery and foolishness, and Wooyoung is nothing but stupidly hopeful. He takes a breath, and lets his hope take hold.

“Joong, I don't think,” he stops, and has to swallow down the lump in his throat. This is something he needs to say. He cannot back out now. Let them know. “I don’t think I could come back to you as a friend had I ended up, um, accepting your offer, tonight.” Let them know. “You mean too much to me. All of you do.”

Not just you and Seonghwa, he thinks. Thinks it so hard. All of you do.

And maybe, just maybe, Hongjoong has heard him. “Good,” he says, breathing a sigh of relief. “I'm glad. We think the same of you.”

Oh. The same. The same? Wooyoung’s ears are ringing. He couldn’t mean Wooyoung’s same, right? Obviously not. That would be unheard of. The chance that all seven of ATZ are polyamorous and willing to share Wooyoung in a strange eight-way relationship is practically null. And even if he manages to date some, like apparently Hongjoong is suggesting now, wouldn’t it be unfair to still be pining so hard towards the rest?

Then, Hongjoong speaks up, clearly watching the tumult within Wooyoung’s eyes. “Would you like me to leave?”

They’re done clearing up the air, then. For the better, perhaps—this night has been raw enough, and Wooyoung can feel his eyelids drooping. However much this conversation has confused him even more about where he now stands with ATZ, sitting here with Hongjoong, just chatting and enjoying each other’s company is… nice. “I don't,” he just says, and drops his head to Hongjoong’s shoulder. It mildly startles the other, but he lets him nonetheless. For Hongjoong, the person to avoid skinship like the goddamn plague, that’s a miracle and a half, and Wooyoung’s heart is beating out of his chest, praying Hongjoong doesn’t hear (or worse, feel) it hum.

“Okay,” is all he says.

“…Sorry for ending the party like that,” mutters Wooyoung through the comfortable darkness. “It’s been so fun tonight, I. I ruined the mood.”

Hongjoong just laughs softly. “You worry too much. It was high time we went to sleep anyway—it’s what. Three AM?”

Holy shit, thinks Wooyoung. We went off on the karaoke, didn’t we? He voices the thought aloud, making both of them snicker.

Still, Hongjoong isn’t done with the sincerity of the night. “I hope you know you didn't ruin anything. I suggest speaking to Hwa in the morning, to clear off the inevitable awkwardness you both feel from your rejection, but let me be clear Wooyoung, you did nothing wrong.”

Even though the captain’s voice is stern, the hand that passes through Wooyoung’s hair is soft. “…Thanks, Hongjoong. I’ve just been stressed.”

He feels a soft tap at his foot, but when he looks over, it’s Hongjoong’s bright smile welcoming him. “Anything for our dear Wooyoungie. We promise to take care of you, if you’ll allow us.”

Sometimes, Wooyoung sees seven birds, caught in a whirlwind of flight. It’s only in tender moments like these, that his hummingbird, small and fragile as it may be, joins them in the clouds.

It takes far too much effort, but eventually Wooyoung breaks the serene atmosphere. “‘M drunk,” he murmurs. His eyes burn, his veins feel scrubbed raw. Tonight was a mess. Why did he even agree to this? “Wh—Can you get Seonghwa?”

“You want Seonghwa?” Hongjoong asks, surprised. “Are you sure?”

“I still need to apologise—”

“Absolutely not. Hwa will understand, both the rejection and the situation right now.” The captain’s voice is stern, unwavering. “You’re in no state to have an emotionally charged conversation like that.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Hongjoong says, and that’s the end of it, clearly.

Wooyoung huffs. It feels petulant, but it’s better than pity at least.

“I’ll let everyone know not to disturb you, and you can sleep off the soju in here, for now.”

“What?” In here? In San’s and Seonghwa’s room? Now that he’s thinking a little more clearly, he notices that the blanket over his shoulders is in fact Seonghwa’s duvet. “I can’t just, take their beds! Where would they sleep—”

Dumb question. Hongjoong also seems to believe this, as he shrugs, typing on his phone what looks to be a whatsapp group text. “We have plenty of beds in this house, and they can share for a night. Would you like me to stay here while you sleep?

Ideally yes. Wooyoung bites his lip. “I don’t want to sleep. I—There’s so much to think about—talk about. I’m.” What the hell. “ How am I going to do that?”

“We’ll figure it all out tomorrow,” says Hongjoong plainly. “You can’t do anything half drunk and exhausted on stupid decisions and stress.”

“But—”

“Wooyoung,” says Hongjoong, pushing his forehead to his own. “Please let us take care of you.”

Us? Wooyoung isn’t sure if he’s ready to have anyone else in this room than Hongjoong, and even that is already a stretch, but…Here, within Hongjoong’s arms, is truly the safest, most comfortable he’s felt in a long time.

And, thinking about the six other boys downstairs, he feels his heart swell with wave after wave of gratitude and affection. So what other choice does he really have?

“Ok,” whispers Wooyoung finally. “Ok.”

He falls into Hongjoong’s embrace, arms reaching outward to catch him, and doesn’t fight when he is dropped in the middle of Seonghwa’s bed. It’s soft, as is the duvet that has by now pooled around his waist, which Hongjoong drags over to the headboard, pushing it into Wooyoung’s sides.

“Rest up,” Hongjoong murmurs, pulling away from the blanket cocoon with a soft grin. “We’re here for you.”

The soju is wearing off bit by bit, but with the last of the liquid courage, Wooyoung grabs Hongjoong’s hand just as he sits up on the bed. “Please stay,” he says. “Until I’m asleep. Please.”

“Of course,” Hongjoong says, and sits back down. “Of course.”

There’s a twinge of guilt for taking advantage of Hongjoong’s kindness to keep him close, but the soft thumb tracing invisible figures on the back of his hand lulls him to sleep before the thought can take hold.

--

SEVEN (plus one 👀) MAKES ONE POLYCULE <3

     >he’s finally asleep.

     >i’m staying here w him, but i’ve got my phone if anyone needs me

Star

>How is he?

>Apart from…well.

>Yeosang asks if we should make shifts to watch over him

     >might not be a bad idea.

     >for now i’m fine staying here

Star

>We’ll help in any way we can, Joong. Of course.

     >he wanted to apologise btw, hwa.

Star

>Unnecessary, but appreciated.

>I’ll talk to him when he’s more lucid. Right now, most of us are still tipsy.

>Plus, it’s probably best to talk when he’s a little less distraught

     >it’ll be ok Hwa

Star

>Please also get some rest Joong, you sound tired.

     >hes holding my hand i don’t think i can leave orz

Star

>…Sannie just went upstairs to check up on you

>I think he just wants to see the handholding to be honest.

>We’ll figure it out tomorrow. :-)

     >that’s what i told him haha

     >thanks Hwa, love you

     >love you all

Star

>Love you too, Joong.

--

The sun is shining through the open curtains when Wooyoung wakes. It takes him a moment before the events of the previous day recount in his head, and he’s paralysed by shame and guilt until eventually a sliver of sunlight reaches his eyes, blinding him into moving.

Two short buzzes come from the side table as he rises, followed by another pair in quick succession. He grabs at the sound, not knowing where it came from, though he’s blocked from pulling it toward him by the charger cable that has been plugged into its socket.

Hongjoong must’ve put it on the charger, after his breakdown, Wooyoung thinks.

Right. His freak-out. God.

How embarrassing.

Another buzz cuts off the train of thought before it truly lands, and the screen lights up on a notification from the group chat between him, San, and Yeosang.

sweater thieves united

Sangie

>Hey Wooyoungie, we’re having breakfast downstairs

>If you wanna join, you’re welcome to ofc

>If you’re not, don’t worry. We’ll prep some leftovers for you

     >ill be there in a sec

     >thanks for letting me knw

Sannie

>don’t worry woo!! well wait for you :)

Even just the smallest of conversations helps him raise a smile to his face, and with that courage, he rolls out of the bed. Soft laughter travels as he passes the staircase down, a warmth rising from within his chest accompanying him to the nearby bathroom. Somehow, he is lacking a serious hangover, and he quickly thanks God for his constitution—and Seonghwa’s insistence of everyone drinking water the night before—before he rinses his mouth from the alcohol morning breath with a prelabelled spare toothbrush. His eyes are prickly and his skin feels oversensitive, and washing his face feels like a physical reboot that he desperately needed.

Finally freshened up, he picks up his phone from the worktop sink, finding a missed call from his mother he must’ve not heard in the morning haze. Odd, but not unwelcome. A moment later, before he can do more than swipe off the lock screen, his mother calls again.

“Eomma?” he picks up the ringing, already half-distracted by a cackle from what sounds like Hongjoong climbing its way up the stairs as he opens the water stream from the tap above the sink, washing away the soap build-up from his morning routine.

“Wooyoungie! Sorry for the morning call, I’ve just been meaning to ask, what time’s your flight?” she asks, her voice bright and expectant. “We want to make sure someone’s there to pick you up from the airport.”

Wooyoung freezes, hand hovering over the tap he had just closed. Airport?

“Wh-pick me up? What do you mean?” he stammers, the warmth in his chest suddenly cooling. He must have misheard her. His brother lives in the UK, not in South Korea. He’s getting married in Newcastle.

Right?

“Oh, don’t worry about bothering us, son! Your Appa won’t be driving—your brother wants to pick you up himself.” His mother chuckles, waving away a concern Wooyoung hadn’t even considered. “You’re not planning to take the train from Incheon, are you…?”

Wooyoung’s heart sinks like a rock to a river. Why would she be expecting him to be travelling to South Korea? Unless—

“Wooyoungie?” His mother’s voice had sharpened, the hint of a question, maybe even concern. “You did book your flight, didn’t you? The wedding is in a week, son.”

He swallows hard, mouth suddenly dry. He hadn’t. He hadn’t even thought about booking a flight because in his head, he’d only need a little roadtrip across Britain—but South Korea? That isn’t a quick trip.

That’s a fourteen-hour flight, halfway across the world.

The rock sinks lower. The wedding is in a week. Booking a flight this late—it would cost a fortune. A fortune he very much does not have, with the flimsy wage the doughnuts earn him. There’s no way his parents could afford this either, knowing their savings—and his brother’s wedding expenses.

Unable to keep himself standing, he slides down to the tiled bathroom floor, cold and unwelcoming compared to the warm atmosphere he’d felt coming from down the stairs, but the realisation washes over him like cold water, feeling much like a bird having slammed its body into a closed window. He can’t afford this. He can’t. His head spins.

So he does what he does best. There’s people counting on him—he can’t back down.

“Of course, I booked it,” he lies, the words slipping out easier than expected through the lump in his throat. “Sorry for being so distracted lately. Lots going on with. Y’know…” His laugh was shaky, but he hopes the distortion through the phone line covers up the worst of it. “Work.”

His mother’s pause on the other end of the line feels like an eternity, and her voice sounds like a bevel hitting the stand by the way he jumps at the sound of it. “Well, send it over as soon as you can, son. We’re getting everything in order, and we’ll have to pick up others from the station every day leading up to the ceremony, meaning you can’t just expect us to be available all the time. And Wooyoungie,” she added, her voice softening, “I know you’ve had a lot on your plate lately, but it’s your brother’s wedding. You’ll be there, won’t you?”

Fuck. “Yeah. Of course, I’ll be there,” Wooyoung forces the words out.

As soon as he hung up, the panic sets in. He slumps forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring blankly at the glowing phone screen in front of him. How could he have missed the wedding location, of all things? Did they ever explicitly tell him it would be at home in Seoul? Had he even received a notice?

(He hadn’t, he realises here and now. There hadn't been an invitation waiting for him: he’d been kicked out of the student accommodations after he’d finished uni, and never told his parents his new address, scared of their judgemental eyes at the slum of a studio he’d barely been able to afford. Why would they assume he would need to be informed?)

He’d had months—months—to figure this out, and now he has no plane ticket, no money for a plane ticket, and no goddamned idea how to even begin fixing this.

In a desperate attempt to do something, he opens an incognito tab in his browser, checking cheapflights—but Christmas being around the corner upped the prices even more into ranges twice his monthly rent.

There was no way.

For a moment, Wooyoung considers calling his mum back, telling her the truth. But then he imagines the disappointment in her voice, the worried silence that would follow. (His breathing picks up.) And his brother—his brother who’s always been at his side, staying in the UK when their parents returned to South Korea until he finished his studies, and even after Wooyoung finished his degree with student loans from here to yonder—who has been counting on him to show up, to be part of the biggest day of his life.

How can he fix this?

“Wooyoung?” comes a voice from outside the bathroom door, starting Wooyoung out of his brooding. “Hey, are you alright? San said you would be right down, and it’s been about twenty minutes…”

It’s Seonghwa. The ever-caring, ever-loving Seonghwa, because of course he would choose to comfort Wooyoung over comforting himself after yesterday’s rejection.

Wooyoung attempts to reply a casual, “I’m okay,” but a pathetic hitch of breath is all that exits his mouth. He quickly slams his hands over it, but the damage is already done, and Seonghwa’s knocking becomes more insistent.

“Wooyoungie?” he asks. “Can I come in? I want to help. Can you breathe for me?”

Please come in, Wooyoung tries to say, but nothing comes out. Oh, Wooyoung thinks then. I’m having an anxiety attack. All he can do is let out a high pitched whine in between shortened breaths, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes, but it is all Seonghwa needs.

He instructs Wooyoung from outside the door calmly, as if he’s done this a hundred times before, and it helps—within no time Wooyoung is able to keep enough oxygen to tell him the door is unlocked.

Seonghwa immediately accepts the invitation, bursting into the small bathroom and crawling his way to a curled up Wooyoung on the floor. Instant relief floods his eyes the moment Wooyoung looks up to greet him, and his shoulders slump as he sits back on his knees, holding out a hand for Wooyoung to take when he’s ready.

“Thanks,” croaks Wooyoung, grasping the hand weakly as it tugs him upright. Seonghwa doesn’t let go when he’s standing.

“Was this about last night?” he asks, concern colouring his voice in what almost feels like hesitance. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“It-it’s not about, um.” His hand clenches around Seonghwa’s with excess nervous energy. “Hongjoong and I talked. And I realised I—I do want what you offered. I just got a little overwhelmed.”

With the little courage he holds, he leans forward, tilting his heels up, and pressing his lips to Seonghwa’s cheek softly and fleetingly, before pulling away with a blush.

It must be the right thing to do, because Seonghwa’s frown is replaced by a beautifully radiant smile, crow’s feet appearing beside his eyes that Wooyoung has never seen before but makes his heart somersault within his chest. Seonghwa laughs, dropping the hand and throwing his arms around Wooyoung’s shoulders, holding him tight. “I’m so glad, Wooyoungie!” He pulls back, pecks Wooyoung’s crimson cheek, and pulls him back into the hug in one swoop. “You’re so wonderful, I hope you know that, and I wish you could see how much we all adore you.”

Ah… Sweet of him to say that, thinks Wooyoung as his heart sinks right back to where it had been before Seonghwa appeared. “I guess,” he says, unconvincingly. “Do you want to go downstairs?”

“Ah,” Seonghwa just says, then shakes his head. “Well, I mean, if you feel better, we can. But as happy as I am about this miscommunication being solved, you still had a panic attack in our bathroom.”

Hm. Slight problem. Knowing Seonghwa, he’s not going to let it go. “It’s fine—just, um. A bit of stress about my brother’s wedding.”

“Wedding?” Seonghwa echoes. “Ah, you told us about that, vaguely. You’re travelling up north for it next weekend.” He boops Wooyoung on the nose with a playful grin. “It’s why we moved the karaoke celebration to this week, right?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Wooyoung?” A finger lands under his chin, tilting it up to have him look Seonghwa in the eyes. A worried frown meets his tear-streaked face. “You’re hesitating, darling.”

“Sorry.”

There’s a standstill, an impasse of silence between the two of them—Seonghwa’s unstoppable force faced off against Wooyoung’s unmovable object.“...You don’t need to tell me,” Seonghwa eventually murmurs, “but I think it might do you good.”

Wooyoung shakes his head. “I just—don’t want you to feel obliged to help—”

“Nonsense. We’re all happy to lend a hand—or ear, or anything. You know this.”

“I do!” Wooyoung grits out. “Which is why I’m reluctant to actually share it.”

“Ok, let’s go through this conundrum pragmatically,” Seonghwa says, sitting back. “You have a problem that’s been bottling up?”

“Uh,” says Wooyoung, but he shrugs uselessly. He hadn’t been bottling it up, exactly, but this morning’s revelation did get all his other anxieties bubbling up to the surface.

“And you’re going to guilt trip yourself into not asking anyone for help,” Seonghwa continues his statement.

Again Wooyoung nods, burying his face in his raised knees.

“Because…” Seonghwa thinks. “Because you think we’ll put in too much effort, which you don’t deserve.”

“I don’t,” argues Wooyoung. “This is a problem of my own making.”

“But you’re still stuck until someone helps you out,” states Seonghwa stubbornly.

And he’s not wrong, but Wooyoung’s honour won’t allow him to admit to that, especially when the ‘help’ he needs is financial aid for un-fucking a fuck-up he could have avoided.

Seonghwa has no consideration for his mental contemplations, and continues. “Is it something we, as a group of seven, could potentially solve?”

Wooyoung’s nose scrunches up in distaste. “I just said I don’t want to—”

“But could we?” Seonghwa pushes. “Potentially, would it be possible?”

His reluctance to reply has long given Seonghwa the answer he is looking for, but by the obstinate silence Seonghwa is holding as he waits for Wooyoung to respond, he is looking for acquiescence from Wooyoung himself.

And, as much as Wooyoung does not back down, the weight of the morning and the night makes it hard to breathe.

And so he collapses.

The tears that had collected during his bout of anxiety before spill anew as he blubbers about the wedding, about the debts he’s collected through student loans and how he had to move out after his useless Media Analysis diploma had served him no prospects of a stable future, how he’s been lying to his family for months and months on end about his job and studies as to not worry them.

How he’s scared, depressed and feels useless. How ATZ saved him from a spiral he sometimes looks back on with nothing but dread, how he looks at himself now with just confusion and disgust, how he’s wondering why they allow him to be there, too. How he cannot lose them.

How he never wanted to become dependent on anyone, and yet.

Seonghwa listens, pats his head softly as they sit on the bathroom floor. Just as always, the man is nothing but gentle to Wooyoung, soft in arms around him and hums against his ear.

Wooyoung is pathetic, but Seonghwa allows him to feel precious, just for a moment.

They eventually move downstairs, Seonghwa pulling him along with a kind grip on his wrist, landing in the study. The tears start anew when he leans back into Seonghwa’s side, the older man’s arm clinging to his shoulders to keep him close and soft whispers assuaging him from the worries he’s just spilled on the floor like blood from a stab wound.

Though, he thinks between sobs, he’s been wounding himself pretty tight. It’s a miracle Seonghwa hasn’t left him on the bathroom floor in disdain.

“You’re one of us, Wooyoungie,” Seonghwa whispers instead, holding his trembling figure close on the soft seat of the couch. “We take care of each other. That means you, too, now.”

By then, Wooyoung’s well of tears has dried, and all he can do is stutter his chest in dry sobs, burying his face in Seonghwa’s shoulder to hide from the world in shame.

--

He doesn’t know how long it has been, but both he and Seonghwa barely dozed off when the door slams open, and a visibly irritated Hongjoong enters with heavy footfalls over the hardwood floor. He takes no note of the two sat on the loveseat, instead talking loudly on his phone as he pulls the laptop closer to the edge of the desk, taking no time to sit down and instead immediately diving into what looks to be many folders and PDFs within.

“I know it’s late, I’m going to need it to happen.” He purses his lips. “Mail me the current scheduling—”

The person on the other side of the phone connection replies in an unintelligible volume, but it’s interrupted as Seonghwa clears his throat loudly. Hongjoong startles, phone almost slipping from his fingers before he is able to salvage his grip. “H—Hwa?” he stutters, then, when he finally spots the teary-eyed Wooyoung hidden beneath Seonghwa’s arms, his shoulders slump. “Woo—shit. Sorry,” he says, lowering the phone to his chest. “I’ll—I need my laptop. If that’s okay.”

“Can I help?” asks Seonghwa, making grabby hands towards the tucked-away phone. “Is that Eden?”

“Maddox,” Hongjoong says, then puts the phone back to his ear. “Send me the docs, I’ll get back to you in a bit. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

With that, he hangs up. Throughout, Wooyoung’s chest runs through random spasms, but his sobs have quieted since. “Was that work?” he asks, voice a lot rougher than he had expected. He coughs once, clearing his throat like Seonghwa had done, then continues. “We can head to the living room?”

“No need,” Hongjoong reassures with a supportive grin. “If you’re up for it, we can talk logistics a little.”

Logistics? With furrowed brow and wet, red eyes, Wooyoung probably looks mighty disoriented. Seonghwa pokes him in the cheek. “You feel ready to do some planning?”

“What for?”

“You’re going to need to get to South Korea,” Seonghwa says simply, “aren’t you?”

Huh?

“What do you mean?” Wooyoung dares ask. “Why would you—?”

“You said the wedding party would need you on Friday evening, so flying on Thursday morning will get you there well on time,” Hongjoong says, pulling the laptop onto his lap as he takes a seat next to Seonghwa on the loveseat. It’s a tight fit, but Seonghwa pushing Wooyoung into his side makes it work nonetheless: They are thigh-to-thigh, Hongjoong’s arm passing past Seonghwa’s shoulders reaching Wooyoung’s nape, the tips of his fingers caressing the sensitive skin to the point Wooyoung can’t hold back a shiver along his spine. “That is, if you can’t do any earlier. How many days can you miss from your job?”

“I’ve taken next week off,” Wooyoung says absent-mindedly, staring unblinking into the bookcase across. The hand in his neck and the arm around his waist make him feel floaty in ways he hadn’t felt before. “Um. Because I thought I needed to be in Edinburgh. I can call in sick for my Thursday and Friday morning shifts. Not sure about earlier than that.”

“We’ll do that, then. There’s a flight by Timbre to Seoul on Wednesday night, which makes this quite ideal.” As he starts working, Hongjoong’s voice is replaced by the sound of nails on a keyboard efficiently typing away, and the old laptop fan blowing into the couch pillows. “It will give you enough leeway to not stress over timing.”

It’s a little bit of a slow process, but finally, Wooyoung snaps out of his absence. “You’re booking me a flight?”

“Yes,” Hongjoong says, but the raise in tone makes it sound like a question. “Why wouldn’t we? You’re in no state to make any decisions by yourself right now, and we promised to take care of you.”

“When did you even—”

“I texted him when you were out of it,” Seonghwa says, and his facial expression betrays his conflicted emotions on that. “You needed a clear mind before you would accept any help from us, but I couldn’t wait to start the process. …Sorry.”

He’s not fucking weak, he’s an adult. What the fuck, he thinks as he turns back to Hongjoong. What the fuck. “Take care of me?” he asks, lip trembling in what feels like another sob bubbling up his throat. He’s not fucking weak.

“Yesterday,” Hongjoong says, lowering the laptop screen slightly to look at Wooyoung from behind Seonghwa. “And from what I heard from Hwa just now, you accepted our offer. Besides, it’s no trouble—we know the inside-outs of commercial flights. Do you have a passport?”

They stay seated for a while: Sometimes Hongjoong asks another question—“How long does it take to get to Heathrow from your flat?”, or “What’s the number on your passport?”—but mostly, it’s a comfortable quiet. At first, there was seething fury in his gut at being dismissed like that, as if they didn’t take him seriously, couldn’t let him make his own choices, but it ebbs away the more the exhaustion sets in, and anger makes way for relief. He imagines having to receive that call on his own, in the dark bed of his studio apartment in the middle of the night; imagines looking for flights on his phone until sunrise, switching between the internet browser and his calendar app frantically to find the best options; imagines drowning himself in lonely liquor during the hours of snowy sun, only to break down in the shower and get up early for work the following day.

“I’ve emailed you all the details of the flight,” says Hongjoong finally, snapping the laptop closed and stashing it away on the side table. “That includes your ticket, luggage requirements, your RTA at Heathrow and ETA at Incheon. Visa laws allow 90 days of unregistered visitation for family, so no need to worry about that. The return trip is changeable, but you did say your Christmas holidays were only one week, so I booked it a week later.”

“...Thanks, hyung,” Wooyoung murmurs. “That sounds perfect.”

Then it registers.

“Wait. You actually booked me a flight?”

“You already asked us this,” Seonghwa says humorously, curling his fingers around Wooyoung’s waist tighter. “Did it just sink in?”

“No—I mean, you paid for it?” Wooyoung exclaims. “That must’ve been two thousand pounds, at least! What were you thinking?!”

Hongjoong has the gall to laugh at that. “Don’t worry about it, Woo. I’m just using my captain privileges to get you on a flight.”

What? “Captain privilege?” Wooyoung frowns deeply. He’s never heard of that.

“When Joong said Timbre has a flight to Seoul, it meant we’ll be the one flying it,” Seonghwa explains, and holyshitholyshit what? “It makes booking your flight a lot easier.”

“I’ll be flying with ATZ?” stutters Wooyoung. Flying with all of them?!

“Well, duh,” Hongjoong laughs. “You’ve got connections now, Wooyoung! Make use of them! Plus, you’ve served us coffee and doughnuts so much the past year, least we can do is give you the opportunity to see us at our usual workspace.”

“I’ll make sure to be cabin crew,” Seonghwa grins, finger poking Wooyoung in the cheek playfully, but is interrupted by Hongjoong’s gasp.

“I can show you the cockpit! Oh, I’m sure you’ll love it there—but please don’t touch anything. That’s a warning in advance. Hell, maybe I can let you send some meows on GUARD. Ground control will be throwing a hissy fit, I’m sure, but they haven’t done anything about it for years, so—”

“I’ll be flying with ATZ,” Wooyoung murmurs to himself, blocking Hongjoong’s elated ramblings and Seonghwa’s hand ruffling his hair. “What the hell.”

--

Turns out Timbre is a luxury liner, so Wooyoung has ample time to travel to the gate by getting pulled to the front of every single queue he enters, and even more space in the luxury lounge to fill that time with absolutely fuck-all nothing. Not that the lounge has nothing to do, definitely not: there’s a bar with a bartender (it’s 5 PM somewhere, he guesses), a screen showing some movie with a channel for your headphones to connect to, many empty chairs and tables (though some are occupied by businessmen in suits) with usb charging ports under the seats, free unlimited Wi-Fi, and a free beverage for every guest.

Wooyoung is currently sipping on his coke after having called his mum that he’s at the airport. She’d been quite busy, helping his brother with any and every last-minute details, but they had a good chat that somewhat was able to settle most of the anxiety bubbling within Wooyoung’s gut since that weekend. Though the lounge is quite empty, Wooyoung feels desperately out of place—his joggers and Christmas jumper are a lot less stylish than any of the suits he sees the other guests wearing, and his duffel is bright red rather than a neat, desaturated, dark roller suitcase.

The group chat he has with ATZ is quite active, as for once they’re not all in the same place but spread around to prepare the aircraft for takeoff, while still keeping Wooyoung up to date. There are some new messages from Seonghwa listing their tasks for the day, a grumpy selfie from San cleaning up with Yunho, a POV photo from Hongjoong with a table full of papers and a cup of half empty coffee beside his hand. Yeosang replied with a photo of his own pile of paperwork, seemingly at the check-in desk, though Wooyoung hadn’t seen him there when he was checking in himself. He wonders absent-mindedly when he’d see them, and how they’ll be acting—would they plainly ignore him in favour of professionalism? He doesn’t think so, but who knows.

Though, if they joined the mile high club while on the job, they probably have no restraint acting casual at least.

Wooyoung blushes.

Though, now that he thinks about it—with who did Seonghwa…If Hongjoong is in the cockpit the whole flight? Were they not together the whole time working at ATZ? Or was this before? He’d never asked them about their history, to be fair, so he can’t just judge Seonghwa with baseless accusations. Plus, Hongjoong did say during their talk that they had had some sort of talk before about polyamory, and it’s not Wooyoung’s place to assume that was merely about Wooyoung himself. What if they had had an open relationship the whole time? Something churns in his gut, and he doesn’t know to describe it as nice or uncomfortable.

It’s one more thing added to the list to ask them when this whole ordeal is over. Maybe they can have a little chat at the doughnut shop when he’s back there again.

Wooyoung blinks to himself. Right, the shop. He’s technically on ‘sick leave’, but it’s not like his manager goes there a lot. It would be fun to see what it’s like on the other side of the counter for once.

The lounge is not far from gate 55, so it takes a few minutes until he finds his way to the familiar corner. There’s no crowd, but some of the few tables they have are occupied by customers sitting comfortably in the wooden chairs near the gate. His coworker starts her spiel as he approaches the till, but trails off in confusion when she spots him. “Hi, what can I get—huh? Wooyoung?”

“Heya,” he croaks. “Bet you didn’t expect me.”

“I didn’t,” she frowns. “Did the manager call you in? We’re fine.”

“No, I asked for time off,” he explains. “Long story, but I’m a paying customer at the moment.”

Jake in the back snorts at the bamboozled expression she holds. “Shit, alright,” she just says. “What would you like?”

He orders an iced Americano, and his kind and benevolent coworker adds the employee discount without asking. “Hope you have a safe flight,” she grins as she hands him the receipt, and heads to the machines to prepare his drink.

“Thanks,” he just replies, realising he should be able to finally see her name on the receipt. Indeed, taking a peek at the receipt shows him exactly what he had forgotten for a proper half year and another weight loosens in his chest. Waving her off, he subtly adds her name to the end of his goodbye—but the moment it exits his mouth, she flinches hard enough to almost slosh the coffee out of the paper cup.

“Since when do you call me by my name?” she accuses, more upset than Wooyoung assumed she would be.

“Um,” he says, caught off guard. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, just,” she sighs, combing a hand through her short hair nervously. “Actually, I don’t go by that name anymore. It’s Leo now. Guess I never informed you?”

Oh. Huh. “Huh,” he says. Blinks. “Alright. Pronouns?”

“...They/them,” they say softly. “Thanks, man.”

“I think that’s my line.” Wooyoung grins awkwardly. “I guess you had your own stuff to figure out in the meantime, but still. You’ve helped me a lot, you know?”

“Yeah?” they say, handing him the beverage. “Finally together with your loverboys?”

“Not quite,” he admits. “But I’m closer to figuring out what I want, I think.” And for once, the future is a warm feeling in his abdomen.

Leo smiles at him. “Best of luck, man.”

Returning to the lounge, he feels lighter than he’s felt in a while.

--

Another three hours later of drowsily watching an anime Mingi recommended about a team of dungeon delvers—though it ends up being more of a cooking show than anything else—he ends up downloading some episodes for on the flight, when the announcement echoes through the speakers.

KQ1117

Priority Boarding & Boarding now open

“Boo!”

Wooyoung screeches, throwing off his headphones onto the soft cushion of the seats in front of him, whipping his head around, only to see Mingi’s concerned frown next to Yeosang’s blank stare only inches away from his face.

“What the hell, Yeosang?!” he whines, turning right back to pick up his headphones, dusting them off as if they got damaged in the mess, whilst hiding a blush that creeps up his cheeks. “Don’t scare me like that. I’m high strung already.”

“I think you need to loosen up a bit,” Yeosang replies. “We’re here to escort you to the plane—they’re ready to board.”

“I…could’ve walked myself?”

“But now you have us,” Yeosang simply says, then starts walking off.

Mingi laughs awkwardly. “Let me grab your bag,” he mutters, reaching over the seat’s back to grab Wooyoung’s duffle. “Were you watching Dungeon Meshi?”

“Oh, uh,” Wooyoung says, letting Mingi grab his luggage without protest out of pure bewilderment. “I was. It’s fun, so far. I like the creative cooking.”

Seeing Mingi light up makes it easy to keep talking as they walk to the gate. When they pass the doughnut shop, seeing Leo wave happily, something akin to melancholy forms a lump within Wooyoung’s throat, but he lets Mingi ramble on as they walk, not replying anything more than a hum or nod. He’s sure Mingi will write it off as nerves.

The gate is emptier than he’d expected, a mere handful of people waiting.

“Most people are waiting in the other lounge, I think,” Mingi says as he sees Wooyoung looking. “We’re getting you in first; Seonghwa wants to show off.”

“Show off?”

“Our work! And the cockpit, and the mechanics, and—well, he’ll show you.” With a laugh, Mingi leads him inside. “Scan your passport here, boarding pass here, and you’re good.”

Wooyoung does as he is instructed, passing Yeosang at the turnstiles.

“You’ll see me in a bit,” Yeosang says, pushing Wooyoung further into the weird accordion hallway thing. “I have work to do here.”

Before Wooyoung can say anything, Mingi pulls him along. The plane is now visible, or at least the entrance is, where Seonghwa stands tall waiting for them.

He brightens at the sight of him, and waves enthusiastically as they approach. “Wooyoung! You made it!”

“Course,” Wooyoung shrugs, though he can’t help but smile. In all the anxiety and self-guilt tripping from the last couple days, his mood had rather plummeted to the ocean floor, and yet the ATZ crew never fail to cheer him up. “Can I help?”

“Nah,” Mingi says from beside him, handing him his duffle back. “Besides, without the right certificates you’re not allowed to. Most of the safety checks have finished, but we need to do some prep. San and Jongho are still loading the luggage downstairs.”

Wait, what? “Jongho?”

“That’s on me,” Seonghwa admits sheepishly, waving Mingi off back where he and Wooyoung came from and taking over guiding Wooyoung into the plane. “I asked Mingi and Yeosang to come get you, but Yeosang is usually the one doing the loading. Jongho is the only one strong enough to handle it otherwise, so he had to get a downgrade for the day. He’s technically only secondary pilot, anyway—Joong is flying with a friend of his, Jongho and another pilot will be relieving them halfway through the flight.”

Wooyoung giggles, feeling himself relax at Seonghwa’s rambles. These are his friends, even if they’re in uniform and seemingly having their shit together while preparing an aeroplane for takeoff. Seonghwa keeps talking, pointing at a variety of things built into the walls and aisles, explaining what each little thing is for, but when the passenger aisles come into view—“Holy shit.”

“Not what you’re used to?” asks Seonghwa, a knowing grin plastered on his face.

Prick.

All chairs in the three aisles are sat by pairs, with a total of six chairs per row, though saying ‘chairs’ is an understatement; they’re upholstered with strong beige leather, made up of three separate cushions and more leg room than Wooyoung has ever seen in a plane. On top of the seat cushion are three little bags, one of which shows a blanket, the other two too obscured to see.

“No,” Wooyoung mutters, slowly resuming his pace after Seonghwa. “This is insane.”

“I thought you would’ve been acquainted by the extravagance of ATZ through the passenger lounge,” Seonghwa says. “Oh, this is you, actually. 6B—you’ve got an aisle seat, but I believe there’s no one next to you, so feel free to choose the window seat as well.”

“How the hell will I get used to the luxury life in less than two hours, Hwa,” complains Wooyoung, still looking around the cabin wide-eyed. “I don't belong here, look at me! What the hell did I do to deserve this? It makes me feel guilty and unworthy, if anything.”

“Oh, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa laments, closing the distance between them. “You don't need to deserve anything. If anything,” he repeats Wooyoung, “we want you to have it. Wait, come here, get this up there—”

Together, they get the luggage up into the compartment, and immediately after, Seonghwa pulls him into a tight hug. Wooyoung freezes.

“It’s okay,” Seonghwa whispers in his ear. “I’m glad you have us to fall back on, and that you trust us to catch you when you do. I really am. You’re going to be okay now.”

I know, thinks Wooyoung, pressing his eyes into Seonghwa’s shoulder to push back against the burning in his eyes. ATZ has been his pillar of support ever since that damned phone call, as the guilt of lying to his mother and then having to rely on the finances of his friends out of desperation ate at him from within. It still hasn’t settled very well, but at least he can work up to paying them back now. “Thanks, hyung,” he murmurs in Korean, falling deeper into the embrace. “I appreciate it. So much.”

“We know,” is all Seonghwa says.

Hongjoong’s voice pops up beside him, and Wooyoung jolts in surprise, but Seonghwa doesn’t let up. “Distraught?” he just asks, holding out a hand towards the two of them, which Wooyoung accepts. “What will help you feel better?”

“You’re already helping so much,” says Wooyoung, and mentally he curses his croaky voice. “Well. Maybe some distraction? I’m nervous.”

That gets a chuckle out of both of them, and Seonghwa releases him in favour of joining Mingi and Yeosang at the boarding gates, leaving Wooyoung with Hongjoong at his seat.

“Soooo.” Hongjoong bumps his hip against Wooyoung’s, still holding Wooyoung’s hand and now softly caressing the back of it with his thumb. “Want to see the cockpit?”

Wooyoung laughs wetly, quickly wiping the dampness from his eyes. “The pit of cocks? Of course.”

It delivers him a mild smack to the shoulder. “Don’t talk about my beauty like that.” Nonetheless, Hongjoong is grinning widely, pulling him along to the front.

Wooyoung lets himself be dragged away for the third time today. He trusts these men with his life and heart.

--

“Don’t—don’t touch that, please.”

“What does it do? Fire a missile?”

“It ejects the seat.”

“...You’re talking out of your ass.”

“Try me.”

“...”

“...Pouting is going to get you nowhere.”

“...”

“...Augh, fine. It opens the emergency radio—I said don’t press it!”

“Why are there people meowing on radio? Wait—are you blushing? Do you meow back?! Hyung~”

--

Takeoff goes as smoothly as he had expected it to go: less noticeable than any time he’s flown economy, but the flip of his stomach and the lump in his throat never truly dissipate. Not until the first meal is served, and he finally sees San and Seonghwa pass through the aisles with little trays of food. He swiftly stuffs the Switch he borrowed from Seonghwa away onto the other chair, taking off his headphones to smile at San awkwardly.

“Heya! How are we doing over here?” San cheers with pep in his step and eyes all squinty, as if seeing Wooyoung lifts his spirits just as much as the other way around. Their exchange is brief, merely asking for preference between meat and fish and San taking no notice of any of the awkwardness surrounding Wooyoung like a grumpy cloud. Because it is awkward—having his best friends (slash loves of his life, but he won’t go into that here) have to serve him like he’s a paying customer. Which, he isn’t. He knows he could never afford this, especially without Hongjoong’s employee benefits. He’d much rather be the one behind the counter, like always—especially now that he knows Leo’s name (man. If only he could forget the deadname again, now that he’s seen it) and he can introduce ATZ to them properly as friends.

He says as much to San when the man finally does hand him his tray, softly whispering his thoughts and looking away in embarrassment meanwhile. In true San fashion, the man immediately ruffles Wooyoung’s hair, and Wooyoung’s cheek flush red. “I mean it,” he whines, still as quietly as he can as to not disturb the other passengers. “I get the urge to help out or some shit, it’s weird. Can I do anything?”

“You’re literally not allowed to help out for health and safety reasons,” San replies just as quietly, but beaming brightly as if Wooyoung’s looking at a bloody star in the sky. “So you sit your pretty little butt down and enjoy the food, I’ll see if we can sit with you during our breaks. Besides,” he adds, right before continuing down the aisle, “you’ve served us so many coffees and doughnuts the last half year, I feel like it’s about dang time we showed you how we work. It’ll be fine, Wooyo—just relax.”

--

He doesn’t relax, and not just because San called his butt pretty. The anxiety (slash caffeine) jitters keep making him dissociate, which makes it difficult to play his games or watch the movie on the tiny chair screen. At least the meat was good, and the flight path and information was strangely hypnotic to watch. Only when he, in a last desperate attempt to distract himself from his nerves, reads through the in-flight magazines and finds a particular article, does his night get a little better.

When Seonghwa passes his aisle with coffee and tea, he smirks as he unfurls the magazine from its rolled-up shape. “So I heard you’ve always wanted to be a flight attendant?” he says, teasingly.

“What?” Seonghwa asks, cocking his head as he pours him the coffee. “I—oh.” The moment his gaze falls upon the magazine spread, his eyes turn to disdain, nose wrinkled and brows tight. “Please don’t remind me. I was forced into that.”

“Were you?”

“By Yeosang,” Seonghwa elaborates. “...We had a bet going. KQ only needed one of us to do the interview, so he suggested a Mario Kart tournament.” His brow twitches. “I’m not very good at Mario Kart. Kang Yeosang knew this when he suggested Mario Kart.”

“So the greatest hotel that made an impact on you was not Hotel New York in Rotterdam?” Wooyoung says, pitching his voice high and pitiful, and thrives in the Seonghwa’s lips pursing in annoyance. “Or your favourite type of aircraft being the Boeing—Hey!” He cackles as Seonghwa, blushing furiously, grabs his magazine and stuff it back into the seat pocket.

“Want me to grab another pillow?” he asks instead.

“Huh?”

“You seem to be slipping off your seat,” Seonghwa grins. “Trying to reach the footstool?”

That wipes the grin from Wooyoung’s face, replacing it with an annoyed pout. “Low blow.”

Seonghwa blows him a kiss, before he continues on along the aisle.

The blush on his face is hopefully hidden well by the steam from the coffee he chugs. He really needs to talk with them, doesn’t he?

--

Unfortunately, neither dinner nor the fleeting visits from his friends here and there do anything to calm the nerves within his chest, and as the plane light dims to a counterfeit of night he is yet to be lulled into somnolence.

Every other compartment has their lights off, some of the passengers even wearing sleeping eyemasks, and there is no sound coming from the crew’s private quarters. For a while Wooyoung debates heading over there and waking one of them up, but the thought of one of them losing sleep because of him stops him from doing anything drastic.

It just makes it one more thing he’s currently overthinking.

That last espresso shot really wasn’t a good idea.

It takes him a full half hour, but the hollow fear in his gut bubbles over, and he impulsively rises from his makeshift bed to press the little attendant button before landing back on his bum to scold himself for giving into his weakness.

The blanket he’d been given had slid to the floor by his jitters, but his veins feel like there are grains of sand grinding against the valves, heart beating like a hummingbird once more—unbelonging at heights like this and chirping its distress, and any added sensations will most definitely send him into a panic so he decides to leave it at the footrest. Instead, he curls back up in his chair, holding onto his ankles for dear life, before he starts bouncing his leg again.

It doesn’t take more than a minute, he thinks, but the seconds pass like hours before he hears footsteps from behind him in the aisle.

“Hyung?” a familiar, but most definitely unexpected voice calls out softly in the quiet.

“Jongho?” Wooyoung blinks, uncomprehending. “What are you doing here?”

No matter how much he wrings his eyes, it’s still the maknae of ATZ standing before him, in his pilot uniform forgoing the signature coat with the two stripes at the shoulder. The dress shirt he is wearing looks to be a little crumpled from what Wooyoung can gather is a restless sleep on the cabin beds.

He can’t help but giggle, “If you’re here, then who’s flying the plane?”

Jongho snorts, and takes a seat at the empty chair between Wooyoung and the aisle. “Hongjoong-hyung and his copilot have it handled. I’m a stand-in for halfway, so they can get their rest.”

“Ah,” says Wooyoung uselessly.

“What are you doing up?” Jongho says, regrettably turning the attention to Wooyoung.

As if Wooyoung hadn’t asked for attention by pressing that button. Damn his moment of weakness.

“Just, um. Drank too much coffee, I think,” he chuckles humourlessly. “I—I just really needed some company. I think.”

Jongho hums. “Seonghwa-hyung kind of thought the same, so instead of sending out one of the actual attendants, they asked me to go.”

“Oh.”

“Not that I mind, dumbass,” Jongho quickly says. “I like talking with you. You know that.”

“But you should sleep. I don’t want to keep you up,” Wooyoung says. “What if you end up feeling tired when you have to fly the plane?”

“I’ve rested up plenty,” Jongho reassures, lying back in the empty seat and closing his eyes. “Plus, these chairs are nice, too.”

The two of them sit in comfortable silence while Wooyoung observes the younger man. There’s bags under his eyes, but the relaxed posture of the chair seems to allow him to fully let go of the tiredness for a bit. His legs are crossed over one another and stretched out in front, easily reaching the footstool that Wooyoung could not. His shoes are shiny, and Wooyoung knows he’s polished them the day before, like an old man. Honestly, Jongho being the youngest of all of them—even younger than Wooyoung himself—sometimes feels like a joke. Compared to him, Wooyoung looks like a disappointment. Though, to be fair, he thinks to himself, becoming a second flight officer at the age of 24 is something not many people can compare with anyway—Wooyoung isn’t special in that regard. If only he were able to do such a feat, he muses sadly, maybe his parents would be able to be proud of him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jongho murmurs suddenly, leaning in with his eyes still closed, but their two foreheads touch through the thin back pillows at the top of the chairs. Wooyoung jumps slightly, at both the voice and the soft touch, suddenly a lot closer than he had believed. Jongho continues without pause. “There’s something bothering you.”

Wooyoung really doesn’t want to talk about it, actually. He doesn’t want Jongho to think he’s been after their money all along, but accepting a confession from two of his friends—who were already a couple beforehand, might he add—only to immediately ask them for financial aid sounds at least a little suspicious.

On the other hand, Jongho in Wooyoung’s experience is by far the most pragmatic and logical out of the seven of them, and thus wouldn’t judge him too hard immediately.

He bites his lip, looks down to the floor and away from Jongho’s piercing eyes.

“...I’m taking that as a no.” Jongho’s whisper sounds mildly disappointed. “You know, the hyungs have been so happy that you opened up to them about your troubles, that they’re now able to help with the thing you’ve clearly had on your mind for a while.”

“It’s not really—” Wooyoung starts, far too loud for the silent aircraft cabin, and hushes himself with a flinch. “Sorry, I mean. The wedding thing was really not on my mind at all, honestly. I thought it was going to be in Britain, but when I heard it’s going to be in Seoul, I freaked out.”

“Right,” Jongho shrugs. “But you have been worried about your parents finding out you’ve been lying to them.”

Wooyoung winces. “Right,” he echoes weakly.

“Will you come clean to them?” Jongho asks. “When you’re there?”

“I want to,” confesses Wooyoung. “I’m just. Anxious. They want the best for me, and will be so disappointed. Maybe it’s better to live in this lie for a little longer.”

“You are so uncomfortable accepting any help at all,” sighs Jongho. “Even from your parents. You said so yourself, they want the best for you. What makes you think that you have the last say on what they want?”

“Excuse me? I should have a say in what they do for me—” Wooyoung begins, but Jongho hushes him quickly.

“Not what they do for you,” he corrects. “What they want for you. It should be their decision to help, but you’re taking that choice away from them by refusing to share the truth of the matter. Hell, I’m sure your brother would immediately jump to help had you said you needed a ticket.”

“They have a wedding to plan,” Wooyoung argues, but he feels his reasonings get weaker as he speaks. “Their funds—”

“—are theirs to use however they wish,” Jongho repeats. “Maybe he would have been able to help, maybe he would not have, we won’t know because it doesn’t matter in this instant anymore. Point is, there are a lot of people around you, Wooyoung, who all want to help you if the situation calls for it. Maybe you can decide to pay them back through something else, or sign it off as a loan instead of a gift, but for the moment, help will be there. As long as you ask for it.”

“…can we stop talking about this,” Wooyoung murmurs, unconvinced but out of refutations.

“Sure,” Jongho shrugs, but a smirk creeps its way on his face—ominously. “How about you tell me how Hongjoong-hyung asked you out?”

Wooyoung’s face goes red, and he pushes Jongho’s head away from the top cushion. “I didn’t ask you to come here just for you to corner me like that, asshole.”

“So?” Still smirking, Jongho nudges his elbow.

“Seonghwa and Hongjoong asked me out, one at night and one in the morning,” Wooyoung mutters. “I accepted. That’s all.”

“Uh, yeah, we heard that much,” Jongho grins. “We’ve been wanting to talk about that, actually, but thought it better to wait until after the whole wedding ordeal was over. You’ve been so tense—”

Now hold on. “Um,” Wooyoung says, brain short-circuits. “We?”

“...yes?” Jongho says, grin fading slightly. “ATZ is ride or die, Wooyoung. You knew this. Anyway, you’ve been so tense about a lot of things, so we thought after the wedding you’d be a lot less stressed, and thus be able to speak your mind a lot better. We’ve missed you and your witty banter—”

“No, go back!” Wooyoung groans, and winces at the noise. Quiet down, idiot! “Go back to that other thing. What do you mean exactly, ‘ride or die’? Why would I be talking with anyone other than Hongjoong and Seonghwa? Are you just gossipers?”

Jongho snaps his mouth closed, shooting upright in the chair, away from Wooyoung’s face, as if in shock. “You’re—you didn’t—” he stutters, for once speechless and almost disconcerted in the way he blinks at him unseeing. “Hyung didn’t tell you?” he eventually lets slip, switching to his mother tongue in what sounds like habit. He must really be confused, thinks Wooyoung.

“Hyung?” Wooyoung repeats, copying the language switch in confusion. “Hongjoong-hyung? What would he have told me?”

But Jongho shakes his head. “Seonghwa,” he clarifies, back in English and seemingly having composed himself a little. “Wooyoung, when I said ‘ride or die’ I meant it in the plainest ways, and I need you to listen to me closely.”

“Uh,” Wooyoung gulps. “You’re scaring me—”

“Don’t be,” Jongho says, louder than anything they’d said before, and it rings through the sleepy cabin. He grabs Wooyoung’s face gently, brings it close to him as they lean into one another. “Wooyoung, we’re dating.”

What?

“What?” blinks Wooyoung.

“All of us,” Jongho clarifies, eyes wide and thumbs caressing Wooyoung’s cheeks as they regain feeling.. “Though I suppose dating would fall short of what it really is—we’re in a relationship. All seven of us. And we want you, too. God help us all, why did Seonghwa never mention this to you?”

Every word Jongho says echoes through Wooyoung’s mind, as if his brain has disappeared and the sound bounces from one skull wall to the next. They’ve been dating? How did Wooyoung never notice? Why did Seonghwa never tell him? Do Seonghwa and Hongjoong want to date him, or did they mean date all of them?

Then, a curious set of memories overtake him.

“You seemed to have captured the heart of our dear purser.” // “It was quite the memorable meeting, he told us, so we had to check you out of course.”

“In our eyes, our crew is one big family. Kind of.”

“Take care of us, yeah?”

“You mean too much to me. All of you do.” // “I'm glad. We think the same of you.”

Jongho and San holding hands. Yunho falling asleep on Mingi. Yeosang combing through San’s hair. Seonghwa admitting to being with someone that wasn’t Hongjoong so easily. The sharing of clothes, the nudges and affection between them all , the comfort of Hongjoong’s house being all of them in spirit, them hitting on Wooyoung when he believed them to be taken—

God I am an idiot, Wooyoung thinks, but all that comes out is “Shit,” before the tears well up in his eyes and drop onto Jongho’s warmwarmwarm hands before he can even attempt to stop them from doing so.

“I’m guessing you really had no idea,” Jongho whispers, pulling him into an awkward hug between the two chairs. “Sorry, Wooyoung. I’m so sorry.”

Wooyoung shakes his head pathetically, a soft whimper leaving him, buried into Jongho’s shoulder.

“The first rule we ever set when we decided to start this relationship was to communicate well,” Jongho continues, caressing the back of his neck to calm him down. “Though you weren’t exactly part of the deal yet, we assumed Seonghwa explained that much. Though, maybe he believed you already knew—or maybe it slipped all of our minds. You fit so well, hyung,” he chuckles, “it’s hard to imagine us without you sometimes. You deserve better.”

His eyes are still leaking, but within the comfort of Jongho’s arms it’s easy to close them and let himself fade to the gentle grumbles of Jongho’s murmurs. He hums once, to let the other know he’s listening, but the shock and frustration is quickly fading into exhaustion.

“Don’t worry, Wooyoungie,” Jongho snorts, still quiet as a mouse as to not wake the other passengers. It’s incredible to think Wooyoung’s entire world has flipped upside down, while there are random businessmen sleeping within two metres of him, Wooyoung thinks without humour. “The second rule was to be open about any romantic encounters with people outside the polycule. When you asked Seonghwa out—and we know we joke about it now, but it was a pickup line—he told us how endearing you were to him, and how, if we were open to it, we’d all give you a chance.”

The hollow pit in his stomach churns when Jongho retells their perspective of the meeting, how he’d had a chance all along, that they’d actually come to check him out.

Just like Yunho had said back then.

“We liked you,” Jongho simply says. “I think that’s all you need to know from all that.”

And it really is that simple, isn’t it? He’d already accepted Hongjoong and Seonghwa’s proposition, unknowing it was exactly what he had desired all along—but accepted nonetheless. “And now?” he says, voice cracking into a whisper.

“When we land, we decide what we want to do. All of us, you included,” Jongho continues. “But now, we sleep. Give me your hand, and lie back—when you wake up, we’ll be there.”

And who is Wooyoung to refuse him? With gentle caresses and motions slow and careful, Wooyoung is placed back into his chair, hand never untied from Jongho’s, and with the plane’s engines buzzing in the back of his head, he collapses into a dreamless sleep.

--

Touchdown is as uneventful as takeoff, especially in the face of the recent revelations between him and Jongho, though unlike what Jongho promised, he hasn’t seen much of ATZ after waking up. On one hand, it disappoints him how they avoid him like what feels like the plague—he just wants to get this over with. On the other hand, he understands, he’s even a bit relieved: avoiding confrontation is one of his vices, after all.

He’s had enough time to ponder the last week, at least. It makes sense now, how they live and breathe together—no friendship would ever bear that much strain and survive. Jongho had said he belonged there, even just as a friend. Hongjoong’s words from the night after karaoke echo through the memories, most of all. Had they been prepared to accept him with only Seonghwa? Only him and Hongjoong? A one night stand? How many times must they have discussed his presence beforehand, and how many of them had to make a compromise they didn’t desire? Did they truly like him, all of them? It feels almost impossible.

After all other passengers have already departed and the plane is bathed in dim gloom with all lights flickering off, Wooyoung opens the luggage compartment over his seat in a daze of confused musings, taking out his only bag. It brings his thoughts to the wedding. He only brought the essentials, really: a suit, three shirts, two jumpers, a pair of jeans, and some underwear and toiletries—more wasn’t needed, as his parents had a washing machine working fine, and he could always buy some more in Seoul when it comes to it.

But Hongjoong had lend him the suit cover. Hongjoong had done a lot for him the last week. How can Wooyoung even prepare to pay him back, let alone be on equal footing with him and the others?

“Wooyoung?” he hears from the end of the aisle.

His shoulders clam up, but he turns nonetheless, and comes in contact with Seonghwa’s eyes, worn-out and regretful but determination a fire behind either of these. “I—yes?” Wooyoung says, stumbling over his own tongue, and immediately turns away, flushed.

“It’s okay,” Seonghwa’s voice calls. “The plane is empty, it’s just us.” He seems to hesitate, then. “I mean, if you want to talk, that is. I won’t hold you here against your will.”

As if Seonghwa could ever hold him somewhere he doesn’t want to. “...Ok,” he murmurs. “Let’s talk?”

It takes a moment of quiet where Wooyoung is gripping the handles of his sports bag tightly in anxiety, for Seonghwa to reach his seat in the aisle. As always, the man looks flawless: hair slicked partially back in a professional but playful manner, the capelet fluttering in nonexistent wind that envelops only him. He comes to a standstill inches away from Wooyoung, and Wooyoung needs to raise his chin slightly to reach eye level. It should be frustrating, belittling, but the tangible tension between them burns hot enough to overwrite any asymmetry that would be.

Seonghwa is clearly nervous. Something Wooyoung hasn’t seen him be, maybe ever. It’s an odd sight, and an unsettling one. “Jongho told me,” he starts, and immediately Seonghwa’s head shoots up. “I, um. Didn’t realise.”

“You didn’t,” Seonghwa repeats, blinking slowly. “So he said. I—” His voice cuts off, something akin to a whimper swallowed down. “Wooyoung, I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”

“And how exactly was I supposed to know?” Wooyoung lashes out. He doesn’t mean to, but he’d felt it simmering to a boil, every second of anxiety and ambiguity ticking away at his patience. “Nobody ever told me a thing! Yeosang told me to ‘take care of all of you’, Hongjoong basically was directing a porno between the two of us, but no one ever said anything about romance to me at all, least of you!” It feels childish, especially since finally, for the first time since the beginning, Wooyoung has some clarity. Agency. “Be honest with me,” he asks, turning back to Seonghwa, who’s watching him with a look that feels like he’s already grieving something. “Were you just playing with me? After that stupid pickup line back then?”

“I wasn’t,” Seonghwa states.

Wooyoung stares at him, the cabin around them soundproofed into utter silence. He can hear Seonghwa’s individual breaths, backed by the soft creaking of the plane around them. “...Then why?”

“I can’t say,” Seonghwa says. “Not because it’s—a secret or something, just.” He bites his lip, and Wooyoung so desperately wants to pull it out from between his teeth, but he refrains. “I don’t know what happened—what went wrong. We had so many discussions with the seven of us, about you. And not once did we remember to ask you about it. And that’s unforgivable.”

“Not unforgivable,” Wooyoung says immediately, then pulls back. “I mean, I want to forgive you. I want to try this out. I really do. But—” A sudden tap on the plane window turns into a pitter-patter of rain surrounding them, mirroring Wooyoung’s heartbeat and drowning out the sound of Seonghwa’s breathing. Or maybe Seonghwa is holding his breath. Wooyoung stumbles over his next words at the realisation. “But it hurts. I was so confused. And even now, I have so little actual answers. Do you all actually even like me? Or is it just you and Hongjoong? Maybe Yeosang? Is this all just convenience? Why are you helping me anyway? It must’ve cost a fortune to fly me here—business class! Did you do this out of pity? Guilt?”

“All of us like you,” Seonghwa interrupts his ramble. “Like I said, we had discussions, Wooyoung. Every single one of us is happy when you’re around. You fit better than we could have ever expected.”

“But why?!”

“You’re funny, creative, humble underneath your humorously selfish persona,” Seonghwa sums up effortlessly, as if it’s been at the top of his mind this whole time. “You make Yeosang feel safe, drape yourself over San when he’s asking for attention, listen to Jongho with as much care as us. Hum, Yunho has asked to join dance classes again after speaking to you, Mingi told us you started watching the anime he’s been trying to get us to watch. That’s only one thing you’ve done for us. Getting you on this flight was in no regard a pity party or guilt trip in either direction—Wooyoung, we adore you,” Seonghwa insists, grasping at Wooyoung’s shoulders, pleading eyes daring him to look away. “Friend or lover, we will give you what we want to give, and take what you offer us in return. Nothing less, and nothing more.”

Wooyoung wants to protest that whatever that entails, it would never even get close! to what this trip meant to him, how much they’ve done for him by aiding him with this, but his tongue lays heavy in his mouth, and he cannot move himself into complaint. There’s fleeting memories of joy, between the anxiety and self-discovery—hell, there’s just so much love. The elated heartache from all the long-distance calls, the laughter and cheer at the home dinners, the warmth of the stupid cuddle piles… It overwhelms the pedestal of inadequacy he’s placed himself on, and it shocks him how little he wants to resist. He’s just so tired of feeling unworthy.

The plane, a still and silent capsule, felt like a world apart, disconnected from the rain-speckled tarmac visible through the oval window. The rhythmic patter of droplets seemed to mirror the steady pulse of Wooyoung’s hummingbird heart, pitter-patter in the air. There was never really any doubt in his mind, and now, after having let go of his anger, he’s left with relief and tentative hope.

“...I’d like to,” confesses Wooyoung softly. “I love you. All of you, so much. I don’t know what to do with myself if I don’t accept. And I’m sorry I took so long to get here.”

“No need, love,” Seonghwa whispers, engulfing him into a tight hug of solace and comfort.

(This, Wooyoung thinks, this is what I needed.)

“That wasn’t your responsibility. I’m sorry we failed you. I failed you,” he amends then. “Though it’s somewhat ironic it’s the two of us, here, isn’t it?”

Wooyoung hums. “It is?”

“The friendship started with us, didn’t it?” A chuckle at his ear. “And that turned out better than anyone could’ve hoped for. …I just hope the relationship can too.”

Pulling back, Wooyoung smirks. “Oh? You want a kiss?”

It starts Seonghwa into a crimson blush spreading over his face, and Wooyoung receives a soft smack to his shoulder for his efforts. “Stop that! I mean, if you want to, go ahead, but I meant as in making it offici-wuh?” Before he’s finished, Wooyoung pulls him closer, landing his mouth onto Seonghwa’s lips the moment he received permission to do so. Gentle, almost melancholic, a spark of a promise. A future.

They pull back as one, blushing like maidens at a sailor’s harbour, giggling their way out the aisle. Right before they finally exit the plane, into the loading bridge, Wooyoung stops him once more.

“Don’t worry, man,” he grins at Seonghwa’s concerned expression, which fades into mild humour at his nonchalance. “Just, could you help me with one more thing, before we say goodbye?”

--

It’s a rushed departure for all of them, most of them unable to meet his father, who is waiting at the terminal with the car to pick him up as was agreed beforehand. The reunion between him and his father was uneventful, but the moment he spots his mother and brother from the front door, both glowing in excitement and health, the waterworks burst.

That week, the wedding is beautiful, and had he not spilt all his tears previously, he would’ve been right up there with his mother next to him. Seeing the pride and joy his brother exudes at the altar, after months of anxiety, is a new kind of relief, and his shoulders have never felt lighter. The moment the stress from the wedding had left the family, halfway through his stay, he’d sat his mum and dad down to come clean about his debts and living situation, which was another tearful conversation. His parents had been understanding, supportive, and perhaps a little nosy as to how he’d managed to still arrive so promptly, which was a whole different story he’s not quite ready to share. Maybe he’ll be able to visit again in the coming year, to explain a little more, but as of now, the relationship is still so new he does not dare jinx it.

Going home from the restaurant that night, Wooyoung feels as if his veins carry sand, scrubbing him raw from the inside out, but he has one more stop before he can rest.

A hand clenched in his own, he saunters to the playground next to the bus stop he only vaguely recognises from a photo buried deep in his phone, and sits down on one of the swings, watching the road in front of them.

“This is quite far out from your house,” Yeosang comments as he takes a seat on the only other swing that is left, next to Wooyoung. “How will we get back?”

“I thought you could treat us to an Uber,” Wooyoung replies deadpan. The facade is short-lived, when Yeosang pushes his swing into Wooyoung’s he bursts out laughing. “Joking! My aunt’s house is nearby, I asked her if we could sleep over tonight. She’s expecting us.”

“You worry me sometimes,” grumbles his boyfriend.

“Hmph, no trust in me. I’ve survived for a good while before meeting you.”

“God knows how that happened. How much Chapagetti did you consume?”

“No matter,” says Wooyoung, quickly changing the subject. “Do you remember?”

“This playground?” asks Yeosang, turning to look at the surroundings. The playground itself is surrounded by a small fence, next to a two lane road for cars which is abandoned in the late evening. Inside the fence are some large trees, undoubtedly used by children to climb and clamber into. There’s some mimicry of a pirate ship, a small slide attached to one side ending in a sandy pit below. “Like no other. Do you?”

Wooyoung shakes his head.

If Yeosang is disappointed, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he points to the pirate ship. “We made up a story about two timelines. We travelled from one universe to the other as space pirates, saving them from an evil government.”

“Evil government?” Wooyoung repeats sceptically, but Yeosang nods gravely.

“Strictland,” he says with a straight face, and had it not been a solemn night, Wooyoung would’ve cackled. “We were very original.”

“I don’t even remember meeting for the first time,” Wooyoung admits.

“Does it matter?”

“Clearly it matters to you.”

The city is never asleep, but it’s quiet enough for the wind to howl her voice around. Wooyoung lets go of the chains of the swing to tighten his coat around himself, winter chill setting in now that they’ve stopped moving. Yeosang beside him does the same, then reaches between the swings for Wooyoung’s mittened hand. “Maybe it did, once. I’ve more important things to be reminded of, now.”

ATZ, for one, thinks Wooyoung. And Wooyoung. Again. “Thanks for joining me for the wedding,” he just says.

“It was fun. Romance in the air,” replies Yeosang. “Though, you could’ve just asked me yourself. Why bother Seonghwa-hyung with it?”

“Because he had something to make up for. Besides, I didn’t know if you were allowed to stay behind. He’s the purser, right?” Wooyoung shrugs. “If he said it was fine, not like anyone else would be able to stop us.”

The hand within his own clenches tight once, as if laughing at an inside joke. “I thought you were more of an ‘ask for forgiveness, rather than permission’ person?”

“Listen, we were boyfriends all of three minutes by then. I’m not going to go against that for a good while.”

Finally, Yeosang cracks a small giggle. “I’m glad I got you back, Wooyoung.”

“I’m sure you do,” Wooyoung says, then turns to Yeosang, but his boyfriend is watching the clear night’s sky. “Are you alright?”

“I told you before, my home life wasn’t the best. That’s kind of all there is to it,” Yeosang confesses, smile fading. “It wasn’t the worst, at all. I had a roof over my head and enough food to eat, even if we sometimes had to shrink some portions. But I was alone, a lot. And loneliness is something one both never really gets used to, and gets used to alarmingly quickly. Without friends, siblings, and with my parents often ignoring my existence, life was…a lot more boring than bearable.

“And then a boy less than a year younger than me pulled me into all his shenanigans for a whole month. It got me out of my spiral, and I made my second friend at school that year, right after that holiday ended.” He turns back to Wooyoung, the shine of the moon reflecting as a spark in his eyes illuminating the beauty of his face. “I’m by far not done yet with my recovery, but. It’s one of the greatest gifts to be sitting here with you once more.”

“I love you,” Wooyoung says. “All of you. It never feels like I deserve your reciprocation.”

“We’ll work on it,” Yeosang just says. “We love you, too. This is a clean slate for all of us.”

“A clean slate, huh.” A new beginning. Wooyoung likes the sound of that.

And, well. He’s never one to back down.

-fin-