Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Jeonghan Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: Exes, Post-breakup, Streamer!Wonwoo, Salaryman!Jeonghan, Unhappy ending (I'm sorry) Permission to remix: Yes
***
Wonwoo runs into Jeonghan in the convenience store by his apartment. It makes sense in a way, since their shared inability to maintain a balanced, healthy diet was one of the only consistencies throughout their relationship.
“Wonungie,” Jeonghan coos, looking genuinely delighted to see him. It makes something sour curdle in Wonwoo’s stomach. His apartment is just down the street from Jeonghan’s office— the location had been one of the main reasons they’d chosen it last year, when they were looking for a place to move in together. Wonwoo’s work is entirely remote, so it made sense at the time for them to choose somewhere more convenient for Jeonghan. Then everything fell apart, and Jeonghan moved out, and Wonwoo found himself trapped in Jeonghan’s stomping grounds.
It’s honestly a miracle that they’ve made it this long without running into each other. Wonwoo is usually careful to avoid going out during commute, lunch, or dinner specifically for that reason. But he’s coming off of a twenty-four-hour subathon stream, sleep deprived and lightheaded, and considerations like is it lunch hour for people with regular office jobs? hadn’t really been at the top of his mind when he stumbled outside in search of sustenance.
“Hi, hyung,” Wonwoo replies. He sounds tired, because he is. Less than an hour ago he was wearing a cat ear headband and playing Fall Guys with his chat, struggling to keep up with the flood of Wonyangie~ redeems. His throat is still hoarse from all the meowing.
For the most part, Wonwoo enjoys his streams and his chat and the community he’s built, and he isn’t ashamed of his choice of career. But he’s just spent the entire past day playing games, and he doesn’t have the time, or the energy, for whatever other games Jeonghan might be cooking up.
“It’s been a while,” Jeonghan says. He rakes his eyes over Wonwoo’s body. “You look good.”
Wonwoo does not look good. He’s wearing a sweatshirt with a kimchi stain on it. His hair is greasy beneath the beanie he pulled on in an attempt at propriety. His eyes are dry, and his glasses do little to hide the dark bruises below them. He looks like shit, especially compared to Jeonghan, who is dressed in one of the tailored suits he wears for his fancy finance job.
When Wonwoo doesn’t immediately reply, Jeonghan tilts his head slightly. Contemplating, calculating.
“Wanna go get some real food?” he asks, nodding at the roll of convenience store gimbap in Wonwoo’s hand. The amusement that’s been hovering around the corner of his lips finally blooms into a smile. “Hyung will buy.”
Wonwoo tightens his grip on the gimbap, fingers crumpling the plastic. “No,” he says. “I’m fine.”
“Hm?” Jeonghan’s smile only gets wider. He looks at Wonwoo like he’s a puzzle to figure out, a Rubik’s Cube that can be solved if Jeonghan just prods in the right places. “Don’t you think it would be nice? We could go to that Japanese place you like.”
The problem is that Wonwoo knows Jeonghan’s not being malicious. He isn’t suggesting they go to the upscale restaurant that used to be their default date spot because he wants to embarrass Wonwoo in all his stained-sweatshirt glory. No, Jeonghan has some sort of other angle here. Perhaps he really does just want to catch up, or pretend like they can be friends, or make sure that Wonwoo spends more time outside the apartment than the five minutes it takes to walk to the convenience store and back.
But it doesn’t matter, because it isn’t Jeonghan’s fucking job to stage silly mind games just to make sure his pathetic ex-boyfriend is still functioning like a human being.
“Jeonghan-ah.” Wonwoo keeps his voice quiet, as gentle as he can through the cloud of exhaustion. “Stop.”
Jeonghan freezes. It should feel like a victory, but Wonwoo would rather meow on stream a thousand more times than have to reckon with the knowledge that he’s the reason Jeonghan’s smile just turned brittle enough to shatter.
“You don’t have time to eat out,” Wonwoo continues. “It’s Thursday, right? You have your weekly standup with the Sales Department in—” Wonwoo pulls out his phone, squinting at the lockscreen. “Approximately twelve minutes.”
“Ah.” Jeonghan blinks, then blinks again. Wonwoo has managed to make him speechless, yet another hollow victory. When Jeonghan speaks again, his voice is softer. “Wah, you’re right. You still know me so well, Wonungie.” He laughs, and it’s tinged with something almost like nostalgia, or maybe regret.
Wonwoo musters up a smile. A year and a half of dating, six months of separation, and this is where he’s ended up: taking critical damage in a fucking GS25. He can practically see his health bar flagging, the last little heart flickering out of existence.
“That’s not knowing you, that’s just knowing your schedule.” There’s an important difference there, but Wonwoo hadn’t figured it out until too late, after things had already ended.
Wonwoo leans over and takes the plastic dosirak from Jeonghan’s hands, then grabs a canned coffee and a lemonade from the drink cooler. He plops his haul down on the front counter before Jeonghan has a chance to protest, tapping his phone to pay.
“Here.” Wonwoo hands Jeonghan’s dosirak back over, along with the coffee. “Lunch is on me.”
Jeonghan’s expression is unreadable as he accepts the offering. They’ve come to a junction now, passing through the door and out into the street. Jeonghan’s office is to the left, Wonwoo’s apartment down the street to the right.
“Thanks, Wonwoo-yah,” Jeonghan says. This time when he smiles, there aren’t any secrets tucked away in the corners. It’s the most honest Wonwoo has seen him in a long time. “Next time I’ll pay, okay?”
For half a second, Wonwoo sees an ending screen flicker before him.
No lives left. Would you like to restart?
He blinks the vision away, banishing it to the farthest recesses of his mind. After all, part of being a gamer is knowing when to give up. Some things just aren’t meant to be, and some paths will only ever lead to heartbreak.
“Sure,” he says, the lie blatant on his lips. He’s never been any good at these kinds of games, the ones that Jeonghan so often plays. He gives a half-bow, overly formal, so that he doesn’t have to see Jeonghan’s expression. When he turns away, Jeonghan doesn’t call out after him. Wonwoo swallows his disappointment. Some things never change.
[FILL] game boys
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: Exes, Post-breakup, Streamer!Wonwoo, Salaryman!Jeonghan, Unhappy ending (I'm sorry)
Permission to remix: Yes
***
Wonwoo runs into Jeonghan in the convenience store by his apartment. It makes sense in a way, since their shared inability to maintain a balanced, healthy diet was one of the only consistencies throughout their relationship.
“Wonungie,” Jeonghan coos, looking genuinely delighted to see him. It makes something sour curdle in Wonwoo’s stomach. His apartment is just down the street from Jeonghan’s office— the location had been one of the main reasons they’d chosen it last year, when they were looking for a place to move in together. Wonwoo’s work is entirely remote, so it made sense at the time for them to choose somewhere more convenient for Jeonghan. Then everything fell apart, and Jeonghan moved out, and Wonwoo found himself trapped in Jeonghan’s stomping grounds.
It’s honestly a miracle that they’ve made it this long without running into each other. Wonwoo is usually careful to avoid going out during commute, lunch, or dinner specifically for that reason. But he’s coming off of a twenty-four-hour subathon stream, sleep deprived and lightheaded, and considerations like is it lunch hour for people with regular office jobs? hadn’t really been at the top of his mind when he stumbled outside in search of sustenance.
“Hi, hyung,” Wonwoo replies. He sounds tired, because he is. Less than an hour ago he was wearing a cat ear headband and playing Fall Guys with his chat, struggling to keep up with the flood of Wonyangie~ redeems. His throat is still hoarse from all the meowing.
For the most part, Wonwoo enjoys his streams and his chat and the community he’s built, and he isn’t ashamed of his choice of career. But he’s just spent the entire past day playing games, and he doesn’t have the time, or the energy, for whatever other games Jeonghan might be cooking up.
“It’s been a while,” Jeonghan says. He rakes his eyes over Wonwoo’s body. “You look good.”
Wonwoo does not look good. He’s wearing a sweatshirt with a kimchi stain on it. His hair is greasy beneath the beanie he pulled on in an attempt at propriety. His eyes are dry, and his glasses do little to hide the dark bruises below them. He looks like shit, especially compared to Jeonghan, who is dressed in one of the tailored suits he wears for his fancy finance job.
When Wonwoo doesn’t immediately reply, Jeonghan tilts his head slightly. Contemplating, calculating.
“Wanna go get some real food?” he asks, nodding at the roll of convenience store gimbap in Wonwoo’s hand. The amusement that’s been hovering around the corner of his lips finally blooms into a smile. “Hyung will buy.”
Wonwoo tightens his grip on the gimbap, fingers crumpling the plastic. “No,” he says. “I’m fine.”
“Hm?” Jeonghan’s smile only gets wider. He looks at Wonwoo like he’s a puzzle to figure out, a Rubik’s Cube that can be solved if Jeonghan just prods in the right places. “Don’t you think it would be nice? We could go to that Japanese place you like.”
The problem is that Wonwoo knows Jeonghan’s not being malicious. He isn’t suggesting they go to the upscale restaurant that used to be their default date spot because he wants to embarrass Wonwoo in all his stained-sweatshirt glory. No, Jeonghan has some sort of other angle here. Perhaps he really does just want to catch up, or pretend like they can be friends, or make sure that Wonwoo spends more time outside the apartment than the five minutes it takes to walk to the convenience store and back.
But it doesn’t matter, because it isn’t Jeonghan’s fucking job to stage silly mind games just to make sure his pathetic ex-boyfriend is still functioning like a human being.
“Jeonghan-ah.” Wonwoo keeps his voice quiet, as gentle as he can through the cloud of exhaustion. “Stop.”
Jeonghan freezes. It should feel like a victory, but Wonwoo would rather meow on stream a thousand more times than have to reckon with the knowledge that he’s the reason Jeonghan’s smile just turned brittle enough to shatter.
“You don’t have time to eat out,” Wonwoo continues. “It’s Thursday, right? You have your weekly standup with the Sales Department in—” Wonwoo pulls out his phone, squinting at the lockscreen. “Approximately twelve minutes.”
“Ah.” Jeonghan blinks, then blinks again. Wonwoo has managed to make him speechless, yet another hollow victory. When Jeonghan speaks again, his voice is softer. “Wah, you’re right. You still know me so well, Wonungie.” He laughs, and it’s tinged with something almost like nostalgia, or maybe regret.
Wonwoo musters up a smile. A year and a half of dating, six months of separation, and this is where he’s ended up: taking critical damage in a fucking GS25. He can practically see his health bar flagging, the last little heart flickering out of existence.
“That’s not knowing you, that’s just knowing your schedule.” There’s an important difference there, but Wonwoo hadn’t figured it out until too late, after things had already ended.
Wonwoo leans over and takes the plastic dosirak from Jeonghan’s hands, then grabs a canned coffee and a lemonade from the drink cooler. He plops his haul down on the front counter before Jeonghan has a chance to protest, tapping his phone to pay.
“Here.” Wonwoo hands Jeonghan’s dosirak back over, along with the coffee. “Lunch is on me.”
Jeonghan’s expression is unreadable as he accepts the offering. They’ve come to a junction now, passing through the door and out into the street. Jeonghan’s office is to the left, Wonwoo’s apartment down the street to the right.
“Thanks, Wonwoo-yah,” Jeonghan says. This time when he smiles, there aren’t any secrets tucked away in the corners. It’s the most honest Wonwoo has seen him in a long time. “Next time I’ll pay, okay?”
For half a second, Wonwoo sees an ending screen flicker before him.
No lives left.
Would you like to restart?
He blinks the vision away, banishing it to the farthest recesses of his mind. After all, part of being a gamer is knowing when to give up. Some things just aren’t meant to be, and some paths will only ever lead to heartbreak.
“Sure,” he says, the lie blatant on his lips. He’s never been any good at these kinds of games, the ones that Jeonghan so often plays. He gives a half-bow, overly formal, so that he doesn’t have to see Jeonghan’s expression. When he turns away, Jeonghan doesn’t call out after him. Wonwoo swallows his disappointment. Some things never change.
Game over.