Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Chan (platonic or romantically interpreted up to you!)
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: Idolverse, TTT, Alcohol
Permission to remix: Please ask
i found this fic in my docs and i realise i forgot to post it. here you go many months late. it's also on ao3
The chants ring out into the open night sky, their voices intermingled with the scents of barbecued meat, ramyeon and alcohol.
“Assa, hongsam!” Dokyeom yells shrilly and waves his arms.
“Everybody hongsam!” Everyone follows, as synchronised as they can be under heavy inebriation. They rise simultaneously from their chairs and the table with its platters of half-finished food and cans of beer shakes dangerously, though no one really notices. Except Chan.
Chan is currently transcending the mortal plane, his mind in another dimension. The seventh can in that tower that Seungcheol stacked is about to topple very very soon. The more he stares at it the more everything spins and it looks like the whole structure is melting. Everything feels duller and lighter and heavier at the same time, and the Hongsam game he’s in is the last thing on his mind. The active decision making bit of his brain checked out, he’s playing on mind and muscle memory from the innumerable rounds played over the years in waiting rooms, studios, and other places. He considers himself a solid drinker, as would anyone who has drank with him, so he has no idea why he’s so fucking hammered right now. Maybe it’s because he’s been running on empty for the past few days, in the rush of recordings and practices and practices again, and his body is taking revenge now. It could also be the copious amount of liquor he drank while he was still tipsily and stupidly confident. What remains of his good sense reminds him that it’s probably both, you dumb bastard. He thinks of Vernon, who left the table a while ago, trudging away to the bedrooms mid-game without a single fuck given, and Chan wishes he could swap bodies right now and black out until the next week. Unfortunately for him, he gives too many fucks, has too much FOMO, and that’s why he locks himself into horrible situations like these.
He feels himself laughing uncontrollably as he points, “Assa, you!”, and he doesn’t know why, because he’s not having much fun. Better than crying at the table at least, he thinks while his eyes dart about the table, unconsciously absorbing the information on who’s “it” right now. The game goes on, and the “it” cycles around the table. It’s a new record, by this time, for a Hongsam game to go for this long without a single failure. They shout louder and louder as excitement mounts, the Hongsam move becoming more and more ridiculous. Joshua, the one-trick pony he is, does his stupid half-sitting down stunt, which everyone fails miserably in imitating. Jihoon does an impressively isolated body wave. Minghao gets on the ground as if he’s going to break into another one of his B-Boy moves, but changes it to a more normal move to everyone’s relief. Their arms move in a frenzy, pointing here and there and everywhere and suddenly, a crash.
The glass that held the leaning tower of Seungcheol’s beer cans topples over, taking with it some cutlery in a thump and clatter and clang and it’s a lot more deafening than it should be. Somehow, again, nobody seems to care. Seungcheol himself simply moves out of the way from a rolling can and continues clapping and pointing. The can rolls and rolls, bumps here and there past the grass and precariously close to the pool-
“Ooooh! Wonwoo! Chan! OUT!”
Chan’s attention is back at the table with the call of his name.
Soonyoung is shouting and jumping up and down, red-faced, his eyes in the perfect 10:10 from his gleeful smile.
“They didn’t point! They didn’t point!”
He turns to face Wonwoo, directly opposite him, who blinks back. Chan is vaguely aware that he must look some kind of way, probably shocked or surprised, from the guffaws around him, everyone bent over clapping at his reaction. Wonwoo, however, just stands and looks at him, his eyebrows knitted. With laughter dissipating, everyone’s moved on to what to pour, and how much to intoxicate the pair with now. Chan moves to join the crowd, but it’s like he’s walking through molasses. Putting one foot in front of the other again and again, he makes it a distance before grabbing onto a chair to steady himself. Through the haze, through everyone’s movement and all the bottles being passed around, only Wonwoo’s semi-still. Leaning on the chair, Chan fixes his eyes on him, just because he needs something or someone who isn’t bouncing off the walls to rest his eyes on. Wonwoo’s turned to the side, talking with Jeonghan who tries to push a bottle of vodka into his arms, and then he takes a glance at Chan. He looks away just as quickly. Chan is quietly amused by the number of times this repeats in the next few minutes. He knows that Wonwoo knows that he’s basically staring, but he’s too tired to care at this point. He decides to just stand around, waiting for the next glass of whatever hellish concoction to arrive. He’s well aware that he could reject it if he really wanted to, and his body is begging him to do so; but he also thinks that maybe with this next glass, it’ll all even out. He’ll pass this phase of drunkenness and become all fine again.
Chan only realises that a few members had left for the kitchen when they return carrying a big clear bottle of... something. It looks hefty in Mingyu’s arms, and if this isn’t concerning enough, the clearly homemade blood red label raises alarm bells in his head. The strokes of the characters all over the label swirl and blend into an indiscernible print, even with the HSK 1 proficiency that he worked so hard for. The members could very well be poisoning him, and his heart stops a little when the bottle is opened with an ominous pop. Soonyoung does the honours, tipping the clear liquid into the soju glass. Chan stares at the glasses instead now, the ripples gently dissipating from the surface as the bottle is heaved away for the next glass. Maybe if he stares hard enough, he can turn the alcohol to water, pull off a reverse-Jesus.
His gaze is broken as he feels a tap on his forearm, and he turns to Wonwoo now standing next to him. Chan then recalls, all too belatedly, that he has to do a forfeit too, so it’s natural that he’d be there. Wonwoo’s eyes lock with his, and then move slowly, meaningfully to the side. Chan follows along a beat late, down his line of sight, right to the soju glass Wonwoo has in his grasp behind his back. Wonwoo bends slightly, and whispers into Chan’s ear.
“It’s water. Don’t worry.”
His voice is soft and low and a respite from the screeching less than an arm’s length away. Chan wants desperately to sink into it and fall asleep right there and then, but Wonwoo draws away, a cold breeze replacing warm breath. He places the glass on the table, covering it with his hand, then looks up and laughs along with whatever the topic of conversation is. Chan can’t really hear shit, but he smiles too, and prays that it works.
Finally, the soju glasses are presented with a flourish of Seungkwan’s hands, imitating a waiter as he bows and walks back to the other members, cheering and hooting.
“Everyone!” Wonwoo begins an announcement, and brings everyone’s curious eyes on him. He moves his hand onto the glass of liquor, and raises it high. So high, that everyone’s field of attention is completely off the table. Chan feels a nudge at his foot, and with as much stealth that he can muster with his leaden limbs, grabs the glass of water.
“Here’s to... uh... many more Hongsam games! TTT every year! Everyone’s health! Seventeen... fighting!”
Wonwoo calls out, loudly, and with a sweep of his other hand, knocks over the last soju glass. It rolls to another end of the table, clinking as it collides with the other glasses. No one hears a thing over the roars of agreement all around and for once Chan is thankful for the noise.
“No more delays,” Seungkwan calls out, transitioning smoothly into his emcee persona. He strides back to the table with his characteristic hand gestures. “Who shall go first in drinking this special 60% Baijiu that Jun-hyung totally did not smuggle in from China?”
Chan turns to look at Wonwoo, and this time he mouths the words.
“Fol-low me.”
Games like Shout in the Silence have never been Chan’s strength, but he’s glad he can read Wonwoo’s lips perfectly this one time, through the senior’s reassuring smile. He tries to hide the corners of his mouth that threaten to rise too high with his forearm.
Wonwoo turns back to the awaiting crowd, the glass to his lips.
no subject
Ship/Member: Wonwoo/Chan (platonic or romantically interpreted up to you!)
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: Idolverse, TTT, Alcohol
Permission to remix: Please ask
i found this fic in my docs and i realise i forgot to post it. here you go many months late. it's also on ao3
The chants ring out into the open night sky, their voices intermingled with the scents of barbecued meat, ramyeon and alcohol.
“Assa, hongsam!” Dokyeom yells shrilly and waves his arms.
“Everybody hongsam!” Everyone follows, as synchronised as they can be under heavy inebriation. They rise simultaneously from their chairs and the table with its platters of half-finished food and cans of beer shakes dangerously, though no one really notices. Except Chan.
Chan is currently transcending the mortal plane, his mind in another dimension. The seventh can in that tower that Seungcheol stacked is about to topple very very soon. The more he stares at it the more everything spins and it looks like the whole structure is melting. Everything feels duller and lighter and heavier at the same time, and the Hongsam game he’s in is the last thing on his mind. The active decision making bit of his brain checked out, he’s playing on mind and muscle memory from the innumerable rounds played over the years in waiting rooms, studios, and other places. He considers himself a solid drinker, as would anyone who has drank with him, so he has no idea why he’s so fucking hammered right now. Maybe it’s because he’s been running on empty for the past few days, in the rush of recordings and practices and practices again, and his body is taking revenge now. It could also be the copious amount of liquor he drank while he was still tipsily and stupidly confident. What remains of his good sense reminds him that it’s probably both, you dumb bastard. He thinks of Vernon, who left the table a while ago, trudging away to the bedrooms mid-game without a single fuck given, and Chan wishes he could swap bodies right now and black out until the next week. Unfortunately for him, he gives too many fucks, has too much FOMO, and that’s why he locks himself into horrible situations like these.
He feels himself laughing uncontrollably as he points, “Assa, you!”, and he doesn’t know why, because he’s not having much fun. Better than crying at the table at least, he thinks while his eyes dart about the table, unconsciously absorbing the information on who’s “it” right now. The game goes on, and the “it” cycles around the table. It’s a new record, by this time, for a Hongsam game to go for this long without a single failure. They shout louder and louder as excitement mounts, the Hongsam move becoming more and more ridiculous. Joshua, the one-trick pony he is, does his stupid half-sitting down stunt, which everyone fails miserably in imitating. Jihoon does an impressively isolated body wave. Minghao gets on the ground as if he’s going to break into another one of his B-Boy moves, but changes it to a more normal move to everyone’s relief. Their arms move in a frenzy, pointing here and there and everywhere and suddenly, a crash.
The glass that held the leaning tower of Seungcheol’s beer cans topples over, taking with it some cutlery in a thump and clatter and clang and it’s a lot more deafening than it should be. Somehow, again, nobody seems to care. Seungcheol himself simply moves out of the way from a rolling can and continues clapping and pointing. The can rolls and rolls, bumps here and there past the grass and precariously close to the pool-
“Ooooh! Wonwoo! Chan! OUT!”
Chan’s attention is back at the table with the call of his name.
Soonyoung is shouting and jumping up and down, red-faced, his eyes in the perfect 10:10 from his gleeful smile.
“They didn’t point! They didn’t point!”
He turns to face Wonwoo, directly opposite him, who blinks back. Chan is vaguely aware that he must look some kind of way, probably shocked or surprised, from the guffaws around him, everyone bent over clapping at his reaction. Wonwoo, however, just stands and looks at him, his eyebrows knitted. With laughter dissipating, everyone’s moved on to what to pour, and how much to intoxicate the pair with now. Chan moves to join the crowd, but it’s like he’s walking through molasses. Putting one foot in front of the other again and again, he makes it a distance before grabbing onto a chair to steady himself. Through the haze, through everyone’s movement and all the bottles being passed around, only Wonwoo’s semi-still. Leaning on the chair, Chan fixes his eyes on him, just because he needs something or someone who isn’t bouncing off the walls to rest his eyes on. Wonwoo’s turned to the side, talking with Jeonghan who tries to push a bottle of vodka into his arms, and then he takes a glance at Chan. He looks away just as quickly. Chan is quietly amused by the number of times this repeats in the next few minutes. He knows that Wonwoo knows that he’s basically staring, but he’s too tired to care at this point. He decides to just stand around, waiting for the next glass of whatever hellish concoction to arrive. He’s well aware that he could reject it if he really wanted to, and his body is begging him to do so; but he also thinks that maybe with this next glass, it’ll all even out. He’ll pass this phase of drunkenness and become all fine again.
Chan only realises that a few members had left for the kitchen when they return carrying a big clear bottle of... something. It looks hefty in Mingyu’s arms, and if this isn’t concerning enough, the clearly homemade blood red label raises alarm bells in his head. The strokes of the characters all over the label swirl and blend into an indiscernible print, even with the HSK 1 proficiency that he worked so hard for. The members could very well be poisoning him, and his heart stops a little when the bottle is opened with an ominous pop. Soonyoung does the honours, tipping the clear liquid into the soju glass. Chan stares at the glasses instead now, the ripples gently dissipating from the surface as the bottle is heaved away for the next glass. Maybe if he stares hard enough, he can turn the alcohol to water, pull off a reverse-Jesus.
His gaze is broken as he feels a tap on his forearm, and he turns to Wonwoo now standing next to him. Chan then recalls, all too belatedly, that he has to do a forfeit too, so it’s natural that he’d be there. Wonwoo’s eyes lock with his, and then move slowly, meaningfully to the side. Chan follows along a beat late, down his line of sight, right to the soju glass Wonwoo has in his grasp behind his back. Wonwoo bends slightly, and whispers into Chan’s ear.
“It’s water. Don’t worry.”
His voice is soft and low and a respite from the screeching less than an arm’s length away. Chan wants desperately to sink into it and fall asleep right there and then, but Wonwoo draws away, a cold breeze replacing warm breath. He places the glass on the table, covering it with his hand, then looks up and laughs along with whatever the topic of conversation is. Chan can’t really hear shit, but he smiles too, and prays that it works.
Finally, the soju glasses are presented with a flourish of Seungkwan’s hands, imitating a waiter as he bows and walks back to the other members, cheering and hooting.
“Everyone!” Wonwoo begins an announcement, and brings everyone’s curious eyes on him. He moves his hand onto the glass of liquor, and raises it high. So high, that everyone’s field of attention is completely off the table. Chan feels a nudge at his foot, and with as much stealth that he can muster with his leaden limbs, grabs the glass of water.
“Here’s to... uh... many more Hongsam games! TTT every year! Everyone’s health! Seventeen... fighting!”
Wonwoo calls out, loudly, and with a sweep of his other hand, knocks over the last soju glass. It rolls to another end of the table, clinking as it collides with the other glasses. No one hears a thing over the roars of agreement all around and for once Chan is thankful for the noise.
“No more delays,” Seungkwan calls out, transitioning smoothly into his emcee persona. He strides back to the table with his characteristic hand gestures. “Who shall go first in drinking this special 60% Baijiu that Jun-hyung totally did not smuggle in from China?”
Chan turns to look at Wonwoo, and this time he mouths the words.
“Fol-low me.”
Games like Shout in the Silence have never been Chan’s strength, but he’s glad he can read Wonwoo’s lips perfectly this one time, through the senior’s reassuring smile. He tries to hide the corners of his mouth that threaten to rise too high with his forearm.
Wonwoo turns back to the awaiting crowd, the glass to his lips.
“I don’t mind. I’ll go first.”