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After the class Gunwoo’s teaching ends and the students clear out, the gym is practically deserted despite it being nearly six in the evening on a weekend—with only a couple stragglers working out on the opposite end of the main space.
Gunwoo’s still inside one of the rec-rooms, cleaning up after their women’s boxing class, while Woojin busies himself at the front desk computer and tries to fix Gunwoo’s carefully organized system that he accidentally messed up earlier that day.
“Hey!” comes a shout from the gym entrance. Woojin’s head shoots up and his hand freezes on the mouse, listening intently to see if he needs intervene. “Let go of me, you–”
In seconds, he’s past the little lobby out front and jogging to the door, where an angry man in a fancy suit has one of their newer client’s forearm in a bruising cross-grip. The woman—Hyesun is her name; he recognizes the elaborate braided-bun pinned against her head, and recalls one night after a late class where all the ladies lingered to watch as Hyesun showed one of the younger members an indepth tutorial on how to achieve something similar—shouts again, trying to get him to let go before twisting her arm and angling her body to pry herself out of his hold with her other hand, then hitting him right in the nose with a palm-heel strike; just like Gunwoo taught her.
Now that she’s out of his grip, the man’s face is steadily flushing in fury and spittle flies out of his mouth as he approaches her again, panting and clutching at his face—obviously not having learned his lesson. Woojin steps in between them as she backs away, forcing the man to keep his distance lest he be close enough for Woojin to be able to defend himself and Hyesun.
“Get lost, asshole,” he barks, scowling at Woojin. “This is none of your business, so stay out of it.”
“I’m her trainer, dude,” Woojin responds in kind, shifting from side to side to keep Hyesun safely at his back as the man tries to skirt around him. “If you’re threatening my client in front of my gym, that makes it my business.”
“Just go home, Jongsu,” she says over Woojin’s shoulder, the plastic of her duffel’s strap protector crinkling as she crosses her arms over her chest with a fiery glare.
“I’ll find them eventually,” Jongsu threatens, walking backwards without taking his eyes off Woojin and scanning the logo on his employee shirt. “This isn’t over.”
“Yes, it is.” He fights a smirk at the victory and manages to keep it to a small twitch of his lips as Jongsu’s nostrils flare in another burst of anger. “Next time I catch you around here, I’m calling the police.”
Jongsu sneers then turns down an alley, fleeing somewhere out of sight. After a few seconds, Woojin deems it safe to turn his back to the street, catching Hyesun’s eyes as she tries to loosen the death-grip she had on her bag. “Are you okay, noona? That guy was so rude.”
“I’m fine, thank you.” She sighs, pressing her palm to her forehead with a tired look on her face. “Sorry about him, he’s…”
“An idiot?” he prompts, trying to make her feel a little better. “Don’t worry, I have lots of experience with that.”
She does laugh, eyes brightening a little bit as she smiles. Mission accomplished. “That’s one word for it. He’s my brother-in-law– or, ex brother-in-law, actually. He was an asshole like that at home too, and once my sister finally had enough, she took the kids and moved back to Sokcho to help our parents with their restaurant. He never came along when we went to visit, so now he has no clue where to find them and keeps harassing me for info—like I’d ever tell him of all people.”
He nods along as she speaks, listening intently; he remembers overhearing her saying something along those lines to another lady in the class. “And they’re settling in well?”
“As well as can be expected,” she reasons, shifting to stare off down the street where Jongsu had vanished. “But he’s some big-shot software engineer for a fancy company, thought he was the pinnacle of society and treated everyone else like they were below him—even his family. It takes a while to unlearn being treated like that.”
She sighs again, and Woojin squeezes her hand reassuringly.
“Well,” he says cheerily, pulling away from her and clapping his hands together. “If he bothers you again just let me or Gunwoo know, and we’ll organize some volunteers to scare him off. We’ve got your back.”
She tilts her head with another smile, nodding easily as she pats his cheek affectionately then walks away, calling over her shoulder: “Thank you, Woojin-ah. Tell your boyfriend goodbye for me, yeah?”
“Wha– he’s not– and she’s gone, shit.” He covers his mouth, suddenly speechless and all too grateful Gunwoo wasn’t here to hear her; he’s not sure how he’d react to his best friend denying something Woojin so desperately craves. The hypothetical look on Gunwoo’s face makes his heart clench like a fist, and he swears it stutters a beat like it’s stumbling over its feet, already protesting the gutwrenching feeling that’ll follow him like a dark, ominous cloud.
He trudges his way back inside once Hyesun’s out of sight, dragging his feet slightly as he fights a groan; between one blink and the next, Gunwoo appears behind the previously empty desk, and Woojin straightens at the expression on his face; equal parts concerned and confused.
“Hyung?” Gunwoo hedges, skirting the desk’s edge to cross the few steps between them. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing,” Woojin waves him off, pasting on a reassuring smile so Gunwoo’ll drop it, though he should know better than that by now; a worried Gunwoo is a relentless one, and he only moves closer to plant a heavy, body-warm hand on Woojin’s shoulder.
“Hey,” he murmurs, ducking slightly to catch Woojin’s eyes who can’t bring himself to truly avoid them. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”
Woojin smiles at him warmly, this time genuine. “I’m fine, Gunwoo-yah. I promise I’m fine. Okay?”
Gunwoo hums, scanning Woojin’s face thoroughly with a soft furrow of his brow then sighs just barely loud enough to be heard. “Okay.”
They both putter around in and out of the office, doing a few menial tasks and cleaning stuff here and there in silence—save for the few gym-goers still hanging around. By the time the clock beeps, reading 8:55PM—time to start closing up and locking doors—Woojin’s dead on his feet, slumped in front of the computer trying to finish some last minute paperwork.
His eyes droop and he can barely keep them open—until he jumps slightly, looking towards the hand on his shoulder and following it up to find Gunwoo smiling down at him. “Gunwoo? What’s wrong?”
Gunwoo laughs lightly and shakes his head. “Nothing’s wrong, hyung. Are you okay?”
“M’fine,” Woojin murmurs, rubbing his face as he yawns. When his eyes open again, Gunwoo’s still staring down at him with that look.
“You should head home,” he says warmly, and that glint in his eye makes Woojin weak in the knees, like he was just met with the full-force of that liver punch Gunwoo took him down with when they first met—except this time straight to the heart.
Home, meaning the apartment. The apartment they share, with two chairs mirroring each other across a table too small for two grown men to be sharing; one bedroom with two futons, one closet with two sides, one shower with two bottles of soap.
“You sure? You don’t have to do everything alone, you know,” Woojin reminds, meeting his gaze head on and pretending it doesn’t make him feel like a giddy schoolgirl. “You’re allowed to ask for help, and I can scrub down the bathroom if you don’t want to. That’s what I’m here for!”
“I know, hyung, but you hate cleaning the bathrooms.” He smiles again when he says it, and Woojin’s gaze is hyperfocused on the spread of his mouth, how his eyes brighten and cheeks squish out boyishly. “It’s okay, I promise. There should be leftovers, or I could bring home a takeaway but—”
Woojin rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “—but it’s not healthy fuel. Thanks for reminding me, Mom.”
Gunwoo chuckles quietly, nudging him with an elbow. “If you had to listen to my mom, you’d eat a lot more vegetables.”
“I doubt it. I’m a rebellious punk, didn’t you know?”
That gets Gunwoo to laugh even louder, throwing his head back slightly; Woojin watches him, mesmerized, but schools his expression before Gunwoo can notice.
“Alright, alright,” Gunwoo murmurs, sobering up with another gentle smile. “Get home safe, yeah?”
Home, home, home— “Always do.”
[…]
“Hyung?” The speaker is crackling with static and there’s a note of something in the background that immediately sets him on edge, adrenaline immediately pumping through him. Damn, he’s never getting back to sleep after this.
Woojin scrubs at his eyes as he fights the instinctive panic that takes over him—it’sfinewe’resafewe’reokay—squinting to see the clock better in the dim light as the display blinks on and off, reading 2:27AM. “Mm?”
“Hyung, I– I think I need help, I need—”
“Gunwoo?” The warble in his voice sends a chill down Woojin’s spine, like a bucket of ice water was dumped over his head. So much for safe.
He scrambles out from under the blanket, tucking the phone into the cradle of his shoulder as he wrestles a random pair of pants on in the dark; the sweats are big, too big, and he has to cinch the elastic drawstrings to keep them from falling—they must be Gunwoo’s. “Where are you? What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry." There’s a stifled sob, and the sound makes his heart drop, shattering into a million tiny pieces against the ground. “I’m sorry, I need you—”
“I’m coming,” he swears, already at the door and pulling his shoes on; trying to keep the phone in place, he sets the call to speakerphone then curses under his breath when he realizes the laces came untied in the scuffle. “Where are you, Gunwoo? Can you see anything? Cars, signs? People?”
“I can—” A stuttering breath— “The gym, I can see it. Back door, in the alley.”
Woojin books it down the stairs, not bothering to wait for the elevator in his rush. He debates on calling a taxi to get there with enough energy to fight someone off if he needs to, but the streets are practically deserted and the gym is just barely eight blocks away in a straightshot.
“Just hold on, okay? I’m on my way, I’m coming for you.”
He takes off at a sprint, ignoring the immediate burn in his calves from the lack of stretching, cursing at the feeling. He passes a few drunk clubgoers probably on their respective ways home, who shout angrily at him as he blows past them on the sidewalk without apologizing. All he can hear is the sound of Gunwoo’s ragged breathing, and his own gasping and sputtering in turn as he stuggles to take deep enough breaths to maintain speed through his panic.
Still five blocks away, the crosswalk monitor a few metres ahead is just about to reach the end of its countdown and in spite of the pain he pushes himself even further, banking on making it through before the cars start moving.
He’s only halfway across the street when a car whips around the corner, driver leaning on the horn despite barely slowing; Woojin has to dive out of the way, crying out as the front bumper narrowly clips his leg. He keeps rolling with the force of it and clutches his now-cracked phone tighter before scrambling up as soon as he can catch his breath, ignoring how his palms and the skin of his leg are torn and bleeding as he picks up speed. The driver gets out and shouts something after him, but he can’t stop moving—not when Gunwoo needs him.
“Hyung, are… are you okay? Sounded like…” Gunwoo asks breathlessly, and Woojin has to frantically gulp down air to be able to answer.
“I’m fine, it’s fine,” he promises, gasping as he scans for landmarks and realizes there’s only a few blocks between them. “I’m almost there, so just wait for me, okay? I’m coming, Gunwoo, I’m almost there.”
Gunwoo groans an affirmative, an odd wheezing sound echoing through speakerphone. The biting wind nips at his exposed arms and sends chills down his leg; his pants must’ve ripped when he hit the ground, skin stinging with wet-hot pins and needles.
Just a block ahead, he can see the gym’s sign flickering over the door; he’d been meaning to fix it for weeks now, but every time he finds a spare minute something else distracts him and he forgets all about it until he sees it the next day. Rinse-repeat, over and over and over again. Now, he finds himself grateful for the illumination and the flashes give him something to match his breathing to.
“Gunwoo, where are you?” he asks again, breathless but trying not to let the rattle in his chest drown out the sound of his best friend’s weak voice.
“In– in the back,” Gunwoo answers, so soft it makes Woojin’s stomach drop out of his body; he stumbles over his feet slightly but manages to keep moving at the last second, booking it down the alley towards the back of the building. He turns the corner and—
Gunwoo is on the ground, half on his back and surrounded by a puddle of something dark that coats any exposed skin with an ominous sheen. Woojin skids to a stop a few feet away but slips a little on the slick concrete, landing awkwardly beside him on his knees with a wince at the pressure on his injured legs.
“Hyung?” he calls, scanning the open air with dazed eyes, visibly exhausted and in pain. A bloody hand scrabbles at the pavement underneath them; Woojin doesn’t hesistate to grab it and squeeze gently in reassurance.
“I’m here,” Woojin murmurs, fighting valiantly to keep his voice from shaking—but ultimately fails as a tremor sneaks its way in between one word and the next. “I’m here, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
“Hyung,” Gunwoo repeats, reaching up towards Woojin’s face and managing to muster up enough energy to stroke a thumb over the worried furrow between his brows, but only leaves a smear of red in its wake instead of the intended reassurance.
All Woojin can focus on is the shuddering breaths racking Gunwoo’s frame, and the weakness in his limbs as they twitch uselessly on the ground beside them.
to be continued...