Chapter Text
Jung Wooyoung is 24 years old when he learns that he is a ticking time bomb.
It feels, in a way, as if he already knew that about himself; as if something was always destined to be so inherently wrong with him that one day it would kill him. But the almost self-satisfied bitterness does nothing to help him as he stares down the words End-Stage Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy as if he might suddenly develop laser vision and burn two circular holes through the letter in his hand. At least they had the decency to add the word unfortunately in there somewhere along with a prescription for something they referred to as a “beta blocker.” They’d called him first, before he got the letter, but words like heart transplant and waiting lists felt less tangible over the phone than a printed diagnosis on letterhead paper.
It gives him something to crumple nervously in his hands as he waits.
He told himself he would never do this, swore to himself that he would try anything before he would ever ask for his help again, but that was before he got the news. His pride is not more important than his mother or Kyungmin, so he orders a drink and keeps waiting.
He waits. He drinks. He waits.
He watches a group of businessmen settle in for happy hour, ordering cheap drinks in expensive suits. The first date at a high top near the bar has been going well for the past hour; the friends reuniting in the booth off to the side remind him of Yeosang, and his heart twinges.
(Every twinge feels like it could be the last).
The couple leaves. The friends do shots. The sun moves from one side of the building to the other.
He isn’t coming.
Wooyoung drops his head to the table. The drinks are hitting harder than they should; he hasn’t been able to eat since he got the letter, and he’s been here too long. It’s so humiliating that he showed up just to watch the door and get drunk alone. Absolutely pathetic. What was he even thinking, reaching out? When has asking for help ever worked?
He settles his tab, feeling a stab of guilt at the money he spent. He needs to be saving every bit he can, should probably be picking up some more shifts at the restaurant. What a way to spend the rest of your life- working every waking moment just to have something to leave behind.
What a joke.
The dining room tilts a bit as he heads for the backdoor, his eyes unfocusing. Does End-Stage Hyper- cardio . . . whatever lower your alcohol tolerance, or is he just losing his mind?
The hot afternoon air gives no reprieve to the stifling sense of intoxication. He almost trips over his own feet and has to pause to get his bearings, doubt creeping in that he’s in a good state to walk home. The self-pity that found him inside the bar returns in full force, and he thinks for a moment how depressing it is that he has no one to call. No one that would come pick him up or walk him home. No one to know if he even gets home.
“You alright there?” a voice asks to his left, and Wooyoung laughs unsteadily.
“You want the honest answer or the polite one?” he asks, turning to look over at the stranger.
The man snorts. “Whichever you feel like giving, I guess,” he says. He’s leaning against the wall of the building, all sharp suit and sharper features. His eyes sort of remind Wooyoung of a cat, and that almost makes him laugh again. This stranger is clearly one of the businessmen that came into the bar earlier and probably watched Wooyoung drink himself into a hole, which is just great.
“What are you doing out here?” Wooyoung asks instead.
The man looks amused and waves his hand vaguely, a lit cigarette leaving a trail of glowing embers in Wooyoung’s vision. “Drunk cigarette,” he says.
“Those’ll kill you,” Wooyoung reminds him, and then giggles to himself. God, he’s drunk. “I need to sit down.”
“Then sit,” the man shrugs, so Wooyoung trips his way over and slides down the wall to sit on the ground against the building. They fall silent, but it’s almost companionable; the man smokes and Wooyoung watches the smoke curl in the shade, fading away into nothing. He’s clutching a beer in his other hand, and Wooyoung wonders if he really just came out for a cigarette.
“You ever feel like you never really lived?” Wooyoung asks distantly after a while. He’s not really expecting a response, but the stranger freezes, cigarette halfway to his mouth.
“You want the honest answer or the polite one?” he asks after a moment, and Wooyoung rolls his eyes.
“Honest, please,” he says, pulling his knees up to his chest to hug his arms around them. The man drops his cigarette on the ground and grinds it into the concrete with his fancy dress shoe before sliding down to sit next to Wooyoung.
“Every single day,” he says. “I think that every single day.”
Any other day, Wooyoung might look at the fancy suit and the shiny shoes, the expensive watch and the handsome face and think yeah, right. He might think you have no idea what it’s like. But today is different; today he remembers that you never really know what someone else is going through, and this man could have every reason to feel that way.
He looks over and sees the expression on his face, and he thinks he really does.
“I believe you,” he says, and the man smiles wryly at him. “I just can’t believe I’m never going to get to. I think I always had this sliver of hope that someday it would get better, but it won’t. It really, really won’t.”
“You really think life never gets better?” the stranger asks, looking almost as if Wooyoung’s answer will be taken as gospel. It’s a strange power to have, and Wooyoung wishes he had better news to preach.
“Not for me,” he says. “But whatever is keeping you from living, you should fight it. You seem like a capable guy, I bet you can do it.”
The stranger laughs at that, and Wooyoung wonders if it’s his real laugh. He thinks it might be. The other man drains a third of his beer and then turns to look at Wooyoung, his smile fading.
“I wish I could say I felt the same,” he says. “Kind of hypocritical for you to tell me to figure my shit out in the same breath you say yours is hopeless, though.”
Wooyoung shrugs, dropping his head back against the brick. “That’s me, hypocritical drunk asshole. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Hypocritical Drunk Asshole,” the stranger says. “I’m San.”
“Is this how you pictured your day going?”
“Not at all. I think you’re still better company than my coworkers that came with me, though, even if you’re a hypocritical drunk asshole.”
Wooyoung snickers. “Have a few more beers and then you might understand my current situation better.”
“Unfortunately, it really only takes one for me,” San says woefully, holding up the bottle to the dim light. “Normally I refuse to drink at all for these outings.”
Wooyoung drops his head onto his shoulder and turns to look over at him. “Why now, then?” he asks, and San looks away quickly, his body tensing.
“It’s the anniversary of my mother’s death,” he says after a moment. “I thought I could work through it this year, use it as a distraction . . .”
“But it didn’t work,” Wooyoung fills in gently, pulling his head back up to face forward again. They sit in silence, two strangers staring off into the distance together. They seem to be around the same age; Wooyoung wonders absently if in another life they could have been friends. Maybe gone to the same university, had a class together.
“Were you meeting someone here?” San asks, and Wooyoung groans.
“I knew people noticed,” he complains. “It was too empty in there.”
“Date?” San asks.
“Oh god no. My . . . dad, actually.”
San winces. “Been there,” he says, sounding bitter. Now that’s a tone Wooyoung can get behind.
“Asshole?” he asks.
“Asshole,” San confirms.
“Is it, like, a requirement for dads?” Wooyoung asks. “The day that first baby shows up you just . . . graduate from Asshole University with a degree in traumatizing your family?”
“You have quite the imagination,” San muses. “But I think you’re right. Two’s a pattern, yeah?”
“I think it’s three, but I’m sure we could find another one if we tried,” Wooyoung says. “But I’ll fight yours if you fight mine.”
“What if I told you I have a black belt in taekwondo?” San asks, and he finally looks over at Wooyoung again.
“No way!” Wooyoung sits up, ignoring the way the world shifts a little at the motion. “That’s so cool! Can you do, like, spinny kicks?”
“Definitely not right now,” San snickers. “But sober, sure.” He drains his beer as if to make a point, and Wooyoung politely does not point out the red flush he’s already taking on. The man was not lying about his tolerance.
“Well you can definitely kick my dad’s ass then,” Wooyoung says. “Maybe do it twice.”
“Once for whatever he did to make you hate him and once for standing you up today,” San agrees. “You really think you could fight my dad though?”
“Did he train taekwondo?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” Wooyoung pauses. “Okay, but I bite.”
“You-” The real laugh comes out again, and Wooyoung kind of likes it. (He is so drunk).
“I’m serious! I’m little, I have to fight dirty,” he protests, and San laughs harder.
“Okay, okay, I believe you,” he says, and Wooyoung crosses his arms and decidedly does not pout. God, he needs to sober up.
“What do you do for work, then?” Wooyoung asks. “Are you, like, a secret agent or something? I mean the suit looks pretty sharp, but the taekwondo thing . . .”
San scoffs, though it isn't in a mean way. “I work for a record label,” he says. ”Just boring financial stuff.”
“That makes way more sense, I suppose,” Wooyoung says. “A secret agent probably wouldn’t be wasting time talking to me about asshole dads outside a bar.”
“Probably not,” San shrugs. “What do you do?”
“I teach people how to dance and I wait tables at a restaurant. Riveting stuff. I’m a real star.”
“Not the dream, huh.”
“Definitely not. I love teaching, but I wanted to do more with it. And I could go without the restaurant job, if I’m being honest. But college dropouts don’t get to pick how they get by, I guess.”
“What made you drop out?”
Wooyoung pauses, thinking. “I guess, in a roundabout way, my dad.”
“Is that what made you hate him?” San’s voice is a soothing sort of matter-of-fact. Despite the egregious difference in clothes and career, it feels as if there is an understanding between them that Wooyoung hasn’t experienced in quite some time.
“I hated him a long time before that,” he says. “But that was really the nail in the coffin. I hate him for my mom and for my brother but today- I think I hate him for me. All I want is for them to be okay. That’s all I want, but he won’t help and I can’t understand what sort of selfish bastard just abandons his family when-”
The tears well up, but then they’re gone. He hasn’t really been able to cry in years, and having it yanked away again makes him groan in frustration and drop his head back against the brick harder than he probably should.
“I’ve been taking care of them for years,” he says. “It started in highschool, and then I went to college but mom couldn’t keep up. He just left and she couldn’t make ends meet so I dropped out. I’m so tired. I just work all the time and never get anywhere and now I don’t know what’s going to happen to them because . . .”
His voice catches in his throat and he wraps his arms around his knees again, holding on for dear life.
“. . . because?” San pushes gently.
Wooyoung half lowers his knees to dig around in his pocket, fishing out the crumpled piece of paper and handing it to San.
“I’m dying,” he says. “I found out a couple days ago, but I got this in the mail and it finally hit me. It’s end-stage, they said I probably have about a year but really I could die any minute if there’s strain on my heart. I’m supposed to rest, avoid any stress, and take like six medications while I wait for a heart transplant.”
San is looking at the wrinkled paper in his hands, his face unreadable. Wooyoung suddenly feels terrible.
“Shit, I’m so sorry,” he says, stumbling over his words, “you just told me about your mom-”
“It’s fine,” San says. “What’s the wait for a transplant?”
Wooyoung slumps back against the wall. “Months to years. And about a million or so dollars.”
“With insurance?” San asks, surprised.
“No insurance.” Wooyoung shrugs helplessly. “At least if I had life insurance I could leave something behind. They’d be set to get Kyungmin through highschool and college. Instead I’m thinking about getting a third job and hoping it doesn’t kill me early.”
“Shit,” San says.
“Yeah,” Wooyoung replies. “So why do you hate your dad?”
“Homophobic,” San says absently, still staring at the letter.
“Oh yeah, I’ll kick his ass,” Wooyoung says. “Does that count as stress?”
“I think so,” San snorts. “Honestly the only thing that could ever make me get married is pissing him off by marrying a man.”
Wooyoung is very drunk. It should be noted that he has not been this drunk in quite some time.
He sits bolt upright.
“Do you have good life insurance?” he asks.
San looks at him in amusement. “What, are you gonna kill me for it?”
“No, that- that doesn’t even make any sense, I wouldn’t get the money,” Wooyoung says. “I just- the most insane idea popped into my head.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever done anything crazy in my life,” San says.
“Dying has really put into perspective that I don’t think I have either,” Wooyoung agrees. “Do you want to do something totally insane?”
“I’m going to need more details.”
“I need life insurance, you need to piss off your homophobic dad, right?” Wooyoung asks, and San’s jaw drops.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“You wouldn’t have to make me your beneficiary, so I wouldn’t get any money if anything happened to you, I could just make my mom my beneficiary!” Wooyoung says, the depressive slump giving way to mania. He can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth, and yet- “You could take me off any time if you thought I was being sketchy, we could just get -”
“Divorced?” San supplies, looking incredulous.
“Exactly,” Wooyoung says. “You could tell your dad you have a husband, that would ruin his week-”
“Next ten years, probably-”
“-and then when I die, no harm no foul. You don’t know me and I don’t know you, we’d barely even have to interact. You’d have a great excuse to avoid work events for a while, and my mom would have money to take care of herself and my brother. It’s crazy, I know, but-”
“Sure,” San says, and Wooyoung stops immediately.
“What?”
“I said sure. Why not?”
“Are you joking?” Wooyoung asks. San turns to him and hands him the letter.
“I wonder where the nearest courthouse is,” he says.
Wooyoung wakes up with a pounding headache, the morning sun baking him in his bed. He rolls over and groans, trying to escape it without getting up to close the blinds. He’s sort of afraid they’d just fall off the window if he tried, anyway. He hasn’t gotten that drunk in years, possibly since before he even grew old enough to drink legally, and he can’t believe how irresponsible he was. Thankfully he hadn’t had evening classes, but he’s only got about an hour before he needs to be at the studio to teach the Saturday morning 5-7 year old class.
He sits up with another groan, his head spinning. He reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and something glints on his hand. Was he so drunk he didn’t even take off his jewelry? He pulls his hand back down to look at it and freezes.
Nestled comfortably at the base of his left ring finger is a silver-colored band.
He stops breathing for a moment, the ring shining offensively at him in the sunlight coming through the window, and then suddenly he’s snapping into motion, flinging his blankets around in a desperate attempt to find his phone. Memories come flooding back: closing out his tab, stumbling outside, San- oh dear god. What has he done?
A faint buzzing from the floor alerts him to the fact that his phone fell off the bed at some point. Wooyoung dives for it, nearly falling to the floor himself as he swipes it and sits back up to stare at it.
Incoming call from
San!!!
The contact photo lighting up his screen is a selfie of him and the stranger from the evening before, red-faced and laughing with their hands up to show off cheap matching rings.
Wooyoung answers.
“. . . I didn’t think through what to say if you picked up,” San’s voice filters through, and Wooyoung snorts.
“I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,” he says, cringing at his own high pitched giggle that follows. “What the fuck did we do?”
“I’m never drinking again,” San grumbles. “I am clearly not built for it.”
“Surely they turned us away, right?” Wooyoung says faintly. “There’s no way we actually . . .”
“Got married?” San asks dryly, and Wooyoung winces. “Unfortunately, the signed and stamped marriage certificate on my nightstand says otherwise.”
“. . .”
Wooyoung is buffering. Flashes from the night before pop in and out but he can’t make sense of them. He remembers telling San they should get married, but he never thought they’d actually do it. It was obviously the delusional ramblings of a drunk, dying idiot. Who the fuck marries someone they met while drunk at a bar? This isn’t Vegas, for crying out loud!
“How the fuck are we this stupid?” he exclaims, tone hinging on hysterical, “of all the foolish, reckless, idiotic-”
San starts laughing. Wooyoung is one step away from a manic meltdown, and San is laughing.
“Hey! You’re part of the problem here too!” Wooyoung protests, but San is still laughing, and some of the hysteria starts to fade. It was idiotic, but thank god San is the type of person to find it funny. They can fix this, pretend it never happened, and never speak again.
“I will take partial blame for saying yes, but you’re the one who asked,” San giggles, and Wooyoung splutters.
“I was drunk!”
“I’m well aware. Look, we’ll figure it out. I just can’t believe we actually did that.”
“I can’t believe they let us,” Wooyoung grumbles. “Don’t they have some sort of rule in place that you can’t be drunk to ask to get married? Because if they don’t, I will personally be lobbying for it.”
“Maybe we were very convincing,” San says helpfully.
“Do you have the same contact photo that I do? Because there’s no way,” Wooyoung snorts. “I’ve never looked more drunk in a photo in my life, and you’re the color of a tomato.”
“I told you I have low tolerance,” San says, sounding like he’s pouting. Wooyoung rolls his eyes.
“I have to work in- less than an hour. We have got to figure out what we’re going to do,” he says, and San hums like he’s thinking.
“Well,” he says, “do you still want that life insurance?”
Wooyoung ends up running to the studio in his sweatpants, telling himself it’s just a cool, casual look and no one will be able to tell he drank himself into oblivion and then got married to a stranger the night before.
“Dude,” Yunho says the second he sees him, “you look like you need caffeine. And an exorcism.”
“An apt diagnosis,” Wooyoung snarks, slumping against the front desk.
“Coffee run today?” Yunho offers, and Wooyoung winces, suddenly remembering he has a heart condition.
“Uh, no thanks,” he says, heading toward the practice room and ignoring Yunho’s frown. He never says no to an iced americano, partly because he gave up fighting Yunho on paying for them a year ago. He’s covered enough of his classes on short notice to have accumulated owed coffees, but he can’t risk putting strain on his heart right now.
He’s very grateful that his first session is his younger kids’ class, because they don’t notice the panic he’s in for the entire duration. He’s in a daze between sessions, thinking about the cheap ring by his sink in his apartment. He barely even has time to think about the whole dying thing because he’s so hung up on the fact that he’s married. Legally, he has - and is - a husband.
What the hell.
San!!!
Do you want to meet up in person to continue this talk?
Wooyoung stares at his phone as he packs up, but the text doesn’t disappear. The contact name burns into his retinas, the clear inebriated excitement as he made the contact in his phone causing him to cringe.
You
Yeah that might be good
Yunho gives Wooyoung another concerned frown as he breezes past him out the door, but he doesn’t have time to worry about that right now. He thinks about the situation the entire walk home, nearly missing his street and then taking the stairs up one floor too many and trying to get into an apartment that isn’t his. Thankfully his upstairs neighbor doesn’t seem to be home and no one seems to notice when Wooyoung realizes his mistake and does a walk of shame back down one flight of stairs.
Should he agree to stay married?
He doesn’t know San, but as he mulls it over he can’t think of how San would benefit from this in a way that would negatively impact Wooyoung. He has nothing to lose, not even his life at this point.
He shuts the door behind him and surveys his apartment. He takes in the towel stuffed under the window to keep bugs and rain out of the poorly sealed crack, the water damage on the walls and the fridge that likes to leak. He thinks about the frigid showers and the heat that breaks all the time, and he finds that he doesn’t care anymore. He’s spent so much of his life being careful and trying to clean up someone else’s messes; what does he have to lose by being a little insane? Doing something crazy? Absolutely nothing. A shit apartment and a body that won’t last another year. Low quality of life and a good-for-nothing dad.
San!!!
You free tonight?
You
Shift at the restaurant
San!!!
Tomorrow evening?
You
Teaching dance
San!!!
. . . lunch tomorrow?
You
Restaurant all day
San!!!
You weren’t kidding about working a lot, huh
Or are you avoiding your husband?
You
Shut up before I murder you i stg
San!!!
But we haven’t even filled out the life insurance paperwork :(
You
Atp meeting up is a risk to your life
But I could do morning if its early enough
Bickering with San makes him almost-late to work again, but he manages to clock in at the restaurant right on time. He turns around as he ties his apron on and barely keeps himself from groaning out loud as he spots Jeremy sweet-talking a table of old ladies across the dining room. That asshole wasn’t supposed to be working tonight; he must have traded a shift. The other server has been employed at the restaurant since high school, and seems to have a completely unfounded belief that he owns the place. Wooyoung does not have it in him to handle him tonight, but he’s going to have to. He’s just glad he remembered to take off the ring that morning.
He checks his phone about halfway through his shift and finds himself sighing in exasperation at San for the nth time.
San!!!
I’m just saying, if you aren’t supposed to eat sweets for breakfast
why are donuts and coffee such a popular combo
“What are you smiling at?” Jeremy’s voice interrupts. “I didn’t know you had friends.”
Wooyoung rolls his eyes. “I didn’t know you were so worried about my personal life.”
“I’m not,” Jeremy says, “just thought you were an emotionless robot when you weren’t talking to guests.”
That stings. Wooyoung was always an expressive kid, loud and sensitive and outspoken. But it feels like that got beaten out of him over time, and he can’t help but wonder how long he’s been so quiet and reserved. He’s just tired.
But he’s dying. Nothing fucking matters and he doesn’t have it in him to sit down and behave and hold his tongue anymore. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him, he doesn’t care if he makes things more awkward with Jeremy, he doesn’t care if his coworker thinks he’s a jerk.
“Well fortunately for me, Jeremy, I don’t care what you think because you’re just a fucking asshole,” he says, and then he brushes past him to check on an order in the kitchen.
It’s not much, but it feels great.
Wooyoung is a complete disaster the next morning, snoozing his alarm too many times and then waking up in a panic. He texts San a profuse apology and flies around his apartment like a bat out of hell, tripping over his work shoes and panicking when he gets a chest pain. San’s reply is kind and understanding, and he offers to get Wooyoung’s order while he waits. Thankfully the coffee shop is close to Wooyoung’s apartment, and he’s only a couple of minutes late by the time he arrives.
“I am so sorry,” he rushes out, collapsing into the chair across from San, “I swear I’m never late to things, this week has just been . . . a lot.”
San waves him off with a dimpled smile. He’s wearing an expensive looking but cozy cream sweater, and Wooyoung almost laughs at the contrast they must make as he’s wearing a worn out hoodie with a hole in the left sleeve that he likes to poke his thumb through.
“Understatement of the century, I’m sure,” San says. “I got your drink.”
“Oh bless you,” Wooyoung says, reaching for the iced americano and talking around the straw. So he’s already caved on the caffeine front- so what? “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” San says. “Should you be drinking that much caffeine?”
“No, seriously, how much- hey! No nagging, it’s my heart trying to explode and I can expedite it how I please,” Wooyoung says. “That’s my demand for this deal, okay? No trying to fix me or lecture about my . . . condition. We do not talk about it.”
“Demands, huh,” San says, looking amused. Wooyoung is starting to believe he’s never seen him with a different expression. “So no annulment, then, or . . .”
“Keep your voice down!” Wooyoung hisses, glancing around the coffee shop as if he knows anyone in the entire goddamn city. (He doesn’t). “Look, this is batshit fucking crazy, alright? I have no clue what you get out of this. I’m not stupid, I know this is an absurd combination of poor drunk choices and pity but I don’t really care. I’ve got nothing to lose. I just want to make sure you’ve thought this through.”
San leans back comfortably, looking pensive but completely unbothered by Wooyoung’s frantic swearing.
“I won’t lie,” he says after a moment, “I do feel bad for you. You’re right on that. We also were undeniably very drunk. Would I do that sober? I highly doubt it. But I’ve thought about this a lot and I can’t shake the feeling that maybe this was fate, as crazy as that sounds. I mean, I leave my apartment on the anniversary of my mother’s death for the first time since it happened, and I run into someone who's dying wish is that their mother and their brother will be cared for after they pass away. And in the strangest way possible, I can do something to help with very little effort.”
Wooyoung gapes at him. Fate? This man is willing to be married to a total stranger because he believes in fate?
What the hell, sure.
“Let’s say - hypothetically - I agreed to staying . . . married,” Wooyoung says primly, trying to gather some decorum. “What does that look like for you?”
“I’d have to file paperwork with my job,” San says. “They’d need to know we’re legally married for me to apply to purchase life insurance for a spouse. You’d have to fill out a form and designate your beneficiary, but it should be pretty simple, to be honest.”
“How much does that cost?” Wooyoung asks.
“That gets me to the next part,” San continues. “If you’re comfortable with it, I think I would like to tell just my family that I’m married. Might need a couple of photos to send, nothing further. If that works for you, I’m happy to cover the insurance cost.”
“Starting to feel a bit like a cam girl,” Wooyoung jokes, “except I’m sure they make more money than I do.”
“I definitely don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” San says, looking concerned, and Wooyoung laughs.
“Oh that’s not a problem, just an observation,” he reassures him. “Photos are easy. You get me life insurance, I’d send you a damn ass pic if you wanted.”
San’s ears turn very red. “That won’t be necessary,” he says, fidgeting with his cup. “Maybe just a photo or two that look like a date.”
“Sold,” Wooyoung says. “Anything else?”
“That should be all on my end,” San says. “It’s honestly pretty simple.”
And isn’t that the weirdest part of it all? Laying it all out here, it sounds like they’ll both move forward practically unaffected. Unless-
“Are you dating at all?” Wooyoung asks.
San shakes his head. “Too busy. Also not interested.”
“Same.” Wooyoung snorts. “Wow, we’re lame. I think you’ll have to be my emergency contact to sort things out with a death certificate.”
“That’s fine.”
“Shouldn’t end up needing to do much, sounds like when I go it’ll be sudden.”
“Anything I need to know about what your family will know?” San asks, and that sobers Wooyoung up.
“I’ll write my mom a letter,” he says after some thought. “Explaining everything. You shouldn’t have to deal with much there.”
“Are you going to tell anyone else?”
“Don’t really have anyone to tell,” Wooyoung shrugs. “I work too much. Personal stuff doesn’t come up with coworkers often. I may have to tell my landlord something is going on since it’s likely he’ll be the one to find me when I go. Anyone you’ll tell other than family?”
“I’ll have to tell HR. Gossip might get around, even if it isn’t supposed to, but that’s fine,” San says. “I’ll probably have to wear a ring at work.”
He says it so casually, Wooyoung actually laughs at how ridiculous it all is. “We’re absolutely insane for this,” he says. “You do know that, right?”
“Well,” San says, “as a wise man once said: I don’t think I’ve ever done anything crazy in my life. And I’m a bit sick of it, if I’m being honest.”
“I’ll ignore you calling yourself a wise man.”
“You just pointed it out.”
“I’ll ignore it starting now,” Wooyoung sniffs. “Alright. What info do you need from me?”
They end up chatting longer than Wooyoung expected, and he curses himself for having to rush to work once again. It’s a busy day, Sundays always are, and his restaurant shift flies by quickly. He’s on his way to the dance studio before he knows it, a text from San on his phone informing him that the proper amount of chaos is unfolding within the Choi family group chat.
San!!!
In a strange turn of events, my step-brother is defending me
You
???
Are you guys close?
San!!!
No, his mom married my dad right when I left for college
And he ended up at a different university after hs
You
That’s so cool he’s being nice!!
Maybe u can get to know each other better now
San!!!
???
He just told them he has a boyfriend??
You
STOP I’m cackling
“Wooyoung!” Mingi greets from behind the counter as Wooyoung enters. “You look happy today!”
Wooyoung isn’t sure what to make of that, so he just shrugs. “Where’s your worse half?” he asks.
“I think we both know he’s the better half,” Mingi says. “He’s grabbing some takeout, the beginner class was weirdly busy and he didn’t get time to eat after ‘cause he was filling out forms with new people.”
“Well tell him to slow down and take care of himself,” Wooyoung says absently, digging through his bag for his dance shoes.
“Careful,” Mingi teases, “he’ll start to think you care about him.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Wooyoung grumbles, realizing his mistake. He hadn’t really meant to say anything at all, but his mood is crashing as he thinks about Yunho overworking himself. Mingi is even worse, if what Wooyoung has heard is true, but he bites his tongue and heads to the practice room instead of lecturing him as well.
He thought about dying a lot earlier in the week, then he spent the last few days freaking out about the situation with San, but he hasn’t really wondered how it all happened until now. He’s so accustomed to just accepting what happens and adapting to it that he hasn't paused to consider exactly why he’s dying. Is it just a problem with his body? Is it stress? Has he actually burnt himself out so bad he’s killing himself and can’t reverse it? He didn’t even think to ask when they called him, the shock too much for him to think clearly, but he’s not sure he wants to know.
Part of him wants to sit and think about how it’s not fair, but a bigger part of him settles into a strange calm. Things are out of his hands. He’ll get the life insurance sorted, and then all he has to do is work for what he can until it’s over. No more big decisions, no more worrying about the future.
A weight lifts from his shoulders as he walks into the practice room.
Things stay so normal it actually makes Wooyoung feel a little insane. He wakes up, he teaches a couple classes at the dance studio, he goes home to shower, then he works a shift at the restaurant. Sometimes he does a “clopen” at the restaurant and then has a couple evening dance classes, sometimes he has half a day off and just a restaurant shift, but things stay the same overall. He gets paid, he budgets out the next two weeks, and he deposits the rest into his bank account with his mom. He takes a trip to the bank once a week to deposit his cash tips, and he meal preps to save as much money on food as possible. He gets the random chest pains he went to the doctor for and he stops being startled and holding his breath.
But there are some changes. He snarks back at Jeremy instead of just ignoring him, and it feels great. He finally asks to borrow a practice room to film some choreography he’s wanted to get out of his head. And he and San text.
Wooyoung is starting to feel as if they could be very good friends. He’s not an idiot, he knows San agreed to this at least mostly out of pity (and a lot of alcohol), but it turns out that they get along very well and conversation flows easily. There’s a barrier, of course; they don’t generally discuss anything that deep and Wooyoung avoids conversations about his condition, so he suspects they’ll never care about each other in a “normal” way as his death looms over their . . . friendship, but they joke around and complain about work in a way that makes Wooyoung laugh a lot more than he has in a while. It’s nice to have someone who knows what’s going on, even if they don’t talk about it. They get the paperwork filled out and Wooyoung feels the lightest he has in years once it’s all settled. It’s strange, because he’s dying, but he feels the best he thinks he ever has.
He expects talking with San to fizzle out once everything is sorted, but the opposite happens.
San!!!
Totally random but I have a ticket to an art exhibit if you want to go?
Was gonna go with one of our producers but he got tied up
You
I hope u mean the fun kind of tied up and not the work one
What kind of exhibit
San!!!
I’m scared of what kind of exhibit you think based off that response
You
Answer pending . . .
San!!!
It’s a wearable art exhibit
You
i’m in
In another lifetime, Wooyoung might have thought it was a date. Ironically, it being the scenario he’s in where he and San are married, he has no thoughts of it being any such thing. That’s the easy thing with San, he thinks - there’s no room for any confusion. They know exactly where they stand. San is fun to talk to, and he knows that Wooyoung might drop dead at any moment so they don’t need to pretend things are anything else.
Going to an art exhibit, however, is a bigger deal to Wooyoung purely because he loves fashion, so he finds himself in a tizzy over it.
You
Fashion emergency. I’m calling you
San!!!
i’m at work ??
You
I thought u corporate people didnt actually work
Jk fine
San!!!
I’ll call in a few
You
You’re the best
San!!!
Anything for my husband
Wooyoung snorts exasperatedly at that and throws his phone on his bed. For a corporate guy who says he’s never done anything crazy in his life, San sure is full of jokes. He’s respected Wooyoung’s request to leave the topic of his condition out of conversation, but he finds the marriage situation highly comical and seems to love reminding Wooyoung of that fact. It does make it all feel a little easier, though, so he can’t complain too much.
He’s rifling through his closet when his phone starts buzzing from a call. He emerges like a man lost in a cave, dazed and fumbling for his phone.
From the feedback, San is clearly driving when Wooyoung answers.
“I need to video call you,” he complains.
“Oh,” San says, “sorry, I just left work.”
He doesn’t sound sorry at all, but Wooyoung lets it slide. “I need help picking out what to wear.”
“You might be asking the wrong guy,” San says, “I have no clue when it comes to clothes. Other people basically have to tell me what to wear unless it’s a suit.”
“Are you wearing a suit tonight?” Wooyoung asks, exasperated.
“. . . no,” San says.
“As of?”
“Right now.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Did you call me just to bully me?”
“If you check the call logs, I think you’ll see that you actually called me,” Wooyoung retorts, wandering back into his closet with his phone. “Also I didn’t realise people who do boring financial stuff got to hang out with producers.”
“You got me, I actually have a side piece,” San says, and Wooyoung squawks in indignation.
“Not funny! You said you weren’t dating anyone!”
“Oh trust me, I’m not. This producer happens to be absurdly in love with his partner,” San says, and Wooyoung relaxes. “He really likes making his own clothes so I invited him first, but he’s got a recording session with a busier artist that he couldn’t skip.”
“He sounds cool,” Wooyoung muses, glancing over at a bin of forgotten clothes in the corner of his closet. “I used to do all sorts of crazy things to clothes to try and make them cool.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know. Chopping them up, sewing on patches, ruining good pairs of jeans,” Wooyoung laughs.
“Maybe you should try again!”
Wooyoung drags the bin out of the closet. “Yeah, I think I will.”
San offers to pick him up, and Wooyoung really can’t refuse a free ride, so he agrees. San pulls up outside of his dilapidated apartment in a sleek, fancy looking BMW, and Wooyoung almost refuses to get inside.
“You’re gonna get robbed around here,” he says, and San squints at him in disbelief.
“Just get in the damn car,” he says. “Do you want me to open the door for you?”
“Actually, now that you say it-” Wooyoung starts, but then San actually gets out of the car and he starts backtracking. “I was kidding!”
“Too late,” San says, opening the door. Wooyoung can feel his face flushing in embarrassment as he slides into the vehicle, suddenly paranoid about paint flakes. “Why do you look so much cooler than me?”
“I’m glad you think so, because I’m so nervous in this that I’m sweating,” Wooyoung says.
“You look great!” San encourages, getting back into the driver’s seat. “Why would you be nervous?”
“I upcycled the jacket myself,” Wooyoung admits, and San looks reassuringly shocked. “You talking about your friend reminded me of some old projects I didn’t finish, and I added a couple details so I could wear something I made.”
“That’s so cool!” San glances over, Wooyoung getting embarrassed again as the other man looks back and forth between the jacket and the road.
“Pay attention!” he lectures, trying to deflect.
“How did you get the paint to dry so fast?” San asks.
“Hair dryer,” Wooyoung says. “The heat melts it into more of a plastic so it doesn’t smear. It shouldn’t flake either, but your fancy car has me all paranoid.”
“That’s what vacuums are for,” San says, waving him off. “I didn’t wear a suit, you should be proud of me.”
Wooyoung finally looks over at him and can’t help but laugh. “San- a black turtleneck and slacks are not that far off from a suit.”
San’s face pulls into a full on pout , lips pursed and everything, but it just makes Wooyoung laugh harder. “It has short sleeves,” he insists, “and I don’t have a suit jacket.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll let it slide,” Wooyoung acquiesces. They pause at a stoplight, and San turns to glare at him.
“Don’t patronize me,” he says, “I’m trying my best.”
Wooyoung holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll be nice,” he says, and San throws him a nonplussed look but he does stop pouting.
The show is fun. San seems a bit lost but easily impressed, and Wooyoung gets a compliment on his jacket that has him walking on cloud nine while they wander around and look at displays. He pretends he knows anything about fashion or sewing, and San plays along as if he is learning well-kept trade secrets. The time flies, and when they finally leave the gallery Wooyoung finds himself unwilling to go home. He thinks about his bank account and toys with the idea of suggesting food, but San beats him to it.
“Do you want dinner? My treat.”
“Oh no,” Wooyoung protests, “you already invited me out-”
“Exactly,” San says, “I dragged you out for the evening and you probably missed dinner. Besides, what if I need to save the receipt and mail it to my parents in a frame? Look, I bought my husband dinner-”
“Shh!” Wooyoung hisses, stifling a laugh, “fine! But I’m paying next time.”
San looks extremely pleased at that, for some reason. “Sold,” he says.
They end up at some hole-in-the-wall burger joint that Wooyoung splurges on when he has a bad day. He almost doesn’t tell San that part because the other man clearly makes a lot more money than he does, but then he stubbornly refuses to be ashamed and he tells him about it in great detail.
“Some people go on shopping sprees, I buy myself a greasy burger,” he’s explaining, waving his around as if to demonstrate. “Sometimes I really break the bank and get a milkshake.”
He appreciates that San laughs instead of acting guilty or awkward. “What’s your milkshake of choice?” he asks.
“They actually do a mint chocolate chip one,” Wooyoung says, and San’s eyes get huge.
“I love mint chocolate!” he says.
“Right?” Wooyoung agrees, suddenly excited. “People always say it tastes like-”
“Toothpaste!” San finishes. “Oh my god, I have to introduce you to Hongjoong so you can defend me. He despises mint chocolate.”
“Hongjoong?” Woooyoung asks, amused.
“The producer. We’ve actually argued about mint chocolate several times. You know what? I think we need mint chocolate milkshakes.”
San abandons his burger to get up and order them milkshakes, and Wooyoung just shakes his head in disbelief. It’s quite a funny picture to watch someone who looks so much like a model bounce excitedly on the balls of his feet while ordering milkshakes at a beat up counter covered in a thick layer of grease, but from what little Wooyoung has learned about San, it feels like a very San moment. Maybe he finds himself crushing a little bit - so what? San’s cute and Wooyoung is dying and they’re quite literally married. It’s not that deep.
San sits across from him and smiles happily while sipping on his milkshake. Wooyoung tries his own and decides it’s never tasted better.