wouldn't want to waste

meet WES, hyphenated real estate agent in a modest abode (or so he believes) on M6. he’s tired when he’s not at work but he loves a good chat otw up to his place and hates forgetting names. kind of an insomniac (*covers wes’ ears, eyes, and nose* which there are reasons for that may or may not be related to.... y’know.... yeah....), thinks yellow’s a nice color, not really homesick (he IS sick of home, though), [ cue other first world millennial woes here ]

wes, the skeptic

night 1: he’ll tag along with anyone who invites him to the set but you are subjecting yourself to his endless impressions of shane madej all night. back at the complex he washes up, notices the fog out his window. “how fitting,” he says, going to bed without heeding the hallway

night 2: on the way home from work, he notices random prints that weren’t there before, convincing himself that the staff was a little late on decorating the complex. drip, drip, drip... but he’s already inside his unit, and the handprints on his window are condensed over. it’s colder inside than out, but whatever, maybe it’s just the ac.

night 3: he’s a wine guy, and bars aren’t the best place for that so home it is. it’s movie marathon night, and any introverts are invited. by the end of the third one, you figure it’s time to go home but whatever’s in the hallway makes you [ x, i’m leaving this up to you ]

night 4: oop, there’s that stupid vertigo. wes stays inside his unit and decides to sleep it off. hours later, he’s wide awake. *AHHHH!* he can’t say he’s surprised, though

night 5: u saying goody’s in charge of the cookies this year? count him in. wearing some last minute DIY with whatever he owns (+ paint he might’ve borrowed from ya). late at night, the legend herself is knocking on his door, tired beyond her years, and all he says is, “catering’s no joke, huh”

“I think,” Wes continues, still on about something in between reps, “it was a wakeup call for me.” Hoisting the barbell above his head one last time, he looks at Sunghyun with a raised brow. “Pineapple definitely belongs on pizza, but not just with ham. Mushrooms, green bell peppers, parmesan, pepper flakes...” which is so good at BYOP (Build Your Own Pizza) places, especially—more for yourself. Having to put down the barbell back on the floor is reason enough not to see what Sunghyun exactly thinks about that combo.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to make you hungry.” Or maybe just himself. He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “Do you guys eat enough at work?” Taking a swig of his water, Wes motions vaguely at Sunghyun’s... everything. “You need it if you’re standing on your feet for so many hours at a time, right?”

A good hour later...

(draft) [ to: sungho ] sorry dude, i’m trying to sleep

Not that that ever goes well. Plus your own stamina always surprises you when you least expect it, and maybe his pal’s just really, really having a good time. It’s not like it’s a party... he doesn’t seem the type. Who does anyway, with these walls?

Thirty minutes later

Wes knocks. He wanted to give the guy next door the benefit of the doubt, so he did, and sure enough, it wasn’t him. Who else sounds like Sungho though, especially when doing stuff? Like, anything. Sungho’s timbre is pretty deep as it is; you could hear it from a mile away, truly.

The eighth floor is not that far, however, so like, what the heck, right? Here he is, getting nothing in response as he knocks again. “Sungho?” 

It’s so quiet from the other side... Is this an inconvenience? A convenience too late? He’s a little peeved that it’s both.

A shower and and an hour of experimenting in his kitchen later, Wes is still fixated on what should have been dinner by now, paying more attention to HBO Max in the background. It’s at low volume, which should be fine until it apparently isn’t? The doorbell ringing is more obnoxious than Wambsgans being a suck-up and a bully back-to-back. Wes decides to keep on his apron, mostly so whoever’s at his front door can take a hint that he’s busy (will they really think that, though?) making... well, none of your business (it’s not any good).

Wes opens the door and frowns, if he wasn’t already. He continues to feel yucky. “Oh.” He itches his brow, quickly glancing at what’s-her-face from head to toe, only remembering that they’re not... yeah. “No shame, huh?”

“True,” he mutters, avoiding the stairs and heading straight for the elevator. Eyebags, while technically genetic and not a product of lack of sleep (at least originally), are something he’d rather talk about than how the weather is (A: I haven’t been able to enjoy it) or what someone’s kid genius nephew is up to (A: Sorry, who again?) at this point. Silence makes company instead, bliss feeling almost foreign as he makes it out the complex.

There’s a corner shop he likes getting gum and canned coffee from, mostly because it’s closer than all the others. Wes wishes he could run, because the sooner they’re in his hand, the better, but who would’ve thought running was a luxury, too? Those who can’t, obviously. He finds it grievous that that’s his case at 27 despite being fairly fit, and sighs when he walks in, as if this is take 35 on set, since that’s how fine and dandy life feels today.

Wes walks to the section containing pain relievers, fever reducers, anything of the sort. It pains him to see another person where he needs to be, partly in case she feels like talking, but otherwise because surely no one needs these pills more than he does (duh, she’s just there because she wants to know what else is in these aside from ibuprofen, obviously). He takes a deep breath and stops inches away from her, eyeing Advil and hoping that’s all he has to make contact with. “Excuse me,” he says, covering his mouth as he’s threatened by another round of nausea. You don’t work here, so I hope you don’t think that I think so. I just need to get a hold of this before this shit continues—

God, another hurl. Wes looks away momentarily, wincing and praying that his head maybe behaves for five more minutes. Can’t even afford to be embarrassed anymore, huh. He crouches down and puts his hand out, pointing vaguely to wherever the Advil is. “Sorry, do you mind passing me a bottle?” Brief enough, no? Please, please don’t make small talk.