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Taerae can’t stop himself.
His thumb hovers mindlessly over his phone screen, cycling through the same photos of his ex-boyfriend. He hates how addictive it is, the sinking feeling that comes with each picture.
He knows better—knows he should block him, delete the apps, do anything but this—yet here he is again, letting his mind spiral as he stares at the posts, disgust at his own weakness growing with every passing minute.
With a frustrated grunt, he hurls his phone aside, watching it disappear into the sea of unwashed clothes and takeout containers littering his dorm room floor. His messy sanctuary of denial.
Two months have passed since the breakup, and Taerae is still reeling. He thought they were solid, despite their differences. Sure, his ex’s overly sensitive nature tended to clash with Taerae’s sometimes more blunt personality, but wasn’t it that push and pull of their opposing traits that made them special? Apparently not, if the breakup texts still burning in his phone were anything to go by.
A sudden knock at the door cuts through his spiral of self-pity. He remains silent, willing whoever it is to take the hint and leave him to his misery.
But the knocking doesn’t stop. If anything, it only grows louder. Taerae buries his face deeper into his pillow, the fabric cool against his skin. There’s only one person he knows who would be this persistent.
“Go away,” he mutters, voice muffled.
“I know you’re in there, Taerae!” Matthew’s voice carries through the door. “Open up, or I swear I’ll use the spare key!”
A sound somewhere between frustration and resignation escapes Taerae’s throat. Letting Matthew make that copy had been a mistake—one that’s coming back to haunt him now.
His best friend has been on a mission lately, showing up at his door with increasingly desperate attempts to drag him back into the real world. Last week’s “simple dinner” invitation had been particularly transparent, with all the telltale signs of a setup to introduce him to someone new. Taerae had responded with a picture of his perfectly fine dinner, accompanied by a dramatic message about food poisoning. Matthew hadn’t bought it, but at least he’d backed off. Until now.
“I’m not kidding!”
The threat in Matthew’s voice finally breaks through. He can’t keep doing this to him—not when Matthew’s been the only one consistently checking on him. Drawing on every ounce of willpower, he untangles himself from his blanket cocoon and shuffles to the door, cracking it open just enough to squint against the assault of the harsh hallway light.
“Hey,” he rasps, voice rough from disuse.
Matthew doesn’t wait for an invitation. He pushes past him, making an exaggerated show of wrinkling his nose as the full impact of the room hits him. “Jesus, dude. When’s the last time you cracked open a window in here? Or, I don’t know, showered?”
“What’s the point?” Taerae sighs, retreating to his bed and flopping down, leaving Matthew to navigate the obstacle course that used to be his floor.
“The point is,” Matthew says, sitting on the edge of the mattress, his voice softening, “that you can’t keep living like this. I get it. He was your first serious relationship in years, and breakups suck. But you’ve got to start moving forward.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Sure, and I’m not failing two of my classes right now,” Matthew counters, leaning forward with a determined look Taerae knows too well. “Listen, there’s a Halloween party this weekend at one of my friends’ place. And you’re coming with me.”
Taerae opens his mouth to protest, but Matthew presses a finger to his lips, effectively silencing him. “Non-negotiable. Everyone’s going to be there, and it’ll be good for you to get out. Plus,” his eyes light up with that dangerous spark of enthusiasm, “we can do matching costumes!”
The familiar weight of dread settles in Taerae’s chest. The thought of being surrounded by people, having to pretend everything is fine, it makes his skin crawl. But there’s something about Matthew’s hopeful expression—that unwavering faith in him—that makes it impossible to refuse outright.
“Alright,” Taerae concedes. The least he could do is hear him out. “What did you have in mind?”
Matthew pauses, brow furrowing in thought. Clearly, he hadn’t planned this far ahead. “How about Mario and Luigi?”
“Too cliché. And it doesn’t work since we’re practically the same height.”
Matthew’s face breaks into a knowing grin. “So you finally admit it, huh?”
Taerae shoots him a look, equal parts fond and exasperated. “Shut up, Matthew.”
Matthew raises his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay! Sorry! How about Spiderman and Gwen?”
“Better, but I’m not wearing spandex.”
“Fair.” Matthew taps his chin, thinking. A lightbulb seems to go off in his head. “Oh! I’ve got it—Plusle and Minun!” The English words tumble out excitedly. “I think they’re called something similar in Korean.”
“Who?”
Matthew’s fingers fly across his phone screen before he holds it up triumphantly. “Pokémon! Perfect, right? Simple, cute, and recognizable. We just need headbands and some colorful shorts. Come on, it’ll be fun!”
Taerae hesitates. The thought of the party still makes his stomach churn, but a small part of him—the part not completely crushed by heartbreak—yearns for something, anything, to break this cycle. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be the disaster his brain is painting it to be. And even if it was, at least he’d be suffering through it while looking cute.
“Fine,” Taerae relents, running a hand through his greasy hair. “But I’m not promising I’ll have fun.”
Matthew beams, clearly taking the grudging acceptance as a win. “You will. Trust me.” Before Taerae can respond, he adds with a cheeky grin, “Oh, and dibs on Minun.”
Taerae rolls his eyes, but a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips—the first in days. “Of course. You always call dibs.”
Matthew ignores the jab, his expression turning serious as he surveys the chaos around them. “Now get up. We need to do something about this biohazard you call a room.”
For once, Taerae doesn’t argue.
—
Matthew leads Taerae through the doorway, his hand warm and reassuring against Taerae’s lower back. The bass hits him like a physical wall—too loud, too much, too real—and Taerae has to resist the urge to retreat back into the cool night air. The hallway writhes with costumed bodies, a blur of sequins, face paint and cheap polyester. Someone’s fog machine has turned the air hazy, lending everything a dreamlike quality that does little to settle Taerae’s nerves.
His fingers find his hip bag for the dozenth time, fidgeting more for comfort than necessity. “You’ll stay close, right?” The words are swallowed by the music, and Taerae hates how small he sounds, how the neediness crawls up his throat.
Matthew’s hand finds his, squeezing once. “I promise. We’ll have fun together.”
The reassurance lasts exactly thirty seconds. They’ve barely crossed the threshold into the packed living room when Matthew’s eyes light up at the sight of two familiar figures—Hao dressed as the Joker, with make-up so precise it could have been done by a professional, and Hanbin as Harley Quinn, somehow pulling off fishnets under his shorts with enviable confidence. Taerae doesn’t know either of them well, but he’s pretty sure the matching costumes were Hao’s idea—he seems the type.
“Oh! There’s Hao-hyung and Hanbin-hyung. I’ll be right back, I just need to say hi real quick! Will you be okay for a minute?”
Before Taerae can point out that Matthew’s version of “real quick” typically stretches into an eternity, he vanishes into the crowd. Taerae sighs, watching the Minun ears bob through the sea of people. Everyone wants a piece of Matthew at parties like these—it’s what makes him such a great friend, and such an unreliable anchor.
Suddenly feeling exposed in the chaos, Taerae weaves through the crowd toward the kitchen, mumbling apologies as he collides with various wizards and masked people in pink jumpsuits. If he’s going to survive this night, he needs something to occupy his hands.
The kitchen offers somewhat of a refuge. Taerae pours himself a cup of whatever vaguely alcoholic concoction someone had labeled “witch’s brew” in uneven black marker on masking tape. Vodka and artificial strawberry, if he had to guess. It doesn’t matter—he’s not here to drink. He just needs the prop, something to make him look less lost.
Finding a relatively quiet corner, he leans against the wall, letting the bass thrum through his bones. He tries to make himself invisible, a skill he’s perfected over the last few months. His ex always used to say he had a talent for disappearing when things got uncomfortable. The memory stings more than it should, considering how much time has passed.
“You okay?”
The voice comes from his left—smooth and low, but loud enough to jolt him out of his thoughts. He turns to find himself face-to-face with a stranger who somehow manages to make even a Daiso vampire costume look good. The man is tall, dark bangs falling artfully over his eyes (though Taerae can’t help but think it must be annoying to deal with). Handsome, too—possibly one of the most attractive men he’s ever seen—the kind that usually means trouble.
“I’m fine,” Taerae says automatically, then winces at how unconvincing it sounds.
The man raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You don’t look like you’re having much fun.”
“That obvious?”
“Just a bit.” The stranger tilts his head, studying Taerae with an intensity that should feel uncomfortable but, for some reason, doesn’t. “I’m Jiwoong, by the way.”
“Taerae,” he replies, still trying to figure out why someone who looks like they just stepped off a magazine cover is choosing to talk to him of all people, when there are plenty of more interesting and sociable guests around.
“Well, Taerae,” Jiwoong says his name like he’s sampling a fine wine. “How’s the wall treating you? Comfortable?”
A small smile escapes before Taerae can stop it. “It’s fine. Better than the dance floor.”
“Fair enough. Although I can’t imagine it’s much of a view.”
“It’s not.” Taerae glances down at his cup, then back up at Jiwoong. “But your costume makes up for it. Very... classic Halloween.”
Jiwoong groans good-naturedly. “God, I know. It’s terrible, right? You can say it.”
“Well, if you insist... it is a bit cliché.”
“Believe me, I’m aware.” Jiwoong laughs, flashing his fake fangs. “Wasn’t even planning to come tonight. Last-minute decision, and this was the best I could do on short notice considering the alternative.”
Taerae’s curiosity must show, because Jiwoong’s expression turns both amused and sheepish. “Promise not to make fun of me?”
“No guarantees.”
“The only other option in my closet was a hot dog costume.” Jiwoong grimaces. “From a university fundraiser. I figured generic vampire was marginally less embarrassing.”
The mental image of this good-looking stranger in a hot dog suit startles a genuine laugh from Taerae. “Okay, yeah, I’d say you made the right call.”
“Though now I’m wondering if I should have gone with the hot dog,” Jiwoong muses. “At least it would have been a good conversation starter.”
“Better than ‘you okay’?”
“Hey, that worked, didn’t it? You’re still here talking to me.”
“Touché,” Taerae concedes.
“So what about you?” Jiwoong asks, gesturing to Taerae’s outfit. “You’re a Pokémon, right? Where’s your other half?”
Taerae nods toward the other side of the room, where Matthew is kneeling as Hao pours a shot into his mouth, before enthusiastically leading a chant for another round. “As you can see, he’s a bit more.. into this than I am.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Jiwoong chuckles. “Boyfriend?”
“God no.” Taerae’s face scrunches up at the thought. “Just my friend. A loud, relentless friend.”
“Cool, cool.” Jiwoong takes a sip of his drink, his gaze lingering on Taerae. “So, you come to these parties often?”
Taerae blinks, caught off guard by the question—and the obvious flirtation in Jiwoong’s tone. He’s not exactly giving off approachable vibes tonight. “Not really. Matthew dragged me here. I’m more of a LAN party or noraebang kind of person.”
“Those are fun,” Jiwoong agrees. “But it’s good to shake things up once in a while.”
Taerae shrugs, fighting another smile. “Maybe.”
“Well, I’m glad you came. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have gotten the chance to talk to you.”
Heat creeps up Taerae’s neck at the comment. He isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol—he’s never been great at holding his liquor—or Jiwoong’s proximity. The way Jiwoong looks at him makes him feel seen in a way he hasn’t since... well. Since before.
“Want to dance?” Jiwoong asks suddenly, extending his hand.
Taerae hesitates. The thought of dancing in front of all these people makes his palms sweat. He's never been particularly confident in his dancing skills, and the idea of making a fool of himself in front of Jiwoong is less than appealing. “I don’t know..”
“Come on, live a little. I promise I won’t bite.” Jiwoong pauses. “Unless you want me to.”
The line should be terrible, but something about the way Jiwoong delivers it—part awful pickup line, part unexpected sincerity—makes Taerae’s breath catch instead of cringe. It’s not just the words, it’s the way Jiwoong has managed to make him feel more at ease in the past twenty minutes than he has felt all night, that makes the idea of dancing seem a little less daunting. Without fully processing it, Taerae finds himself reaching for Jiwoong’s outstretched hand.
“Okay,” he agrees, setting his cup aside. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you if I step on your feet.”
Jiwoong’s eyes spark with delight. “I’ll take my chances.”
They make their way onto the dance floor, bodies pressed close by necessity. Jiwoong moves with effortless ease, while Taerae, stiff and unsure, struggles to keep up. But as the song builds, the tension in his muscles begins to fade, and he starts to relax into the rhythm.
Maybe it’s not so bad, being visible again.
“See? You’re not half bad,” Jiwoong says, close enough that his breath tickles Taerae’s ear.
“Not half good, either.”
Jiwoong laughs, the sound lost to the music but visible in the crinkle of his eyes. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re doing great.”
His hands settle on Taerae’s hips, touch light and undemanding—just a suggestion, an invitation. Taerae’s hands hover awkwardly for a moment until gentle encouragement guides them to Jiwoong’s shoulders, then around his neck.
Maybe it’s the vodka, or the music, or just the intoxicating feeling of connection, but suddenly it feels like they’re in their own world, separate from the chaos around them. Jiwoong’s fingers trace patterns on the small of his back, each touch leaving a trail of heat. Their faces are close enough that Taerae can count his eyelashes, can feel the warmth of his breath.
When Jiwoong finally kisses him, it feels inevitable, like the natural conclusion to the electricity building between them. His lips are soft, testing at first, then more insistent as Taerae responds. Jiwoong’s hand comes up to cup his jaw, drawing him closer, deepening the kiss.
It’s nice. Really nice. Jiwoong clearly knows what he is doing, and Taerae finds himself melting into it. The plastic fangs should make it awkward, but somehow they don’t. Everything feels good and perfect and—
Wait.
There’s something else. A taste that’s distinctly.. nutty?
Alarm floods Taerae’s system. He pushes against Jiwoong’s chest, breaking away abruptly.
“Did... did you eat something with peanuts in it?” Taerae gasps, voice strained, fighting to be heard. He can feel a familiar itch starting at the back of his mouth.
Jiwoong’s brow furrows in confusion. “Uh, yeah? I had a Snickers earlier. I’m sorry, was it gross or something?”
Taerae shakes his head, struggling to draw in a full breath. “I’m allergic.”
Jiwoong’s eyes widen in horror as understanding dawns. “Oh fuck, oh shit. What do I do?”
Taerae tries to answer, but his chest feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice, though he’s not sure if it’s from the panic or the reaction. People around them start to notice, the crowd parting to form a circle. His vision begins to blur at the edges, and the music suddenly seems very far away.
“...pen...” Taerae manages, gesturing weakly at his hip bag. His fingers feel thick and clumsy as he fumbles for the zipper.
“What’s going on?” Matthew’s voice cuts through the noise as he pushes his way through the throng of people.
“We kissed and—fuck, I had peanuts,” Jiwoong stammers. “I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t know.”
"Call 911!” Matthew barks at him, then turns his attention toward Taerae. “Hanbin-hyung and I are going to lay you down, okay?”
Taerae wants to protest—the floor is disgusting, sticky with spilled drinks and who knows what else. But as his vision swims and his knees buckle, he realizes he doesn’t have much of a choice.
Matthew and Hanbin ease him down, Matthew swiftly retrieving the epinephrine pen from Taerae’s bag. The crowd has grown larger, people craning their necks to see what’s happening. Someone starts recording, until a voice—Taerae thinks he recognizes it as Hao’s—snaps at them to stop.
“You’re going to be okay,” Matthew says, his voice steady even as his hands move quickly to prep the auto-injector. “This will suck for just a second.”
Everything after that becomes a bit of a blur. Someone has turned off the music. Sirens wail in the distance. Jiwoong hasn’t left his side, clutching his hand and apologizing over and over. Taerae wants to tell him it’s not his fault, but talking seems like too much effort right now.
He’s vaguely aware of the EMTs arriving, of being lifted onto a stretcher. Through the fog, he catches glimpses—Matthew’s worried face, Hanbin holding back a visibly distressed Jiwoong, the strobe of emergency lights flashing through the windows, painting the walls in red and blue.
The realization hits him late—he almost died. Yet somehow, the embarrassment outweighs the fear and the anaphylaxis. He nearly died in a Pokémon costume, done in by a kiss.
At least he’ll have one hell of a story for the next party, Taerae thinks to himself as the ambulance doors slam shut. Assuming, of course, he ever gathers the courage to leave his room again.
—
Taerae hates hospitals.
He hates the antiseptic smell that stings his nose, the squeaky linoleum floors that amplify every footstep, and especially the scratchy sheets that feel like sandpaper compared to his Egyptian cotton ones at home.
He shifts against the stiff pillows, searching for a position that doesn’t make his back ache. The ghostly pallor from earlier has given way to his usual warm complexion, but his muscles still feel like they’ve been put through a marathon. The EpiPen had done its job—maybe a little too well, leaving him jittery and exhausted all at once.
Matthew, sprawled in the visitor’s chair with all the casual grace of someone who’s been camped out for hours, doesn’t even look up from his phone as he asks, “Need me to adjust anything?”
“I need you to stop showing me animal memes,” Taerae croaks. “My throat still hurts too much to laugh.”
“No can do.” Matthew tilts his phone screen, displaying a picture of a disgruntled duckling. “Look, it’s your twin.”
Before Taerae can muster a suitably scathing response, a hesitant knock at the door draws their attention. His heart does a complicated little flip when Jiwoong appears in the doorway, looking worlds different from the sleek vampire who’d kissed him just hours ago. The costume is gone, replaced by wrinkled sweats and a hoodie that’s clearly seen better days. The harsh lights catch the shadows under his eyes, and he’s fidgeting with something behind his back.
“Sorry, I can come back later if—”
“Come in,” Matthew interrupts, pushing himself up from his chair and giving Taerae a knowing look. “I’ll give you guys some privacy.” As he passes Jiwoong, he pauses to give him a pat on the shoulder. “Try not to kill him this time, yeah?”
“Seriously?” Taerae glares daggers at his friend’s back. “Can you not?”
Matthew’s only response is to make a kissy face before disappearing through the door.
The room feels too quiet once it closes. Jiwoong approaches the bed carefully, finally revealing what he’s been hiding—a small black cat plushie with velvety fur and a red ribbon tied around its neck. Its googly eyes are slightly askew, giving it an endearingly worried expression that perfectly mirrors Jiwoong’s own.
“I brought you something,” Jiwoong mumbles, holding it out. “I, uh, didn’t really know what to get and the hospital gift shop selection wasn’t great. But this little guy seemed... friendly?”
Taerae takes the plushie, running his fingers over its soft fur. The IV line tugs slightly with the movement, a quiet reminder of where they are and why. “It’s cute. Thank you.”
Jiwoong sinks onto the stool beside the bed, shoulders heavy with guilt. “I am so, so sorry about all this. I should have asked about allergies or—”
“Stop.” Taerae cuts him off, “When was the last time you asked someone about their food allergies before kissing them? Who actually does that?”
“Still, I feel awful. When you couldn’t breathe properly, I—” Jiwoong’s voice cracks slightly. “I’ve never felt so useless in my life.”
“Hey.” Taerae reaches out, catching Jiwoong’s restless hands with his own. “I’m okay now. Though I have to admit, this wasn’t exactly how I pictured my night ending.”
A small smile tugs at Jiwoong’s lips. He turns his hand over, carefully lacing their fingers together. His thumb traces gentle circles on Taerae’s skin, as if reassuring himself that yes, he was really okay.
“Listen,” Jiwoong says, leaning forward. “I know this is probably the worst possible timing, but... I’d really like to see you again. You know, when you’re not in a hospital bed and I’m not your potential murderer.”
Taerae laughs, then winces as it pulls at his still-tender throat. “Well, you’ve already seen me at my worst. It can only go up from here, right?”
“Definitely.” Jiwoong’s expression grows serious. “I really do like you though, Taerae. Enough to risk going down as the worst first meeting in history.”
A gentle tap on the doorframe interrupts them. A nurse stands there with a clipboard, offering an apologetic smile. “I need to check your vitals, Mr. Kim.”
“Right, of course.” Jiwoong reluctantly untangles their fingers. He pats his pockets before spotting a hospital pamphlet on the bedside table. “Actually, before I go…”
He grabs the piece of paper, scribbling something on the back before folding it and pressing it into Taerae’s hand. His touch lingers a moment longer than necessary.
“Text me if you need anything. Even if it’s just to complain about being bored.”
“I will.”
Jiwoong hesitates at the door, looking like he wants to say more, before offering a small wave and slipping past the waiting nurse.
The nurse approaches, hanging her clipboard at the foot of the bed as she reaches for the blood pressure cuff. “Let’s have a quick look,” she says, wrapping it around Taerae’s arm. The machine whirs to life, and she glances at the plushie with a warm expression. “How cute. From your boyfriend?”
Taerae’s fingers absently brush over the ribbon. “Uh.. something like that.”
The cuff deflates with a soft hiss. “Well, your blood pressure’s looking good,” she says, noting the reading. “Try to get some rest, okay?”
Taerae nods, but his attention is already on the folded pamphlet in his hand. He smooths out the paper, reading Jiwoong’s hastily scrawled number and the message beneath: Let’s get coffee next time (if you’re not allergic, that is) :P
Despite the scratchy sheets, the lingering soreness in his throat, and the general absurdity of spending Halloween in the ER, something warm blooms in Taerae’s chest. As far as disasters go, this one had turned out surprisingly well.
Matthew pokes his head back in, brandishing his phone with a shit-eating grin. “You’re not going to believe this, but someone got the whole thing on video. Want to see?”
Taerae groans, pulling the thin hospital blanket over his face. “I hate you so much right now.”
“No, you don’t.” Matthew’s voice is impossibly fond as he reclaims his chair. “Besides, think of it this way—now you’ve got the perfect story for your future wedding.”
“Don’t make me throw this cat at you.”