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It took three tries for Taeyang to finally get his driver’s license.
Now that little laminated card feels more like a relic than a victory. It sits in his wallet, tucked behind his ID and T-money card, collecting metaphorical dust. Even if he could afford a car right now, the thought of monthly insurance premiums or gas prices is laughable. All that effort and stress, only to have a license he barely uses.
Instead, he sits quietly, letting the city unravel before him like scenes from an old film reel, each frame flickering past his preferred window seat in the middle of the bus. Behind him, teenagers crowd into the back, their laughter ricocheting off the walls, loud and chaotic, an uncontainable fizz spilling over like a soda bottle shaken to its limit.
Beyond the glass, the streets play their part with the rich ladies pushing their pampered dogs in baby carts, their designer handbags swinging like trophies of a life Taeyang can hardly imagine. A blur of exercise junkies jogs by, their disciplined strides defying the absurdity of a 6 a.m. start, while others shuffle sluggishly, dragging their weary bodies home after a night spent chasing the bottom of a bottle.
This time, the first thing Taeyang sees is blood. It stains the guy’s shirt, collecting on the corners of his mouth, dripping from trembling hands that clutch at nothing. The deep red streaks seem to distort the edges of reality, glistening in the pale glow of the flickering streetlamp, pooling on the cracked pavement like an abstract painting. The man stands hunched under the weak, sputtering light, his breath billowing in sharp bursts of white mist against the frigid night air. His eyes, wide and frenzied, dart around like those of a cornered animal, seeking escape where none exists.
Taeyang hesitates, his pulse racing in his ears. But only for a moment. His gaze flicks away, and he steels himself. Not my problem, he tells himself. Just some random guy on the street. Whatever happened here, by the looks of it, the man made his own mess.
With a sharp exhale, Taeyang shoves his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, burying himself in his own world. He’d picked the first playlist his thumb had landed on, scrolling absently through his phone earlier, now the earphones snug in his ears offer a sharp contrast to the scene he’s just witnessed—peppy second-generation girl group tracks bubble away as if nothing had happened.
People do crazy things every day, he knows. It’s not always that he crosses paths with an image like that, though.
As the bus pulls away from the stop and trundles down the road, the bustling cityscape begins to dissolve. High-rise buildings give way to rows of dimly lit houses, their silhouettes stoic and quiet against the dark. The streets grow emptier, quieter. The hum of the engine and the sway of the bus lull Taeyang into a heavy fatigue, the kind that settles in your bones when the day has been too long. By the time the bus nears his stop, exhaustion wins, and Taeyang drifts into sleep, though the memory of the bloodied man lingers just beneath the surface of his dreams.
Because Taeyang has grown so accustomed to the familiar faces he sees on the bus almost every day it's impossible for him not to notice when someone new appears. But it’s different today.
There’s something about the man sitting two rows ahead that tugs at a corner of his memory, like a thread snagging on the edge of an old, forgotten tapestry. He has a good face, one that Taeyang would certainly remember, but there’s something off . Maybe it’s the way he keeps glancing over his shoulder, his fingers twitching against the edge of the seat.
It’s when Tayang sees the faint, healing bruises on his knuckles and takes a closer, more deliberate look that the realization finally hits him. This is the same guy he had seen just last week, drenched in blood.
The bus jerks to a stop, and the man flinches so hard that Taeyang almost feels it. A few passengers shuffle off, leaving the bus nearly empty. Now it’s just Taeyang, the man, an elderly woman nodding off in the back, and a young couple whispering to each other in hushed tones near the front.
Taeyang debates what to do. He probably should just mind his own business, like he did the last time. Ignore the prickling under his skin and hope the man gets off at the next stop, disappearing into the blur of the city.
The man shifts again, breaking Taeyang’s thoughts. This time, he pulls something out of his pocket. Taeyang stiffens, his eyes locking onto the motion. It’s a piece of paper, crumpled and torn at the edges. The man stares at it for a moment, his lips moving slightly as if reading something to himself. Then he folds it back up with trembling hands and shoves it deep into his pocket.
Until slowly, the man turns his head, eyes narrowing as they meet Taeyang’s.
“Do I know you?” the man asks, his voice low but edged with suspicion.
“Don’t think so.”
“You’ve been staring at me since I got on the bus. Why?”
“Thought I recognized you, that’s all.” Taeyang says, shrugging as if it’s no big deal.
The man doesn’t respond right away. His eyes linger on Taeyang, unblinking, glassy. It feels like he’s scared of Taeyang, no—of who he thinks Taeyang might be.
“Did someone send you here?” His voice breaks the silence, low and strained, each word laced with quiet desperation. “If so, tell them Hwang Intak ran away.”
“I don’t know who that is,” Taeyang says cautiously, his voice deliberately even, the syllables weighed down with sincerity. “I’m just trying to get home.”
For a moment, the man’s expression remains hard, his jaw tight, his eyes scanning Taeyang as though searching for a crack in the facade. But then, almost imperceptibly, his posture softens. The suspicion etched into his features begins to ebb, replaced by a flicker of relief so fleeting it’s almost sad.
“Sorry, dude.” He exhales shakily, “I’m Hwang Intak.” His lips curl into a faint, apologetic smile, though his voice still trembles with lingering doubt. “I guess you really are telling the truth.”
Not very smart to reveal this so easily, Taeyang thinks. It’s Intak’s luck that Taeyang is nothing but a curious stranger.
Taeyang’s life moves at a slow pace. He doesn’t mind; in fact, he finds solace in its simplicity. His small, meticulously arranged studio apartment—a purchase he begrudgingly allowed his mother to help him with—has become his sanctuary. The routine is comforting: returning home after a long day at the music academy where he teaches, sinking into his worn-out couch, and ordering beef tartare from the same restaurant he’s been loyal to for years. It’s predictable, yes, but predictability feels like a luxury.
For Taeyang, a “busy” weekend involves little more than heading out for drinks with Jiung and Jongseob—his colleagues turned friends over countless late-night conversations and shared hangovers. Occasionally, the night ends with him in the arms of a stranger, their faces blurred by the haze of dimly lit bars and too many rounds of soju.
Taeyang likes his life this way: uncomplicated, self-contained, and just detached enough to keep the world at arm’s length.
Still, the following week, Taeyang finds himself scanning faces on the bus again. He tells himself it’s habit, that he’s always been an observer. But he knows the truth: he’s looking for Intak. Not that he’d admit it to anyone else.
Just from their brief meeting he could tell Intak’s life was anything but comfortable, the opposite of what Taeyang needs, the kind of chaos he had spent years carefully avoiding.
As the bus approaches his stop, he pulls the cord and gets up, bracing himself for the cold night air. He steps off into the familiar quiet of his neighborhood, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. The scent of something savory wafts from a nearby restaurant, mingling with the crisp scent of winter.
He’s halfway to his building when he hears it—the faint crunch of footsteps behind him. His body tenses. He tells himself it’s nothing. Just someone walking the same way. But the sound stays with him, keeping pace even as he turns the corner into a narrow street.
Taeyang slows, his hand instinctively tightening around his bag strap. The footsteps slow too, then stop altogether. He turns his head, his pulse quickening.
It’s Intak.
The man stands a few meters back, his frame silhouetted against the glow of the streetlamp. He’s wearing the same battered coat, but his face looks calmer, less frantic than before. For a moment, neither of them speaks.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Intak says, his voice steady but quiet. He takes a step closer, his hands raised slightly in a gesture of peace. “I just... I didn’t know what else to do.”
“What do you mean?” Taeyang’s voice comes out sharper than he intends, but he doesn’t back away. Something in Intak’s expression stops him.
“I have nowhere to sleep tonight,” Intak exhales, his breath fogging in the cold. “And that’s a problem.”
Taeyang frowns. “And why is that my problem?”
“Nevermind,” he mutters, more to himself than to Taeyang before turning to leave.
The guy must be really desperate , Taeyang thinks. Maybe he saw something in Taeyang the other night that made him feel like it would be safe. Maybe he’s just crazy. It’s strange, Taeyang can’t quite rationalize any of this. But against his better judgment, he calls Intak. “Wait. I’m meeting some friends in a bit. You should come with me and we’ll figure something out later.”
“You’re late,” Jiung calls out, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation as Taeyang steps into the dimly lit diner. His tone is casual, but his sharp gaze quickly lands on Intak, trailing behind Taeyang like a shadow. Jiung's brow arches with suspicion. “And you brought a friend?”
At the booth, Jongseob swivels to face them, his grin quick but his eyes lingering just a second too long on Taeyang before flicking to Intak. “Who’s this guy?”
Taeyang slides into the cracked leather seat, gesturing subtly for Intak to follow. The man hesitates, his eyes darting across the room before he finally settles beside him, posture rigid and uncertain. “This is Intak,” Taeyang offers, “Someone I met recently.”
Jiung and Jongseob exchange a glance, an unspoken conversation filled with questions. Jongseob’s expression remains guardedly and Jiung, on the other hand, doesn’t bother to hide his direct stare, studying Intak like a puzzle he’s already itching to solve.
“Long story,” Taeyang mutters before either can press further. He flags down a server. “Let’s just get drinks first.”
As soon as the server arrives and the first round of drinks hits the table, something shifts. Intak leans back in his seat, the tension melting from his shoulders. He starts to talk, his voice warm and steady, and to Taeyang’s surprise, he is... charming. Attractive, even.
The wary, twitchy man from the bus is gone, replaced by someone who knows exactly how to hold a room’s attention. He laughs easily, his smile lighting up his face, and even Jiung—usually the hardest to impress—appears to soften under Intak’s unexpected charisma.
“So, Intak,” Jongseob begins with an impish grin. “What’s your deal? Long-lost cousin? New old friend? Taeyang’s new play-thing?”
“We just met on a bus.”
Jiung blinks. “That’s it?” His skepticism is palpable, laced with disbelief. “That’s the long story?”
“Taeyang doesn’t usually drag just anyone into our circle,” Jongseob pauses just long enough for Taeyang to catch the slight edge in his tone before continuing. “I suppose he hasn’t tried getting into your pants yet,” he remarks, his voice carrying just enough bite to land the joke.
Taeyang rolls his eyes, choosing humor over confrontation. “Maybe I’m planning on doing it later.”
Jongseob’s grin stiffens for a fraction of a second, so brief it almost goes unnoticed. “Sure,” he says, voice softer now, “if he doesn’t get bored first.”
“Bored?” Intak echoes. “I doubt it,” an unreadable smile curling on his lips as he rests a hand—too deliberate to be accidental—on Taeyang’s thigh. “Taeyang is a very pretty name,” Intak then whispers only to Taeyang’s ears.
The room’s charged silence stretches, only to be shattered by Jiung’s abrupt interjection. “Okay, okay, whatever this is—save it for later.”
When they step out of the diner, the air has turned crisp and still, small snowflakes drifting gently from the sky. A delicate, powdery layer of white has begun to blanket the ground, muffling the crunch of their footsteps. Taeyang shivers as the cold bites at his skin, the sting of snowflakes melting on his face. He lingers for a moment, watching his friends walk ahead, their laughter fading into the snowy night. Once they’re out of earshot, he turns to Intak, raising a curious brow.
“Where did that come from?”
Intak tilts his head, his expression innocent—a gesture that somehow manages to be disarmingly cute despite the tension hanging in the air. “What exactly?”
“When you followed me earlier you looked like you were on the verge of falling apart. But just now, you were all smiles and chatter.”
“I’m already fucked anyway, just felt nice to escape for a bit. The alcohol helped,” Intak shrugs. “You did too.”
Taeyang’s lips press into a thin line, skepticism flickering in his eyes. “Right. I’m guessing being all over me after what Jongseob suggested also helped?”
A faint smirk tugs at the corner of Intak’s mouth. “If I play my cards right, you might lend me your couch after all.”
“I never said I would,” Taeyang counters, more playful than anything. “I said we’d figure something out. You’re still a stranger, Intak.”
“Help me just tonight and I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. I promise.”
Taeyang shakes his head, laughing. Intak’s promise means nothing, really. Just like they’re nothing to each other in the grand scheme of things. This entire situation makes Taeyang think he’s officially going insane.
His laughter tapers off, but the grin lingers on his face as they continue walking. It’s not that he takes any of this lightly—he knows something is going on with Intak, gnawing away at him from the inside—but the sheer absurdity of letting himself get dragged into a random stranger's mysterious chaos makes him feel like he’s in the middle of a poorly written drama. Taeyang must have been more bored with life than he realized.
By the time he notices he never actually answered Intak, they’re already standing in front of his building.
“You can use my couch,” he says at last, the words leaving his lips before he can second-guess himself. “As long as I don’t end up dead because of it.”
Intak’s grin blooms wide, his relief so palpable it’s almost contagious. And before Taeyang can react, he’s being pulled into a kiss—soft, fleeting, and as cold as the snow still falling gently around them.
Intak sits sprawled on the compact couch, his long legs just barely fitting in the tight space. But any discomfort is an afterthought, lost in the heat of the moment. Taeyang is right there with him—quite literally—perched on Intak’s lap. His head tilts back, offering his neck like an unspoken invitation, and Intak doesn’t hesitate to take it. The soft scrape of teeth and the wet pull of lips against Taeyang’s neck send sparks coursing through him, each one amplified by the deft hand stroking his cock below.
Taeyang isn’t surprised. He knew this was coming from the second Intak played into Jongseob’s teasing question, blissfully unaware of the subtle bait it carried. Watching Intak flounder and recover with a charm that felt almost too genuine, Taeyang had already seen the writing on the wall. When they crossed the threshold of his apartment, he’d shed the last remnants of his caution like a discarded coat. He didn’t have much of it left to begin with. Might as well get something out of this, he thought, letting the door click shut behind them.
And that’s how Taeyang finds himself here—letting Intak take him apart, piece by breathless piece. Intak’s shirt is long gone, leaving bruised skin on full display, splashes of purple and red painting the canvas of his torso. Taeyang stares at them in fascination, his fingers tracing the edges of the marks with deliberate care.
When Intak shifts them, pressing Taeyang against the back of the couch, there’s an urgency to his movements—a barely restrained hunger that makes the air between them crackle. He’s inside Taeyang in moments, the rough push and pull of his hips steady, driven. Taeyang braces himself, gripping Intak’s shoulders and letting his thumb press against a dark bruise near his collarbone.
Intak flinches, his rhythm faltering for just a second, and Taeyang quirks a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging into the faintest of smirks. “Sensitive?” he asks, his voice low and teasing, though breathlessness bleeds into the edges.
“Just—keep your hands to yourself,” Intak manages, his tone a mix of strained and exasperated. But Taeyang doesn’t listen, his curiosity outweighing any desire to comply. His thumb brushes over the bruise again, just to see the flicker of reaction it elicits, all while Intak drives into him harder, faster, as though trying to regain control.
The mix of sensations—the sting of pressure against aching skin, the overwhelming heat building between them—leaves Intak teetering on the edge. For Taeyang, it’s a blur of pain and pleasure, each sharp gasp matched by a low groan from the guy above him. The room feels stifling, charged, the rest of the world falling away until it’s just the two of them and the rhythm they’ve created together.
At 8 a.m., Taeyang stirs awake, the pull of a full bladder impossible to ignore. He groans, squinting against the morning light that filters through the blinds, and rolls onto his side. From his vantage point, he catches sight of Intak, sprawled on the couch in a tangle of blankets. He looks uncharacteristically serene, his features softened in sleep, a stark contrast to the chaos of the first time Taeyang had seen him.
Taeyang curses under his breath as he drags himself upright, every step to the bathroom a reminder of Intak’s particular brand of madness. His body aches, a dull soreness radiating through his limbs, but it’s not an unpleasant pain—not entirely. He relieves himself quickly, yawns, and stumbles back to his bed without much thought, falling into the sheets and into sleep again with the ease of someone utterly spent.
It’s well into the afternoon when he wakes for the second time, the sun already hanging lazily in the sky. He stretches, his joints cracking in protest, and glances toward the couch out of habit. But this time, Intak isn’t there. The blankets are neatly folded—a quiet, final gesture—and the apartment is still, empty except for him.
Taeyang doesn’t feel an ounce of surprise, nor does he bother to check for a note. This was exactly what he’d predicted. Intak wasn’t lying when he said he needed a place to crash, and Taeyang can’t say he minds the lack of complications. If anything, he’s grateful his lapse in judgment hadn’t ended in disaster—just a good time.
For now, he’s content to slip back into his usual rhythm: his job, his meticulously plated beef tartare, his unassuming window seat on the bus. His life of quiet routines and predictable comforts.
He briefly wonders if he’ll spot Intak on the bus again, if he will finally get an answer as to why the guy was covered in blood that day.
Maybe he will. Maybe he won’t.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. Or so he tells himself.