SING ME TO SLEEP, woosan

33

TW :: ptsd, blood, death.

"i literally hate you, choi san. i hate you, i hate you, i hate you so mu—"

"but how could you ever hate your singer boy, wooyo?" the teasing grin baring san's lips is so fucking aggravating. "don't lie to yourself, you'd never hate me. not even in a million years, you wouldn't."

eyes rolling to the back of his head, wooyoung reaches out for the napkins sprawled across the table. ignoring the entertained chuckles from besides him, he dabs the tissue against his chin, attempting to clean off the frosting that san ever so kindly smeared onto him just moments ago.

"look at me," san orders softly. despite his cluelessness, wooyoung obliges anyway, eyes widening when his chin is suddenly held between san's fingers. the elder's thumb carefully swipes over his skin, before thieving the napkin in his hold. at wooyoung's stricken expression, he clears up, clearing his throat, "sorry, you just— you didn't get it all."

"oh." wooyoung loosens up, yet simultaneously, he feels like he's on fire.

his legs over one of san's thighs does anything but help, and it's then he finally questions himself how he's even gotten in such a position, even more how san seems completely fine with it. perhaps it's just a spur of the moment kind of thing. either way, he doesn't think to move. it's comfortable.

"still hate you, though," wooyoung adds in a mutter; just like that, the usual lighthearted air between them has returned.

san snickers. "of course, you do."

it's strange how easy the silence which follows them is. wooyoung doesn't worry about what to say next because, god, they've spoken so much over the past few hours that he doesn't think it to be necessary. nor does wooyoung worry about what has already been said or done because tonight has been so carefree that he doesn't think it matters.

and neither does wooyoung worry about san, how he's feeling or what's on his mind because he knows him far too well to think anything unusual about him untying his shoelaces out of the blue.

"you tie your laces so ugly," san remarks, and wooyoung's features scrunch up in both confusion and disbelief.

"how is that possib— why does that even matter?"

"because you have your shoes on my lap without them tied into ribbons," san expresses disgustedly, propping wooyoung's leg up onto his knee. "so criminal of you, what the fuck."

wooyoung grins widely. "guess it's just my fate, sannie. 'cause i'm not a hitman for nothing, am i?"

"are hitmen meant to be this cute?"

it seems like wooyoung is the only one who is taken back by... whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. meanwhile, san casually ties the latter's shoelaces the proper way, as if the words never left his mouth to begin with.

"there you go," san announces, upon having completed his determined task.

"why do you say that so much?" wooyoung blurts out, amidst his internal bewilderment. and immediately, panic floods him. shit, shit, shi—

"hm?" san's eyebrow raises at the boy. "say what?"

cheeks burning, wooyoung shakes his head. "n-nothing. never mind, i-it's not— it's not anything important, so..."

"call you cute, i'm guessing?" san presses on further, regardless of wooyoung's refusal. the latter doesn't respond, he physically can't, but just to his luck, the colour rising to his cheeks does so on his behalf. "do i take that as a yes?"