(no subject)
kpopv fills
rap's black cat
g-dragon/tao, pg-13, 610ⓦ
Note: Underground hip-hop AU; takes place in the early 2000s (but everyone is legal). For hakkais_shadow for kpopv ( original post).
Darkness and sound envelop Zitao like water, closing over his head the minute he ducks into Slugger. He’s early: it’s barely dark outside, but open mic nights always draw an early crowd. The lights drench everyone’s faces in a blooming fuchsia. They’re in between performers when he gets to the sign-ups - a single sheet, unlined, so that a dozen messy scrawls slant over the page. He takes the pen, etches out a hwang jitao at the bottom of the page, and is giving the list a once-over when he hears a familiar melody and looks up.
The person on stage is skinny, eyes mostly hidden over a shock of white-blond hair, rapping to “This Love,” voice distinctly sharp and nasal on his As. He’s almost vibrating with energy, barely stands still for more than a minute on the break before he’s leaping back into motion. The white stage lights arc over the crown of his head when he throws his head back, shouts into the microphone. That kind of stage presence fills the stage. He only tears his eyes away when someone jostles his elbow, whirls around to come face to face with a lanky stranger. “Are you done with that?” he repeats, at Zitao’s blank face, and points to the sign-up sheet.
The performance ends as he’s fumbling to hand it off, and Zitao almost misses him stepping down off the stage, handing the microphone off to the MC, who says, “Give it up for G-Dragon-” Zitao loses him in the crowd, the subsequent chaos of set-up. It isn’t until Zitao’s on stage, that he catches sight of him, in a corner with two other guys. G-Dragon, Zitao thinks, sounding out the words clumsily, as “Do Dat” starts to play. Almost as if on cue, G-Dragon looks up, and Zitao almost stutters on his opening verse.
It’s the first time he’s been eager to leave the stage. G-Dragon’s gone when he reaches the table, but when he scans the room again, he catches a flash of white hair, nearly at the door, and immediately starts to push forward, edging sideways between bodies until he’s through, breathless. The cool summer air feels like a balm, and when he looks around, he’s there: passing around a cigarette, still flanked by his friends, both of them are a good head taller than him.
“Hey,” Zitao offers. Then, “I’m Zitao,” a little doggedly. “I saw you performing earlier; you were really good.”
One of them - long nose, narrow face - laughs a little, though not unkindly. Zitao feels his face heat anyway, but then he nudges G-Dragon, who nods at Zitao. “Thanks. I’m GD.”
“Are you performing anywhere else this week?” Zitao asks.
GD looks at him for a moment, like he’s sizing him up. “I’ll be at Master Plan on Sunday,” he says, finally, mouth turning up in a faint smile when he sees Zitao’s expression change. Holy shit, he thinks, barely manages not to say it aloud.
“I’ll see you there, then.” Zitao fumbles a little. “I mean-I’ll go see you.”
“Sure,” he says. Zitao stands still, hesitating, before he turns to head back into the club. “Hey,” GD calls, when he’s a few steps away. His expression is halfway between pleased and amused at Zitao’s abrupt about-face. “You weren’t half bad, either.”
Zitao’s grin is immediate, ear-splitting, as he turns back around. “Oppa, I’m your fan too,” his friend’s mimicking, as he walks away, and the last thing he hears before he’s back inside is GD, voice rising in a laugh as he says, “Shut up, Seunghyun-”
venn diagram
minho/key, g, 770ⓦ
Note: Takes place during Minho's drama filming and Key's musical. For nautisch for kpopv ( original post).
Jonghyun is already sitting through commercials, curled up with his phone nested in his lap, when Kibum wanders into the kitchen. He pours himself a cup of water with what’s left in the boiler, already lukewarm, then sidles into the living room. There’s a leg’s length of space left on the couch. Kibum settles in next to him, tunnelling a foot under Jonghyun’s legs for warmth.
For the most part, Minho’s parts alternate between rattling off tongue-twisting medical terms and close-ups of his face, long lashes and big brown fawn eyes: the money shot, Kibum thinks, then pulls out his phone. Kim Sungwoo, you don’t look too ugly today?
It takes Minho nearly the rest of the show to reply. Thanks, he says - no pretence, all sincerity. Kibum snorts, thumbs the screen when it fades. He erases his first attempt at a reply, settles on: what are you doing?
On break from filming, rehearsing now is Minho’s reply, followed by a picture of him in the ER. It’s one of Minho’s more sterile pictures - just him in his scrubs, hovering on the edge of the frame, a few staff standing around in thick puffy jackets behind him. The shapeless blue clothes don’t do him any favours, but his smile’s always the same: wide and beguilingly simple.
He looks at home: fatigued but unflaggingly cheerful. Content. His collar of his shirt is slightly askew, the kind of thing Kibum would normally reach out and fix. Kibum closes the picture after a long minute, types brusquely: don’t come back so late today, you woke me up last time.
Okay, Minho replies, amicably. A pause, and then a quick sorry, like he knew Kibum didn’t want him to apologise. The next two texts come in one after another, crowding out the apology: I have to go, see you later.
Next to him, Jonghyun laughs abruptly, still watching. Bye, Kibum types, then drops his phone to tap Jonghyun on the shoulder repeatedly, demanding, “Wait, I missed it, what happened-”
Jonghyun flips through channels half-heartedly after the episode is over, then turns off the TV. He smells faintly of hanyak when he leans over, tossing the remote onto the table and leaning back to face Kibum, cheek pillowed against the couch. “Need to go over lines?” Jonghyun says.
Kibum looks down at Jonghyun, contemplating for a moment. Jonghyun probably wasn’t sleeping anytime soon, but his voice sounded hoarse. “No,” he says, finally. “I’m fine, go home.”
He watches Jonghyun gather his things - phone, keys, wallet. “Jacket,” Kibum reminds him, out of habit, and Jonghyun grins sheepishly as he snags it, waves with two fingers. The auto-lock clicks as the door closes, and the house settles into silence.
He picks his phone back up, unlocks it. His conversation with Minho’s still open, and on impulse he opens up the photo again, taps save.
He doesn’t see Minho until early afternoon the next day, when he comes out of his room looking like he’s been recently exhumed. So that’s still the same, he thinks. “You’re up early,” he remarks, as Minho sits down. Minho turns around, squinting at the microwave to read the time. “It’s 1,” he adds, helpfully, when Minho doesn’t turn back around.
“Oh.” Minho frowns a little, still groggy. He combs his fingers through his hair. “Is it time?” he asks, then tries to clarify: “For-your?”
Kibum takes pity on him. “Yeah, soon. Friday matinee.” He pushes his glasses up, sliding his iPad onto the table to look at Minho properly. He looks like he could sleep for days still, his shirt and sweats equally worn. His gaze slides down to the ridge of his Adam’s apple, then away. It feels like his throat’s closed up when he speaks. “You want coffee?”
“That’s okay.” Minho seems on the verge of falling into a stupor, watching dumbly as Kibum fiddles with the tag of his tea sachet. They both startle when Kibum’s phone goes off, the kitschy little jingle he’s set for the managers.
Minho gets up when he does. “Good luck,” he says, stifling a yawn, then bumps Kibum’s shoulder. “One for all and all for one, and all that, D’Artagnan.”
Kibum laughs despite himself, knocking his elbow against Minho’s. “Go back to sleep,” he says, and Minho throws him a salute, leaning against the door of his room as Kibum puts on his shoes. In the doorway, he turns back, hand on the door handle. “See you later?” he asks.
“You might have to wake me up,” Minho says, then tilts him a smile. “But yeah, I will.”
one for the road
leo/hyuk, pg-13, 855ⓦ
Note: For the_resolver for kpopv ( original post).
“Last chance,” Sanghyuk says, dropping heavily onto the frame of the open passenger window. He flashes his teeth, waving, when Taekwoon startles.
“For what?” Taekwoon asks, only because Sanghyuk, leaning into the car and grinning wide, thrumming with excitement, wants him to.
“For you to tell me if you’re a serial killer,” he says cheerfully. He opens the door, sliding in as Taekwoon reaches for his keys, turning the ignition. Sanghyuk leans through the window again, waving to his mother, and Taekwoon bobs his head in a bow before he grabs the back of Sanghyuk’s jacket and yanks him back into the seat.
“Be good,” Taekwoon says, eyes fixed on the road. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sanghyuk still with the kind of earnest obedience that means he’ll be squirming out of his seat in another ten minutes. It makes it easier to default to the familiar. He clears his throat, reaching over to punch open the glove compartment. The jewel cases rattle with the movement. “You can pick the music.”
He hasn’t, strictly speaking, spent a lot of time with Sanghyuk. In first year, Hakyeon, his roommate, had introduced him as a family friend. At seventeen, Sanghyuk was gangly and shy, with the standard high school haircut and, when he let it loose, a startlingly roguish grin. “Stop scaring him,” Hakyeon chastised, when Sanghyuk had left the room. “He likes you.”
Now Sanghyuk’s rifling through his CDs, offering commentary - “This is old,” he says, laughing, when he finds Soul Tree, then pulls another out. “Hyung’s favourite,” Sanghyuk says cheerfully, opening the case.
It doesn’t strike Taekwoon as odd until Trey Songz starts playing. He glances over at Sanghyuk, who notices, looking up from where he’s replacing the case. “What?” he asks. “It is, right?”
“No,” Taekwoon mumbles. “I forgot I told you that.”
Sanghyuk had a habit of texting him erratically - sometimes in between school and hagwon, other times when he was playing or eating. Hyung, I watched that movie you told me about! I liked it! he’d send while Taekwoon was in class, or: hyung, are you awake? I’m studying still ㅠㅠㅠㅠ and responded to all of Taekwoon’s texts with puppyish enthusiasm. “Cute kid,” Hakyeon sighed wistfully, hooking his chin over Taekwoon’s shoulder. “Never calls.”
So when Sanghyuk mentioned going to Seoul, it felt natural to offer - I’m driving up to visit family that weekend, he texted. Do you need a ride? Sanghyuk’s house was an hour away, in Daejeon. When he pressed the buzzer, Sanghyuk barely chirped a hello before he was tugging him in by the sleeve. It felt weirdly familiar to see Sanghyuk’s house - the piano, his school uniform hung up haphazardly on his door and a scuffed football in the corner of his room. In the kitchen, he greeted Sanghyuk’s mother, who stopped packing kimbap long enough to show him Sanghyuk’s baby pictures. “Mom,” Sanghyuk groaned, but otherwise didn’t protest, too busy stealing food.
Sanghyuk’s talkative once he’s settled in, comfortable. For the first hour, he rambles on about school, his friends. “Did you get taller?” Taekwoon blurts, suddenly, just as Sanghyuk’s finished an anecdote, and Sanghyuk laughs.
“Yeah, I guess,” he says, sounding shy but pleased. He tugs at the sleeve of his jumper, pulling it down over his palm. “I had to get a new uniform.” He shifts in his seat so that he’s facing Taekwoon properly. “What about you?”
“I’m the same height,” Taekwoon deadpans, and Sanghyuk’s silent for a moment before he bursts into laughter, shoving Taekwoon’s shoulder. “I’m driving,” Taekwoon reminds him, but Sanghyuk’s laughing too hard to notice.
“Was that a joke?” he says, in between giggles. “Wow, Jung Taekwoon.”
Sanghyuk’s laughter is infectious, bubbling over. Taekwoon bites his lip and buries his smile in the back of his hand. “I’m okay,” Taekwoon says, once Sanghyuk’s calmed down, leaning back in his seat. “Busy.” He flicks on the blinker, changes lanes. “Hakyeon said he misses you.”
Sanghyuk grins, self-satisfied. “Tell him I don’t miss him at all.” He starts unpacking his kimbap.
“Tell him yourself,” Taekwoon chides, but takes the kimbap Sanghyuk hands him. “Thanks,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” Sanghyuk says, then adds: “I made them myself,” the kind of innocuous lie that was part and parcel of Sanghyuk’s humour. When the song changes, he barely skips a beat before he throws a hand up, shouting the lyrics: “I wouldn’t be me if I ain’t get a little nasty-”
They reach Seoul in another hour and a half. “Here’s fine,” Sanghyuk says, when the GPS takes Taekwoon down a side street. He leans over the back of his seat to grab his duffel, hitches his backpack over his shoulder. “Thanks, hyung,” he says, but doesn’t move to get out.
“Sure,” Taekwoon says, and then he’s dealt an armful of Sanghyuk, crashing into him in a violent hug before Sanghyuk’s leaping out of the car, yanking his duffel bag along with him. Dazed, Taekwoon watches Sanghyuk find the right house, press the buzzer. He only turns back around when the door swings open, catching Taekwoon’s eye. He grins and waves.
rap's black cat
g-dragon/tao, pg-13, 610ⓦ
Note: Underground hip-hop AU; takes place in the early 2000s (but everyone is legal). For hakkais_shadow for kpopv ( original post).
Darkness and sound envelop Zitao like water, closing over his head the minute he ducks into Slugger. He’s early: it’s barely dark outside, but open mic nights always draw an early crowd. The lights drench everyone’s faces in a blooming fuchsia. They’re in between performers when he gets to the sign-ups - a single sheet, unlined, so that a dozen messy scrawls slant over the page. He takes the pen, etches out a hwang jitao at the bottom of the page, and is giving the list a once-over when he hears a familiar melody and looks up.
The person on stage is skinny, eyes mostly hidden over a shock of white-blond hair, rapping to “This Love,” voice distinctly sharp and nasal on his As. He’s almost vibrating with energy, barely stands still for more than a minute on the break before he’s leaping back into motion. The white stage lights arc over the crown of his head when he throws his head back, shouts into the microphone. That kind of stage presence fills the stage. He only tears his eyes away when someone jostles his elbow, whirls around to come face to face with a lanky stranger. “Are you done with that?” he repeats, at Zitao’s blank face, and points to the sign-up sheet.
The performance ends as he’s fumbling to hand it off, and Zitao almost misses him stepping down off the stage, handing the microphone off to the MC, who says, “Give it up for G-Dragon-” Zitao loses him in the crowd, the subsequent chaos of set-up. It isn’t until Zitao’s on stage, that he catches sight of him, in a corner with two other guys. G-Dragon, Zitao thinks, sounding out the words clumsily, as “Do Dat” starts to play. Almost as if on cue, G-Dragon looks up, and Zitao almost stutters on his opening verse.
It’s the first time he’s been eager to leave the stage. G-Dragon’s gone when he reaches the table, but when he scans the room again, he catches a flash of white hair, nearly at the door, and immediately starts to push forward, edging sideways between bodies until he’s through, breathless. The cool summer air feels like a balm, and when he looks around, he’s there: passing around a cigarette, still flanked by his friends, both of them are a good head taller than him.
“Hey,” Zitao offers. Then, “I’m Zitao,” a little doggedly. “I saw you performing earlier; you were really good.”
One of them - long nose, narrow face - laughs a little, though not unkindly. Zitao feels his face heat anyway, but then he nudges G-Dragon, who nods at Zitao. “Thanks. I’m GD.”
“Are you performing anywhere else this week?” Zitao asks.
GD looks at him for a moment, like he’s sizing him up. “I’ll be at Master Plan on Sunday,” he says, finally, mouth turning up in a faint smile when he sees Zitao’s expression change. Holy shit, he thinks, barely manages not to say it aloud.
“I’ll see you there, then.” Zitao fumbles a little. “I mean-I’ll go see you.”
“Sure,” he says. Zitao stands still, hesitating, before he turns to head back into the club. “Hey,” GD calls, when he’s a few steps away. His expression is halfway between pleased and amused at Zitao’s abrupt about-face. “You weren’t half bad, either.”
Zitao’s grin is immediate, ear-splitting, as he turns back around. “Oppa, I’m your fan too,” his friend’s mimicking, as he walks away, and the last thing he hears before he’s back inside is GD, voice rising in a laugh as he says, “Shut up, Seunghyun-”
venn diagram
minho/key, g, 770ⓦ
Note: Takes place during Minho's drama filming and Key's musical. For nautisch for kpopv ( original post).
Jonghyun is already sitting through commercials, curled up with his phone nested in his lap, when Kibum wanders into the kitchen. He pours himself a cup of water with what’s left in the boiler, already lukewarm, then sidles into the living room. There’s a leg’s length of space left on the couch. Kibum settles in next to him, tunnelling a foot under Jonghyun’s legs for warmth.
For the most part, Minho’s parts alternate between rattling off tongue-twisting medical terms and close-ups of his face, long lashes and big brown fawn eyes: the money shot, Kibum thinks, then pulls out his phone. Kim Sungwoo, you don’t look too ugly today?
It takes Minho nearly the rest of the show to reply. Thanks, he says - no pretence, all sincerity. Kibum snorts, thumbs the screen when it fades. He erases his first attempt at a reply, settles on: what are you doing?
On break from filming, rehearsing now is Minho’s reply, followed by a picture of him in the ER. It’s one of Minho’s more sterile pictures - just him in his scrubs, hovering on the edge of the frame, a few staff standing around in thick puffy jackets behind him. The shapeless blue clothes don’t do him any favours, but his smile’s always the same: wide and beguilingly simple.
He looks at home: fatigued but unflaggingly cheerful. Content. His collar of his shirt is slightly askew, the kind of thing Kibum would normally reach out and fix. Kibum closes the picture after a long minute, types brusquely: don’t come back so late today, you woke me up last time.
Okay, Minho replies, amicably. A pause, and then a quick sorry, like he knew Kibum didn’t want him to apologise. The next two texts come in one after another, crowding out the apology: I have to go, see you later.
Next to him, Jonghyun laughs abruptly, still watching. Bye, Kibum types, then drops his phone to tap Jonghyun on the shoulder repeatedly, demanding, “Wait, I missed it, what happened-”
Jonghyun flips through channels half-heartedly after the episode is over, then turns off the TV. He smells faintly of hanyak when he leans over, tossing the remote onto the table and leaning back to face Kibum, cheek pillowed against the couch. “Need to go over lines?” Jonghyun says.
Kibum looks down at Jonghyun, contemplating for a moment. Jonghyun probably wasn’t sleeping anytime soon, but his voice sounded hoarse. “No,” he says, finally. “I’m fine, go home.”
He watches Jonghyun gather his things - phone, keys, wallet. “Jacket,” Kibum reminds him, out of habit, and Jonghyun grins sheepishly as he snags it, waves with two fingers. The auto-lock clicks as the door closes, and the house settles into silence.
He picks his phone back up, unlocks it. His conversation with Minho’s still open, and on impulse he opens up the photo again, taps save.
He doesn’t see Minho until early afternoon the next day, when he comes out of his room looking like he’s been recently exhumed. So that’s still the same, he thinks. “You’re up early,” he remarks, as Minho sits down. Minho turns around, squinting at the microwave to read the time. “It’s 1,” he adds, helpfully, when Minho doesn’t turn back around.
“Oh.” Minho frowns a little, still groggy. He combs his fingers through his hair. “Is it time?” he asks, then tries to clarify: “For-your?”
Kibum takes pity on him. “Yeah, soon. Friday matinee.” He pushes his glasses up, sliding his iPad onto the table to look at Minho properly. He looks like he could sleep for days still, his shirt and sweats equally worn. His gaze slides down to the ridge of his Adam’s apple, then away. It feels like his throat’s closed up when he speaks. “You want coffee?”
“That’s okay.” Minho seems on the verge of falling into a stupor, watching dumbly as Kibum fiddles with the tag of his tea sachet. They both startle when Kibum’s phone goes off, the kitschy little jingle he’s set for the managers.
Minho gets up when he does. “Good luck,” he says, stifling a yawn, then bumps Kibum’s shoulder. “One for all and all for one, and all that, D’Artagnan.”
Kibum laughs despite himself, knocking his elbow against Minho’s. “Go back to sleep,” he says, and Minho throws him a salute, leaning against the door of his room as Kibum puts on his shoes. In the doorway, he turns back, hand on the door handle. “See you later?” he asks.
“You might have to wake me up,” Minho says, then tilts him a smile. “But yeah, I will.”
one for the road
leo/hyuk, pg-13, 855ⓦ
Note: For the_resolver for kpopv ( original post).
“Last chance,” Sanghyuk says, dropping heavily onto the frame of the open passenger window. He flashes his teeth, waving, when Taekwoon startles.
“For what?” Taekwoon asks, only because Sanghyuk, leaning into the car and grinning wide, thrumming with excitement, wants him to.
“For you to tell me if you’re a serial killer,” he says cheerfully. He opens the door, sliding in as Taekwoon reaches for his keys, turning the ignition. Sanghyuk leans through the window again, waving to his mother, and Taekwoon bobs his head in a bow before he grabs the back of Sanghyuk’s jacket and yanks him back into the seat.
“Be good,” Taekwoon says, eyes fixed on the road. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sanghyuk still with the kind of earnest obedience that means he’ll be squirming out of his seat in another ten minutes. It makes it easier to default to the familiar. He clears his throat, reaching over to punch open the glove compartment. The jewel cases rattle with the movement. “You can pick the music.”
He hasn’t, strictly speaking, spent a lot of time with Sanghyuk. In first year, Hakyeon, his roommate, had introduced him as a family friend. At seventeen, Sanghyuk was gangly and shy, with the standard high school haircut and, when he let it loose, a startlingly roguish grin. “Stop scaring him,” Hakyeon chastised, when Sanghyuk had left the room. “He likes you.”
Now Sanghyuk’s rifling through his CDs, offering commentary - “This is old,” he says, laughing, when he finds Soul Tree, then pulls another out. “Hyung’s favourite,” Sanghyuk says cheerfully, opening the case.
It doesn’t strike Taekwoon as odd until Trey Songz starts playing. He glances over at Sanghyuk, who notices, looking up from where he’s replacing the case. “What?” he asks. “It is, right?”
“No,” Taekwoon mumbles. “I forgot I told you that.”
Sanghyuk had a habit of texting him erratically - sometimes in between school and hagwon, other times when he was playing or eating. Hyung, I watched that movie you told me about! I liked it! he’d send while Taekwoon was in class, or: hyung, are you awake? I’m studying still ㅠㅠㅠㅠ and responded to all of Taekwoon’s texts with puppyish enthusiasm. “Cute kid,” Hakyeon sighed wistfully, hooking his chin over Taekwoon’s shoulder. “Never calls.”
So when Sanghyuk mentioned going to Seoul, it felt natural to offer - I’m driving up to visit family that weekend, he texted. Do you need a ride? Sanghyuk’s house was an hour away, in Daejeon. When he pressed the buzzer, Sanghyuk barely chirped a hello before he was tugging him in by the sleeve. It felt weirdly familiar to see Sanghyuk’s house - the piano, his school uniform hung up haphazardly on his door and a scuffed football in the corner of his room. In the kitchen, he greeted Sanghyuk’s mother, who stopped packing kimbap long enough to show him Sanghyuk’s baby pictures. “Mom,” Sanghyuk groaned, but otherwise didn’t protest, too busy stealing food.
Sanghyuk’s talkative once he’s settled in, comfortable. For the first hour, he rambles on about school, his friends. “Did you get taller?” Taekwoon blurts, suddenly, just as Sanghyuk’s finished an anecdote, and Sanghyuk laughs.
“Yeah, I guess,” he says, sounding shy but pleased. He tugs at the sleeve of his jumper, pulling it down over his palm. “I had to get a new uniform.” He shifts in his seat so that he’s facing Taekwoon properly. “What about you?”
“I’m the same height,” Taekwoon deadpans, and Sanghyuk’s silent for a moment before he bursts into laughter, shoving Taekwoon’s shoulder. “I’m driving,” Taekwoon reminds him, but Sanghyuk’s laughing too hard to notice.
“Was that a joke?” he says, in between giggles. “Wow, Jung Taekwoon.”
Sanghyuk’s laughter is infectious, bubbling over. Taekwoon bites his lip and buries his smile in the back of his hand. “I’m okay,” Taekwoon says, once Sanghyuk’s calmed down, leaning back in his seat. “Busy.” He flicks on the blinker, changes lanes. “Hakyeon said he misses you.”
Sanghyuk grins, self-satisfied. “Tell him I don’t miss him at all.” He starts unpacking his kimbap.
“Tell him yourself,” Taekwoon chides, but takes the kimbap Sanghyuk hands him. “Thanks,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” Sanghyuk says, then adds: “I made them myself,” the kind of innocuous lie that was part and parcel of Sanghyuk’s humour. When the song changes, he barely skips a beat before he throws a hand up, shouting the lyrics: “I wouldn’t be me if I ain’t get a little nasty-”
They reach Seoul in another hour and a half. “Here’s fine,” Sanghyuk says, when the GPS takes Taekwoon down a side street. He leans over the back of his seat to grab his duffel, hitches his backpack over his shoulder. “Thanks, hyung,” he says, but doesn’t move to get out.
“Sure,” Taekwoon says, and then he’s dealt an armful of Sanghyuk, crashing into him in a violent hug before Sanghyuk’s leaping out of the car, yanking his duffel bag along with him. Dazed, Taekwoon watches Sanghyuk find the right house, press the buzzer. He only turns back around when the door swings open, catching Taekwoon’s eye. He grins and waves.