Archive of Our Own ^beta

Theory 1: Jeon Wonwoo is not capable of human interaction.

It’s with absolute horror that Mingyu, at possibly the booziest party of the entire semester, realizes that he may be the only sober person within a one-kilo radius.

Mingyu’s one of those people who’s mastered the art of small talk and surface-level friendship, so his social circle is fairly nebulous and contains all sorts of people. They aren’t overly close-knit, so the phenomena of feeling lonely in a crowded room happens more often than not, but they’re familiar enough to group-crash parties, familiar enough to have done it enough times for a drinking system to be in order.

It works like this: Mingyu does not get drunk because of complications with his meds, and Jisoo does not get drunk because he has a set of morals that Mingyu might not necessarily understand but highly respects. When the system malfunctions, it’s usually due to Mingyu slipping up, but this time, it’s the opposite.

---

It’s dark, with music blasting from the speakers. Mingyu’s sitting on the couch and trying to beat his high score on Piano Tiles, which, since he’s lost all feeling in his fingers, isn’t going so well. He blearily rubs his eyes and realizes it’s late; he wants to go home. Or at least to the campus restaurant for fries. He really wants fries.

His phone pings, and he taps on the notification. It’s Jisoo—actually, where is that guy?

jisoo: … hi?

me: where r u dude we can’t let hansol steal a stop sign like last time

jisoo: eh you sound sober enough i guess

jisoo: this isn’t jisoo btw he’s currently passed out on my bed

jisoo: ur number was saved as ‘the other sober one’ so i texted u

me: holy shit

me: is he okay?????? wait omg who is this and do u even know him

not jisoo: he’s drooling but otherwise i think he’s fine

not jisoo: and im jeonghan, dw i’m too tired to do anything weird lol

That last text is anything but reassuring, but there isn’t much Mingyu can do about it now. He slides his phone into his pocket and stands up, squashing down the wave of panic that’s currently forcing its way up his esophagus. Mingyu checks his memory: he’d come here with four other people beside Jisoo, and the last time he’d seen them, they were already wasted.

Mingyu sends a general apology to the vague direction of the sky, wonders what he did wrong in a past life to warrant this punishment, and starts looking. It’s difficult; he rams into a couple every ten feet in various degrees of undress, and it’s so hot and crowded and loud. His temples throb.

---

The first one he finds is Soonyoung, cheeks flushed and semi-unconscious. Someone’s phone number is scribbled on his arm in Sharpie. Mingyu shakes the non-sharpied arm.

“Hey. Hey. Say something.”

“Naega Hosh,” Soonyoung slurs, eyes half-open.

“That isn’t a catchphrase,” Mingyu amends.

Soonyoung giggles, leaning forward. “What time is it? TEN HOUR TEN MINUTE!”

Then he promptly falls asleep again. Mingyu curses. He wonders if he should call Minghao. His roommate probably wouldn’t appreciate getting woken up at three in the morning, but Mingyu needs the backup.

“Um,” someone says from next to him, voice so soft that Mingyu almost can’t hear it over the pounding bass and general drunken atmosphere, “can you make him drink this?”

A hand is extended, holding a plastic Aqua Springs. Mingyu swivels his head. The person holding the water looks vaguely familiar and extremely uncomfortable. His eyes are dark, and he’s somehow dressed in a hoodie despite the fact that the room’s at a temperature of approximately ninety-eight-point-six.

Mingyu pinpoints the name after five seconds—Jeon Wonwoo— and double-takes. Wonwoo’s in Mingyu’s calc class, and he always sits in the back and never speaks. Which is all fine and dandy, but he’s hot, so people talk. Accounts of attempting to ask the boy out have been catalogued as an acceptable horror story to tell around the campfire.

But Mingyu does not give a shit about that right now. He’s desperate. So he grabs the water bottle and says, “Please help me.”

Wonwoo’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

Mingyu launches into one of his patented rambles, the kind that makes people say yes just to get him to shut up. This strategy’s got a ninety-percent success rate.

“Okay, so my friends and I usually have this buddy system for parties, but my friend who never gets drunk is drunk and MIA and also possibly dead, and now I have to get four very wasted guys back to the dorms, which are all the way on the other side of campus, and I can’t do this alone, okay. So? Please? I’ll pay you.”

Wonwoo takes ten seconds to answer. Mingyu holds his breath. “Okay.” Mingyu exhales. “And you don’t have to pay me. I don’t want to be here, anyway.”

“Wait—yeah, so why are you here, then?” Mingyu says, squinting.

Wonwoo shrugs uncomfortably and says, “Seungcheol told me I should come.”

And Mingyu is very close to blurting something stupid out like holy shit, you have friends, but (1) that’s rude, and he’s not in a position to say rude things right now, and (2) Seungcheol can make friends with a lamppost if he tries hard enough. So Mingyu keeps his mouth shut.

Mingyu just says, “I’ll meet you back here,” and motors around the house to find everyone else. Fortunately, the rest of them aren’t as bad as Soonyoung. Hansol’s retained most of his motor functions, and Seokmin is just a more confused version of himself. Jihoon walks in a zigzag and attempts to cuddle with a pole. In any other setting, Mingyu would find that hilarious.

When Mingyu gets back with the three of them in tow, Wonwoo gives him a thumbs-up and proceeds to pour his water on Soonyoung’s head, effectively waking him up. Mingyu hooks one of Soonyoung’s arms around his shoulders, and the six of them make their way outside.

It's cold out, a half-moon hanging in an inky black sky. At least fifty beer bottles are littered out on the yard, interspersed with cigarette butts. Mingyu wrinkles his nose.

“Uuugh, I actually hate everything,” he says, tilting his head back. He adjusts one of Soonyoung’s arms. “At least I’m out of there, though.”

“Really?” Wonwoo says, sounding surprised. At Mingyu’s inquisitive look, he adds, “You talk a lot in class, so I’d thought you’d like this stuff. Sorry to assume.”

Mingyu’s a little floored that he noticed. “I mean, I like people. It’s just, these parties are basically built around the concept of drinking, and that’s not something I do. It’s pretty funny to talk to drunk people, though. Jihoon here”—he gestures to him—“will drunk-write song lyrics that are actually pretty good. But after a while, it gets tiring, you know?”

It takes another two beats for Wonwoo to respond. Like he’s reminding himself, small talk is a polite thing, as is putting up with the really tall kid who coerced me into getting his friends home. “Why don’t you drink?”

“Meds,” Mingyu says bluntly.

Wonwoo looks like he’s just been told to walk across a mile of eggshells without breaking anything. “Oh- uh-”

“It’s not a touchy subject or anything,” Mingyu reassures him. “It’s just not something I bring up unless someone asks first.”

Wonwoo dips his head in acknowledgement, and Mingyu opens up the door of his secondhand car and forces Hansol, Soonyoung, Jihoon, and Seokmin in. The back seat only seats three, so he puts Jihoon on Soonyoung’s lap, hoping that Jihoon is drunk enough not to remember anything in the morning.

Wonwoo bends over to buckle the seat belts over their chests, a gesture Mingyu finds strangely endearing, before climbing into the front seat. Mingyu yawns and takes two tries to rev up the engine, saying, “I’m sorry. Again. For dragging you out here.”

Wonwoo gives him a flat stare. “You’re fine. I already told you I didn’t want to be there. Like you said, parties aren’t so great when you’re sober, and I don’t drink either.”

“Because he’s a total lightweight,” Soonyoung pipes up from the back, words and phrases suddenly very coherent. “I have a video on my drive of him stripping from last year. It’s great.”

“What the fuck?” Wonwoo mutters.

“You dumped water on my head,” Soonyoung explains.

Wonwoo looks he like he’s about to have an aneurysm. But then he sighs and turns to Mingyu.

“So yeah, what he said.”

“I’m sure you’re very good at stripping,” Mingyu says before slapping a hand over his mouth because what the hell ? “Uh-”

“Please don’t try to make me feel better.”

“That was out of line, I know,” Mingyu groans. “I swear I’m usually not this bad.”

“No. I’ve seen the video. There is literally nothing you can say to make it okay.”  

Mingyu nods mutely, wheeling the car into the lot of the campus dorms. He deposits everyone off at Hansol’s room, probably filled with his collection of bandanas and stolen street signs, before climbing back into the car. “Wild night,” he comments. “Hey, so, uh-”

Wonwoo stares. It’s unnerving.

Mingyu fumbles. “I suddenly want fries, so do you, uh, want to come with me? It doesn’t have to be fries, just food in general? I’ll pay.”

The silence after that is maybe three seconds long but stretches as long and taut as a pulled rubber band. “Um,” Wonwoo says. “I’m- really tired. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Mingyu says, pulling his mouth into a grin and hoping that the dimples will be enough to make it look genuine. It’s fine, he doesn’t even know why he asked, Wonwoo obviously would not want to go get any kind of food with the guy who basically coerced him into dragging his wasted friends home-

“I mean, maybe not now,” Wonwoo says, quiet but apologetic. “It’s really not you. There were a lot of people today.”

“Oh, okay.” Mingyu vaguely remembers reading an article about introversion and wonders if that might be Wonwoo. He’s not certain; he isn’t a psych major, and Wonwoo very well might just be trying not to let him down too hard.

“My dorm’s in that direction.” Wonwoo points to a place a few buildings down. “So, um, bye. I guess I’ll see you in class.” He turns around to leave.

“Can I get your number?” Mingyu blurts out, then recoils because he is going to be another horror story. And he’s not even trying to ask Wonwoo out. “Because I owe you, and if you ever want food. I promise I won’t spam you with memes every day.”

He cringes at the implication that he spams everyone else with memes, before deciding he doesn’t care because memes are fucking fabulous.

“Okay,” Wonwoo says, interrupting Mingyu’s trainwreck of a request. He holds out a hand expectantly, and it takes Mingyu a solid five seconds to figure out what he’s getting at. When he does, he curses out his own stupidity.

Mingyu’s fingers are numb, and it takes him another painful few seconds to fish his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. Wonwoo takes it and keys in his digits, which Mingyu hopes are accurate. He’d be disappointed if Wonwoo gave him a fake number, but he absolutely wouldn’t blame him. I’m sure you’re very good at stripping.

“See you,” Mingyu says.

Wonwoo waves. Mingyu stares blankly at the wheel, feeling a little lost. He doesn’t actually end up getting fries; instead, he gets a fitful three hours of sleep sitting in the parking lot, wakes up with neck cramps, and then goes to eat some pancakes over at the nearby Waffle House. At seven, he gets a text.

It’s stupid how fast he reaches for his phone, with the hope that it might be Wonwoo. It’s not, but Mingyu isn’t too disappointed. Jisoo’s got some explaining to do.

not jisoo: i’m really sorry!!

not jisoo: my flask got switched with hansol’s last night

not jisoo: this is jisoo btw

me: lolol it’s fine you okay? and alive?

jisoo: yeah i’m okay… but liSTEN

Apparently, he’d woken up half an hour ago with a pounding headache, a stranger sleeping away on the bed next to him. After said stranger had woken up, Jisoo offered him the pack of Sour Patch Kids gum he had in his back pocket all the while apologizing profusely for having a one night stand with him.

jisoo: and then he told me we didn’t have sex but took the gum what does this mean??

Mingyu rolls his eyes and texts back an appropriately emoji-filled reaction, smiling wanly into his pancakes. What the hell, Jisoo. Never change.

Theory 2: Jeon Wonwoo has the IQ and personality of your average AI.

Minghao may or may not be the actual devil incarnate.

Actually, that’s not exactly true. He’s a good roommate—he and Mingyu have a system where Mingyu cooks and Minghao cleans because Minghao can’t cook to save his life and Mingyu is apparently unhygienic or something—and he’s smart and dedicated to a fault. He’s like the guy that all the neighborhood moms wanted their kids to be friends with because “he’s such a nice boy.”

On closer inspection, though, Minghao is by no means a good influence. It’s not that he’s unkind, just that every conversation with him feels a little like a chess match. One that Mingyu loses every single time.

It’s the twenty minute gap in the evening where neither he nor Minghao are particularly occupied, eating the dinner Mingyu cooked. It’s a new dish, a food that Minghao said he liked eating back in China. Mingyu knows it’s not that good—it’s never good the first time he tries a new recipe—but Minghao beams and tells him it’s great.

“So,” Minghao says dryly. “How’d the party go? No one died?”

Minghao hadn’t gone because he’d been cramming for midterms (which Mingyu probably should’ve done instead of succumbing to peer pressure), and Mingyu should’ve just said it went fine. Or something equally vague.

But instead he rants: about how Jisoo and Hansol had decided to buy identical flasks and then store identical drinks in them (minus the fact that one had vodka and the other didn’t), how Soonyoung was a vengeful drunk, how Hansol tried to steal another street sign, how Wonwoo, Wonwoo, Wonwoo—

“In summary,” Minghao says. “Wonwoo is really hot.”

“Yes,” Mingyu says, then: “Wait, what? No! When did I even say that?”

“You basically did, though,” Minghao says in this patronizing tone of voice, like he’s explaining to a child that red and yellow make orange. “He’s hot, right?”

“Okay, yeah, so hot. But that’s not the point. Everyone we know is hot. There’s some osmosis-level shit going on.”

Mingyu is immune to hotness at this point—Junhui was basically his vaccine.

“You can shut up, since you’re ridiculously pretty yourself,” Minghao says, pointedly ignoring Mingyu’s preening. One point to Mingyu. “You got his number, right? You should text him.”

“I’m not texting Wonwoo,” Mingyu says, trying to nonverbally convey that Minghao should totally tell Mingyu to text him.  

“Wait, really?” Minghao says, confused. “That’s not a you thing to do.”

“Texting him would be weird,” Mingyu presses. Tell me it won’t be weird.

Minghao shrugs. “Whatever, I’m not pushing it. Remember last time I got involved?”

Which is Minghao-speak for I’m totally getting involved.

Actually, Mingyu’s told at least a dozen people what happened at the party, so he can’t pinpoint blame on any one person, but what happens is that Mingyu ends up hearing that Wonwoo has this amazing study guide for calc midterms.

Mingyu needs this amazing study guide. Actually, he’ll take any study guide, amazing or not, because calc is depressingly difficult and he can’t remember any formulae. So he taps on Wonwoo’s contact and opens up a new conversation thread with him, acutely aware that this will be the second favor he’s asking of Wonwoo in the span of two conversations.

It takes him a good five minutes to figure out what to say, finally deciding to go with hey!! Two exclamations. Two exclamation points sounds warm, while not overly psychopathic.

Wonwoo doesn’t reply for three hours, and Mingyu decides it’s probably because of the exclamation points, right, he should’ve just gone with no punctuation in general. When his phone pings with the notification, he dives across the bed to get it.

wonwoo: hello, i think you have the wrong number?

me: wait what

me: this is wonwoo right

No reply for another five minutes. Mingyu decides that if this person is a stranger, they’re going to get an earful (eyeful?) of ranting about how Mingyu should never go partying with anyone ever again. Even if it gets him blocked. Especially if it gets him blocked. It means that Mingyu is sad enough to warner a stranger tapping two extra buttons to shut him up.

wonwoo: no, this is wonwoo. sorry. you never texted me before.

me: eh i didn’t want to bother you

wonwoo: it’s fine either way; i don’t check my phone very often.

me: cool

Mingyu blearily stares at the screen. Is that a semicolon?

No, Wonwoo’s perfectly fine using semicolons and academic grammar when Mingyu’s coming up with insightful one-word responses like cool . This is a conversational trainwreck. Mingyu acknowledges this and presses forward.

me: uh so someone said you had a calc study guide?

me: please share it with me? sorry i sound like an asshole i’m just desperate

wonwoo: you’re fine. and i’d share my study guide with you if i had one, but i’m really bad at calculus. i don’t know why the college grapevine thinks i’m good at math.

me: i mean you look smart i guess? idk everyone seems to think i like parties + drinking

me: which i mean, you know i don’t

me: but yeah um… if you’re also bad at math we could study together sometime? again, i’m supposed to buy you fries at some point

Mingyu holds his breath when the three dots appear.

wonwoo: i’m fairly certain the fry criterion was self-imposed, but sure. next wednesday at five?

Mingyu is so relieved that Wonwoo accepted that he doesn’t remember to type back yes until a good half hour later. He doesn’t feel too bad about it, actually. If Wonwoo is waiting, so be it; he made that short conversation like pulling teeth.

---

In hindsight, Mingyu realizes that his apprehension while talking to Wonwoo might have been a little abnormal. (There was cold sweat trickling down his sides afterwards).

Google diagnoses it as a crush, which is like WebMD telling him he has cancer: very unlikely. Mingyu is immune to hotness. And Wonwoo’s got nothing else, right? He uses semicolons in texts and makes Mingyu wait a good five minutes for every reply.

Although, Mingyu acknowledges, if he looks past all that, the actual stuff Wonwoo says is kind of cool. But Mingyu rolls his eyes, decides that he’s spent enough thought on this boy, and chalks it up to it being Mingyu needing confirmation that people still like him. Even from those as unapproachable as Wonwoo.

He shows up at the restaurant at four-thirty because it’s the tail end of Seungkwan’s shift. Seungkwan is extra in a way that Mingyu can totally get aboard, and he’ll also stick various coupons to Mingyu’s meal and reduce his price by fifty percent.

“Dude, can I get some more of those, actually?” Mingyu says, gesturing at the coupon packet discreetly paper-clipped to Seungkwan’s clipboard. “I got someone coming in half an hour.”

“Sure!” Seungkwan says, cramming the entire packet into Mingyu’s hand. “These are expiring in a month, just a heads up. Who’s your date?”

Mingyu chokes on a fry. “I’m not on a date.”

“You’re here with that Wonwoo dude, right?” Seungkwan says curiously, sliding into the booth and whacking Mingyu on the back.

“How do you know this,” Mingyu hisses as soon as he gets the french fry bits out of his trachea. “I’m legitimately concerned. I didn’t tell anyone about it. Did you guys learn telepathy? Oh my god, you guys learned telepathy, didn’t you.”

“I’m friends with Hansol who’s friends with Jisoo who’s friends with Minghao,” Seungkwan casually recites like that’s not the most twisted thread that Mingyu has ever heard.

“So basically telepathy.”

“A little, I guess. Yeah. Date?”

“No. No date,” Mingyu says vehemently, jabbing at Seungkwan’s chest with a french fry for emphasis. “I’m studying with him because—well, actually, it’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

The bell dings, and Wonwoo walks in, hoodie pulled up over his head and textbook tucked under his arm.

“No you don’t,” Mingyu says, and shoves Seungkwan out of the booth. Seungkwan gives him a wounded glare and leaves, but not before singing a few pointed lines of BTS’s Boy in Luv. Mingyu shrinks in on himself. Nevermind, he cannot get aboard Seungkwan’s extraness. This is just too much.

Wonwoo slides into the seat opposite Mingyu. There are bags under his eyes, and he looks like he's uncomfortable in his own skin. Like he wishes he were someone else, somewhere else.

“Hey,” Wonwoo says, shy.

“Hi,” Mingyu beams, careful to keep any stray exclamation marks out of his voice. He slides his notes and textbook to the side, saying, “What do you want?”

“You’re actually buying me fries?”

“Uh, yes?”

“I don’t—helping you with your drunk friends is just a decent thing to do. You really don’t owe me anything.”

“Look at this.” Mingyu holds up the coupon packet. “My friend gave it to me. Your purchase will not even add up to a thousand won.”

“Which friend?” Wonwoo asks, staring at the coupon book in slight apprehension.

“One of the waiters here,” Mingyu says. “Name’s Seungkwan. He hates when other people do aegyo, but he’s one of the cutest people on the planet, so I don’t get how that works.”

“Ah.” Wonwoo flicks through the coupon book, tearing three off and handing them to Mingyu. “... For me it’s vice versa.”

Mingyu has to take a moment to think about this. “You don’t mind when people do aegyo? Really?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “It’s not my business what other people do,” and Mingyu supposes he can’t argue with that logic. Wonwoo orders the same thing as Mingyu, except he replaces the shake with chocolate milk because that’s what’s covered by the coupon. Wonwoo doesn’t look half as scary with a cartoon chocolate cow a few centimeters to the side.

He looks kind of cute, and not in a physical way. In a dangerous way, a way that Mingyu is by no means immune to.

Mingyu shakes this thought off and opens up his textbook to the review section, thumbing through the pages. “So... how good are you at calc?”

Wonwoo says it bluntly. “I royally suck.”

“Are you just saying that, or like, do you actually suck…?”

“Do I look like the kind of person who’s familiar with the intricacies of casual slang?” Wonwoo sighs, and Mingyu’s eyes widen. “Just. Have you ever seen me in class?”

“Um—” Mingyu stumbles. “Yes.” He wonders if Wonwoo is aware of all the rumors that fly around him, he’s so hot, he’s probably a serial killer, he’s really kinky in bed—

“I usually have a novel open in between the textbook pages,” Wonwoo says, and here, Mingyu laughs, really laughs. “I hate math. I can’t do it.”

“Got it,” Mingyu says, and Wonwoo takes out his notes. They’re awful, a few halfhearted equations and haphazard graphs. Most of it is covered in song lyrics: crammed in the margins, squeezed between the numbers, written along the axes. Mingyu comments that he doesn’t recognize most of them, and Wonwoo says that’s probably because he writes them himself.

(“In your math notebook?”

“Inspiration strikes in weird places.”)

Wonwoo tells him about how he raps from time to time and really likes it, and Mingyu half-gushes, half-complains about how everyone he knows is ridiculously talented. He realizes a minute into his rant that Wonwoo has completely frozen solid at all his compliments, so Mingyu apologizes and lowers his voice to a more acceptable tone.

He says that his friend Jihoon (“the one who composes when drunk?” ) (“yeah, that one” ) has been looking for a rapper to fill in the spaces, and if Wonwoo wants, Mingyu can tell Jihoon about him.

“You should rap for me sometime,” Mingyu says excitedly, then wonders if he went too far.

He doesn’t expect the small smile to settle over Wonwoo’s mouth—and. What the fuck. That’s such a great smile. “Maybe,” Wonwoo says. “I need the practice…”

And it turns out that Wonwoo, true to his word, is actually very bad at math. It’s in a totally different way than Mingyu, who’s fine if he knows what formulas to apply. Mingyu ends up explaining how to do most of the problems, and he crosses his fingers that he’s not feeding Wonwoo false information.

At nine, Wonwoo says he needs to go.

“Ah, same,” Mingyu says, considering bringing Minghao a burger because he can’t really cook tonight. “I-”

“I think, by your standards, I owe you,” Wonwoo says, and there it is again. That smile. “So I’ll buy you fries next time, if you study with me.”

“Okay, that sounds good,” Mingyu says. “Bye!” He can’t quite keep the exclamation points out of his voice. He tries, though. One and a half, at most, which is better than the two dozen currently filling his brain.

On second thought, Minghao doesn’t deserve a burger, not after that weird conversation with Seungkwan. But Mingyu buys one anyway because of the coupons. And roommate duties. Seriously, he’s too nice.

Theory 3: Jeon Wonwoo is a psychopath. Or a serial killer. Or emo. One of those.

Mingyu is well aware that the rumor mill is a powerful thing, but only in an indirect way. He’s never been caught in its meshes before; he’s relatively uninteresting, with a nonexistent love life (he’s only dated maybe half a person in his entire college career), but somehow, after only two of his and Wonwoo’s study sessions, Mingyu has become a target.

He walks into the restaurant slightly traumatized. Wonwoo’s thumbing through the coupons with a blank look on his face, calculus book pushed to the side.

“Oh, hi,” Wonwoo says.

“Did you know that half of campus thinks we’re fuck buddies?” Mingyu asks in disbelief. Over the course of the past few days, he’s been questioned on the size of Wonwoo’s dick, whether he’s into bondage, if he’s a top or a bottom—just. Mingyu is done.

“Uh,” Wonwoo says carefully, “we’re not sleeping together?”

“No, we’re not sleeping together,” Mingyu assures. “We have been eating fries in a restaurant and studying. I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered if sex was in there.”

Wonwoo nods, like he’s actually grateful for Mingyu’s clarification. “Does it bother you?” he asks.

“Nah, not really,” Mingyu says. “I mean, it weirds me out a little bit, I guess. Have you had people ask you about my dick?”

Wonwoo gives himself a paper cut. He yelps out a small “no,” and this is possibly the loudest Mingyu has ever heard him speak. “I guess people are too scared to talk to me,” he says, calmer, afterwards. “So I guess they’d uh, ask you.”

“Don’t worry, I made sure to deny you were into exhibitionism.”

Wonwoo’s face contorts into an expression of sheer disgust, and Mingyu almost laughs. Wonwoo says, “This one girl did tearfully run up to me and tell me she hopes you make my ovaries explode.”

Mingyu snorts. “I don’t think you have ovaries?”

“I hope this is the case.”

“People are so weird,” Mingyu says. He gestures to the calculus textbook, weird symbols all across the page. “What kind of foreplay is this?”

Wonwoo shrugs. “Maybe they think you’re calculating the angle between my legs.”

Wonwoo’s face remains impassive, and Mingyu isn’t even eating fries when he chokes, burying his face on the table. Thirty seconds later, after Wonwoo’s soft are you okay, he wheezes, “I wouldn’t put it past them.”

---

They make good progress on the textbook—midterms are a few weeks off, so covering one chapter at a time works out fine. Mingyu tries his best to explain the concepts and to keep himself on track, but their study sessions almost always derail into something completely unrelated to math. Like right now, Mingyu’s stacking fries on top of each other, Jenga-style, the calculus book forgotten.

“These fries are terrible,” Wonwoo says, helping him adjust the pile. The waitress walking over gives them a dirty look.

“Aren’t they?” Mingyu says. “And I actually can’t live without them. It’s awful. The soccer coach hates me for it.”

“You play soccer?”

Mingyu nods. “Yeah, it’s a side thing, though. Back in middle school, I was a lot more serious. Our team made it to Nationals. Didn’t get first, though, but that’s okay.”

“You still went to Nationals,” Wonwoo points out. “I don’t think I’ve ever made it to Nationals for anything. I remember entering a song into a competition and getting kicked out in the second round.”

“Your song lyrics are so good, though,” Mingyu says, surprised.

Wonwoo shrugs. “They definitely didn’t used to be,” he says. “And anyway, I guess people will listen when I create something worth hearing.” He stiffens at his own words, like Mingyu wasn’t supposed to hear that. “Are you first string?”

Mingyu shakes his head. “Second. I could probably make first, if I worked hard enough, but that would mean giving up these awful fries. And drinking kale smoothies.” He laughs at the expression on Wonwoo’s face. “I just don’t like it enough, I guess.”

“That makes sense.” Wonwoo stacks the last french fry atop their tower. Mingyu slides a french fry out from the middle and puts it in his mouth, raising an eyebrow to see if Wonwoo will do the same. Their french fry tower is unstable, but it’s pretty short and probably won’t flood the restaurant if things go badly.

Wonwoo takes a fry out from near the bottom.

“Remind me never to play Jenga with you,” Mingyu says, staring in fascination as the fries sway and right themselves.

Mingyu ends up causing the entire thing to topple two rounds after, and he shrugs, swirls them in ketchup, and starts popping them in his mouth. Even the ones that fell on the table. To Wonwoo’s credit, he doesn’t bat an eye.

“Have you done that before?” Wonwoo asks.

“What?”

“The fry tower.”

“Probably, at some point. My mom used to hate taking me to restaurants when I was a kid. I could never sit still.”

Wonwoo rolls his eyes. “My mom wished the opposite thing. I just sat there and read. She thought I wasn’t normal.”

Mingyu wishes he’d known Wonwoo when he was younger. Maybe his kid self would’ve found Wonwoo boring, but Mingyu would like to think they’d balance each other out. Mingyu could’ve read Wonwoo’s books over his shoulder, and they could mess around with the crayons as all the adults talked about taxes and grown-up shit.

And no one would accuse them of being fuck buddies.

---

Mingyu finds Jihoon in one of the practice rooms, eyes closed as he sings, hands pressing chords into the piano. Mingyu knows it’s an original song; Jihoon has more talent in his pinky finger than Mingyu has in his entire body. There is no justice.

Jihoon holds the last note, and Mingyu claps. A dozen curse words fly out of Jihoon’s mouth as he nearly falls off the seat, glaring daggers at Mingyu.

“Sorry,” Mingyu squeaks. “No heart failure?”

“I would’ve made you pay for my hospital bills, anyway,” Jihoon grumbles.

“Please don’t. Student loans are bad enough.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “That’s the point.”

He pulls his legs up on the piano bench, hands clasped around his knees. He looks adorable like this, except if Mingyu told him that, he’d probably get socked in the face. Or kicked in the shins. “Anything you need in particular?” Jihoon asks. “Do you want me to sit on Soonyoung’s lap again?”

“Is that a suggestion?” Jihoon’s face darkens, and Mingyu quickly backtracks. “You were drunk, there were only three possible seats, so someone had to sit on someone.”

Jihoon waves him off. “Technicalities. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, right—you said you needed a rapper, right?” Mingyu says, and breathes an internal sigh of relief at the way Jihoon’s face brightens.

“No way, you found someone?” Jihoon asks.

Mingyu beams. “Yeah.”

“You’re forgiven,” Jihoon says, standing up to his full height, which is still a good half foot shorter than Mingyu. Both of them overlook this fact. “What’s his name? Is he any good? How much taller than me is he?”

Mingyu wisely chooses to ignore this last question. “His name’s Jeon Wonwoo.”

“The emo kid?”

“He’s not emo,” Mingyu protests, then thinks back to the way Wonwoo looks when he’s staring blankly ahead, eyes smoldering and lips set in a perfectly neutral line. “Well, okay, fine, he looks kinda emo. But yeah, him.”

“He’s the one from the party, right?” Jihoon asks, questioning, and Mingyu squirms.

So maybe campus is talking about how he and Wonwoo slept together. Those rumors he can handle; he knows they’re not true. They’re just nameless people, and while it does make Mingyu uncomfortable to know they’re talking, he’s learned to ignore it. They don’t know him. He doesn’t need their validation.

What’s a little harder to ignore is how his friends think that he and Wonwoo have some kind of... thing. He hates how Seungkwan makes sure the playlist is as romantic as possible whenever he’s serving at the restaurant and how Minghao will raise an eyebrow whenever Mingyu’s staring at his phone, waiting for Wonwoo to reply.

And now, Jihoon, who Mingyu is terrified of. If Jihoon accused them of dating, Mingyu isn’t sure he’d have the strength to deny it.

“Have you heard him rap?” Jihoon says evenly, a glint in his eyes. Like he knows that Mingyu is afraid, but he’s letting him off just this once.

“Uh—actually, no,” Mingyu says, apologetic. “He just said he’s been doing it for a long time. And I’ve seen some of the lyrics he wrote. They kind of have the same vibe as yours.”

Jihoon frowns. “Give him my number. You have it, right?”  

Yeah, Mingyu has it, but they don’t text very often. “Okay,” Mingyu says, and then hightails it out of there before Jihoon can stare out any more of his soul.

He gives Wonwoo Jihoon’s number. Wonwoo stares at it like Mingyu just handed him a seventeen-carat diamond before carefully entering it into his phone.

It’s the night after that when Jihoon sends him the message. thanks. he’s really good. And then, a few minutes later- you should hear him sometime. Mingyu drops his phone on the bedside cabinet, rolls over on his bed, and tries to fall asleep.

---

A week later, Wonwoo shows up to the restaurant an hour late. Mingyu’s given up on studying at this point. He’s playing Color Switch and fruitlessly attempting to beat the high score, which isn’t his but his roommate’s. Minghao doesn’t even have Color Switch; he just played it once on Mingyu’s phone because he was bored and mastered it in the space of sixty seconds.

Again, everyone Mingyu knows is disgustingly talented.

He’s still going to bake them all cookies after midterms are over, though. Not because he actually cares about them or anything, but because he won a can of pink Himalayan sugar in a raffle and needs an excuse to use it.

When Minghao had seen the sugar, he’d asked how he’d managed to obtain so much meth. Mingyu had glared and said, meth isn’t even pink, what the fuck, and Minghao had just shrugged and said, knowing you, you’d dye it, which is actually a fairly reasonable assumption when it comes to Mingyu. He hates that his roommate knows him so well.

Mingyu contemplates giving Minghao’s share of the hypothetical cookies to Wonwoo.

Wonwoo slides into the booth, effectively pulling Mingyu out of his rumination. “Hi,” Wonwoo says. “sorry I’m late.”

“You’re good,” Mingyu says. “Oh—the coupons expired today.”

Wonwoo pulls a face at that. His cheeks are red like he’d ran all the way over from the other side of campus, but he somehow still manages to look composed.

They only have two chapters left to cover. Mingyu kind of dreads what will happen when midterms are over; Wonwoo never texts first, and Mingyu sometimes wonders if Wonwoo’s just putting up with him.

Wonwoo opens up the textbook, staring at the pages with disdain. “I was finishing up recording a song with Jihoon,” Wonwoo says. “He’s terrifying.”

“See, someone else has a working sense of self-preservation,” Mingyu says, addressing the air. “Everyone I know says Jihoon looks adorable when he’s mad. I’m the only one who realizes that he’s perfectly capable of murder, height and pink hair be damned.”

Wonwoo squints. “I just meant he’s really good at music.”

“Oh. Yeah, that too,” Mingyu says, fidgeting with his ring. “He thinks you’re good, too, by the way. He sent me a text saying I should listen to you sometime.”

A faint blush tints Wonwoo’s cheeks, and a storm kicks up in the pit of Mingyu’s stomach. “I was actually going to tell you to tune in to campus radio tonight.”

“Holy shit, no way!”

Wonwoo bobs his head, his eyes lighting up from their usual calm. “Yeah. Jihoon wrote most of it, but parts of the verses are mine. And some of the rap.”

“See, I don’t understand how you just write a song,” Mingyu says, which leads to them completely ditching the math textbook for the day so that Wonwoo can help Mingyu cobble together some shitty lyrics. It takes them all the way up till the restaurant closes, and it’s nowhere near Jihoon’s level of skill, but it’s his.

“This is shit,” Mingyu says, looking at the finished result, the paper all wrinkly from how many times he’s erased and crossed over. “This is worse than the campus fries.”

“It’s not that bad,” Wonwoo hedges. “I like the chorus.”

“You helped me with the chorus!”

“No, I helped you with the verses and the bridge. The chorus is yours,” Wonwoo says. “I’m not good with compliments, but I’m telling you, it’s not bad. I’d rap these.”

Mingyu ducks his head and tucks those words away in the back of his mind. He knows that Wonwoo’s just saying that, but hopes he means them anyway.

---

When Minghao gets back to their dorm at eleven, he finds Mingyu staring at his laptop with an empty expression on his face. Pledis FM’s homepage is on screen.

“Hi?” Minghao says. “You alive?”

So maybe Mingyu heard the song.

“I am,” Mingyu says, in an eerily empty voice.

“Oh shit,” Minghao says. “Do we need backup here?”

Mingyu waves him off, eyes glazed over as everything collapses around him in shambles. No one will ever let him hear the end of this. “I like Wonwoo.”

Minghao sighs, puts an awkward arm around him, and fishes a mango out of his backpack. Mingyu stares at the mango in apprehension. “I’m so sorry,” Minghao says. “But I called it. Jun owes me ten bucks.”

Theory 4: Jeon Wonwoo does not have feelings.

Mingyu doesn’t mention his crush to anyone else, which means that of course, everyone in their friend circle and their moms know about it by the end of the week. Junhui hands him an eight-shaped good luck charm that he got from China. Hansol offers to get both of them drunk. Jihoon tells him to keep him updated so that he can write a song about the inevitable rejection.

“Thanks, Jihoon,” Mingyu says dryly.

“No problem. I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

Given these reactions, Mingyu thinks it’s understandable that he tries to deflect the topic of his miserable love life whenever it comes up in conversation.

He ends up grumbling to Chan about it. Chan is adorable, and Mingyu has no idea why he hangs around the likes of them. He probably isn’t even in college, just some kind of mysterious cute entity that everyone (even Jihoon) has adopted.

“Wonwoo’s the guy you like, right?” Chan says, out of nowhere.

“Not you too,” Mingyu says, betrayed. “Why does this always come up?”

“Um—because you always talk about him?” Chan said, confused.

Mingyu stares in horror. “I—I do?”

“Yes,” Chan says flatly. “You drag his name into every conversation. We’ll be talking about tacos, and then you’ll say, ‘oh, Wonwoo likes tacos.’ Or I’ll say something about a shirt I want, and you’ll say, ‘oh, Wonwoo wears shirts.’”

“The universe hates me,” Mingyu says, because now that he thinks about it, the second thing Chan cited as an example is actually a direct quote. “I’m sorry.”

“So- you wanna talk about him or no?”

“No,” Mingyu says, exasperated. “Continue your rant on the merits of sour cream. Wonwoo likes sour cream, by the way. He always puts it on his tacos.”

Mingyu, after Chan nearly cried, makes a conscious effort not to bring Wonwoo up. Which turns out to be difficult. Apparently, Mingyu wants to talk about him. He wants to shout from the rooftops that Wonwoo is extraordinarily hot in all ways and probably will end up making his nonexistent ovaries explode, male anatomy withstanding.

But again, his friends. His friends are awful.

On Saturday, he and Minghao somehow end up in an argument over whether Mingyu would be a good kpop idol. Mingyu is on the side of fuck no, Minghao is on the side of fuck yes.

“You’re the one who can do backflips,” Mingyu protests, throwing his phone at him. Minghao shrugs, picking up the phone, and Mingyu thinks for a second that’s the end of it. But no—Minghao types in the password (dammit, Mingyu thought he didn’t know it was 4-3-2-1 now) and dials - Wonwoo.

Not texts. Dials. Shit.

“Give me that,” Mingyu shrieks, trying to wrestle it back before the ringing starts and seals his fate. Minghao cheekily grins and- he’s so wiry, how is he winning—

“Um, hello?” Wonwoo’s voice answers on the final ring, distorted a little by static, and Mingyu needs to stop thinking about how cute it is and fix the damn situation—

He gets as far as “IT’S MY ROOMMATE” before Minghao cuts him off. “Hey, sorry to bother you,” Minghao says smoothly. “But I need you to answer this question.”

“DO NOT ANSWER THE QUESTION,” Mingyu yells. His plea goes ignored.

“Do you think Mingyu would be a good kpop idol?”

Three, two, one. “Yes.” It’s soft but decisive.

“Thanks, dude,” Minghao says.

“No problem.” The line clicks shut, and Mingyu shoves his face into a pillow and screams. Minghao pats him on the back.

---

The worse part about the entire arrangement, though, isn’t his friends’ teasing.

Mingyu wants the denial back. Granted, he feels kind of stupid now for not realizing, because holy shit — but being aware is worse. Mingyu keeps his mouth moving on autopilot, trying not to stare at Wonwoo’s face (you have ketchup on your cheek), touch his hair (you have ketchup in your hair), or tear off his clothes (you have ketchup on your shirt— actually, no, there is no good excuse for that one.)

Any day now, Mingyu’s going to slip up and kiss him. Seriously.

The more looming issue: midterms are tomorrow. Mingyu can say he’s got it relatively in the bag; that’s not what he’s concerned about. It’s just, after testing is over, Mingyu will no longer have any excuse to talk to Wonwoo. Neither of them are taking calculus next term.

“Thanks for all of this,” Wonwoo says with a small smile, as they’re wrapping up. He gives a tiny fistpump. “Good luck, you’ll do great.”

Right—and the smile. It’s now a thousand times more potent. Mingyu makes a sound like an incoherent keyboard smash before saying, “No problem. And you too!”

“I’m aiming for a passing grade.”

“You don’t suck that much,” Mingyu protests. “Anyway, you did fine on that last review.”

“You’re a good teacher,” Wonwoo says simply, and Mingyu’s heart flutters.

“We should come here again,” Mingyu blurts. He curses himself before deciding to just barrel forward. “Not to study. To hang out, sometime? The fries are good.”

“The fries are terrible,” Wonwoo says, corners of his mouth pulling upward. “And yeah. Definitely. I’ll meet you here after winter break.”

“Break,” Mingyu muses. “I forgot that was a thing.”

Wonwoo walks out, and Mingyu stays back and allows himself a tiny smile. He’ll still get to talk to Wonwoo. Mingyu realizes exactly how pathetic that sounds, but he’ll take what he can get. Just as long it’s Wonwoo gives giving it.

---

Mingyu doesn’t think he aced his midterms, exactly, but he’s fairly certain he did okay.

Unlike ninety percent of the school, though, Mingyu isn’t looking too terribly forward to break. His parents are travel guides. During holiday season, they’ll be anywhere and everywhere except for home. Mingyu opts to stay on campus and tries not to be jealous as the rest of his friends leave one by one.

“Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone,” Minghao says.

“No promises,” Mingyu says. He’s lying on the bed and tossing a soccer ball in the air.

Minghao’s expression is regretful. “I’d take you to China with me, but”—he holds up his suitcase—“you’re too tall to fit in here. Also, you might suffocate.”

“That’d be unfortunate, yeah,” Mingyu laughs. “But I’m definitely coming with you some day. I need to see exactly how badly I’m butchering your hometown dishes.”

Minghao shakes his head. “You’re too hard on yourself, you know that?”

“Incompetence deserves to be recognized,” Mingyu says teasingly, but in a way, he really isn’t joking.

Minghao’s gaze is sad, but he rearranges his facial expressions in the space of a second, and it’s like the sympathy wasn’t there at all.

“Call me on New Year’s Eve,” Minghao says resolutely, “Your midnight. Fuck timezones. And shitty long-distance phone connection.”

“Will do,” Mingyu promises. The door swings shut, and Mingyu drops the soccer ball and sits up on the bed.

Break on campus isn’t too terrible. He’d rather be back home, but this is fine, too. He gets an hour extra of sleep in the mornings and wanders around the school, the campus mostly deserted. At one point, he attends an impromptu meeting of astronomy club, where he understands nothing but has fun anyway.

He also ends up helping out with various decorations, exploited for his height. He strings red and gold ribbons across the ceilings and hangs ornaments on the Christmas trees, not questioning it when someone hands him a shiny silver dildo and tells him to put it up top. An angel made of human genitalia.

His phone is constantly barraged with a stream of notifications, updated Snapchat stories and drunken texts. Mingyu scrolls through all of them and responds to the ones he deems sober enough before updating his own social media.

He wants to text Wonwoo, but he also doesn’t want to look desperate. He makes himself wait half a day before sending out a text and comes up with several subconscious guidelines about responding.

me: happy holidays!! hope you’re doing [okay emojis]

wonwoo: ditto. also, my mom doesn’t think you’re real?

me: wait what im confused

me: am i supposed to be offended right now or what

wonwoo: … my family’s great but they don’t think I have friends.

mingyu: [image]

mingyu: there we go show her this

He hopes Wonwoo will not read into the fact it took him five minutes to get that selfie, slicked his hair back and adjusted the camera to the best possible angle in the hopes of looking good enough to be mistaken for possible boyfriend material.

wonwoo: she’s crying

me: omg

Wonwoo doesn’t text him for a while afterwards, and after ten minutes Mingyu gives up on staring at his phone. He goes grocery shopping and makes a pie, posting a picture on Instagram. He doesn’t usually do this, but everyone pities him anyway for staying home; might as well show off his perfect lattice crust.

What the fuck else is he supposed to do with an entire pie? Even he can’t eat that much by himself.

---

On Christmas Eve, Mingyu bakes a platter of cookies and leaves them out in the hall for people to take as they go. (They’re gone the next time he comes by.) He watches a couple episodes of anime and changes up his side of the room.

By middle of the afternoon he can’t breathe. He doesn’t want to touch his phone but he has to; he’s filling in for several people’s Snapchat streaks. There’s an entire stash of happy eve texts waiting in his inbox, but the dorm is too big and he’s so alone, and his Instagram dash just keeps filling up with group selfies and pre-party preparations.

It’s stupid how much he needs people.

He doesn’t know why he does it, in the end. He isn’t thinking straight, really, just feels like absolutely nothing. But it’s eleven PM when he opens up his contacts and pushes Wonwoo’s name, listening to the dull ringing. He’s going to get sent to voicemail, and tomorrow he can text Wonwoo that he accidentally sleep-dialed him or something-

“Hello?” Wonwoo’s voice says, and—oh shit, that is not a voicemail.

“Hi,” Mingyu says. “Sorry. Am I bothering you?”

“No, you’re fine,” Wonwoo says. “I’m gonna go get some tea, hang on.” There’s some scuffling noises on the end of the line, presumably said tea-making procedure.

“Um, Merry Christmas Eve,” Mingyu says weakly, when he realizes that he should probably say something.  “This was stupid, yeah, I’ll hang up if you want—”

A pause. “You okay?” Wonwoo says, concerned. “You don’t—you don’t sound okay.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not bleeding or anything,” Mingyu says. “Just—I don’t know, I wanted to talk to someone, I guess? It sounds dumb when I put it like that.”

“Talk to me, then,” Wonwoo tells him, seriously. “I’m shit at conversation, but I at least know how to stay on the phone.”

It’s near the middle of the night and Mingyu feels warm for the first time today. It’s quiet in his dorm, and he settles into the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest.

“My parents are travel guides and they’re always really busy during the holidays, so yeah, I’m on campus. I’ve been very deprived of human interaction.”

“For me it’s the opposite,” Wonwoo says. “My parents just threw this huge party, maybe a hundred people? I think most of them have left by now. It was a lot .”

“Shit,” Mingyu breathes. “How’d it go?”

“It was kind of a mess, actually?” Wonwoo laughs. “Um—so, my uncle gave me a book, said, you like reading, right? And then I look at the cover and the title is, How to Make Friends and Influence People. I don’t know what he’s trying to tell me.”

“Dude. I am so sorry.”

“The worst part is I already own three copies of the same book? All Christmas gifts, too.”

“Oh my god,” Mingyu says, and he can’t help the dazed laugh that slips out of his mouth. “That’s awful. And for what it’s worth- I don’t think you need the help.”

Mingyu can practically hear Wonwoo’s shrug. “Debatable.”

And Mingyu wants to tell him that there’s nothing wrong with being quiet, that there’s nothing wrong with him because he’s funny and beautiful and kind, but he doesn’t know how to phrase this in a way that’s even vaguely heterosexual so he says nothing.

There’s a comfortable lull and some scratching noises in the background. “Sorry, wrapping presents,” Wonwoo says. “So what have you been doing?”

“Nothing much, really,” Mingyu says, pulling a face. “I basically filled the campus fridge with baked goods, hopefully those won’t go stale—”

“Oh yeah, you sent me a picture. And hopefully not, I want some of those.”

“Noted. Uh—I also crashed an impromptu meeting of astronomy club and learned a bunch of crappy astrological pickup lines?”

“Tell me a good one.”

“There are no good ones.”

“...Tell me one of the better ones?”

“Hey baby, are you a planet? Cause you got a gravitational pull.”

“...I’m in pain.”

“You asked for it,” Mingyu laughs. “And anyway, if I liked someone, I wouldn’t use a pick-up line on them. That doesn’t work in real life.”

“What would you use, then?”

Mingyu shrugs, says, “I don’t know? Not a pickup line? My face? My baking skills?”

“Huh,” Wonwoo says. “Yeah—your face is—nice.” He pauses. “Shit, that was weird.”

Mingyu feels like that one meme: Mingyu.exe has stopped working.

“No, you’re fine,” Mingyu says, dazed. “Good to know.”

Wonwoo stays on the line past midnight, quietly telling Mingyu about his younger brother, how he saw the picture and assumed Mingyu was his boyfriend (!!) (“Verbatim: you can’t be friends with someone that hot and not be banging them”) and listens to Mingyu ramble about the pictures Jisoo’s sending him from LA (“How is the sky so blue? And the ocean’s so pretty!”)

It’s seventeen minutes past one o’clock when Wonwoo drops off. Mingyu stays awake for another half hour, his chest warm but also threatening to explode with the thought of Wonwoo a firebrand in his mind.

When he wakes up sometime around noon, there’s a chorus of Merry Christmas texts that he replies to and an audio file sitting in his inbox from Wonwoo. He clicks on it, intrigued, and it’s of Wonwoo rapping the lyrics that Mingyu had written back in the restaurant, Mingyu’s mediocre writing twisted into something gorgeous by his voice.

He listens to it seventeen times in a row and sends back, what the fuck this is amazing, my gift to you is shit compared to this i’m baking you cookies when you get back.

(In Beijing, Minghao will wake up four hours later to a pulsing hangover and to a text from Mingyu that reads, merry Christmas. I am so fucked.)

Theory 5: Okay, Jeon Wonwoo might have feelings, but not for anyone else.

Mingyu likes the concept of New Year’s, although he’s not naive enough at this point to believe in resolutions. January 1 comes and goes: he’s still an advertising major trying to summon enough charisma to sell a sandwich, still has a group of crazy friends and a pathetic crush.

There are a couple changes, though. Break ends and the rest of the college spills back into their dorms, like an ocean squeezing itself back into the river. Seungcheol’s dyed his hair, and Mingyu appropriately squeals; Jihoon’s also dyed his hair, and Mingyu says nothing because he doesn’t want to get killed trying to tell Jihoon he looks cute.

And he and Wonwoo lose their immediate contact of calculus class. Mingyu tries not to be too obvious about him reaching out so he doesn’t seem like some kind of clingy giraffe-octopus hybrid. But he constantly extends invitations to study together, and Wonwoo has an eighty-two percent acceptance rate.

(“Oh my god,” Minghao had said, as he watched Mingyu press buttons on his TI-34 with one hand, scrolling through his texts with the other.

“Uh…” Mingyu said weakly.

Minghao shook his head. “You know, I’m not even going to ask.”

“That’s probably the best idea,” Mingyu agreed. “Hey, Wonwoo will say yes to hanging out with me four out of five times, is that enough to constitute as romantic or-”

“I hang out with you on a daily basis, and I have absolutely no desire to bone you,” Minghao pointed out, which Mingyu pulled a fair enough face at. “Okay- how about this, you put down the calculator, locate your balls, and ask him out?”

“You’re suggesting,” Mingyu said slowly, “that I tell Wonwoo that I want to make out with him and also maybe aggressively hold hands? You’re insane. Why do I talk to you.”

Minghao rolled his eyes “Shut up. Now can you tell me if this dance looks good?

Mingyu spent the next thirty minutes helping Minghao practice, grumbling about how unfair it was that his roommate got to be a stretchy rubber band who somehow had never walked that uncertain zone between platonic and romantic. But he did put down the calculator since he’d finished tallying up all of the times.)

---

In Mingyu’s defense, he does try out Minghao’s advice at one point. He tries. He really does.

“Hey,” Mingyu says. It’s ten o’clock at night and he and Wonwoo are in one of the library’s study rooms, passing a pack of curly fries back and forth. “Do you um—”

The words dry up in his throat. He chokes out, “Have any more book recs?”

Wonwoo squints at him, eyes dark and holy shit is that eyeliner, and Mingyu wonders why he subjects himself to this pain. It’s like every time he looks at Wonwoo or even thinks about him, his insides catch on fire, a painful want ballooning in his stomach. The casual bumping of arms and shoulders makes it an infinite times worse because it’s not enough.

But Mingyu will live. This will suffice for now. This is fine, this is okay —

“You actually read the last one I told you about?” Wonwoo asks, surprised.

“I’m not a complete uncultured swine,” Mingyu protests. “I read Harry Potter.”

Wonwoo purses his lips, pulls up a title on his phone and says, “Here, I liked this one. But what stuff do you like to read?”

Mingyu shrugs. That’s true. He reads the books because it’s Wonwoo recommending them, but Mingyu’s not quite sure if he likes them. Wonwoo is right when he says that they might not be Mingyu’s style, and Mingyu isn’t literally inclined enough to comment on story mechanics.

“Can you rec me something without a sad ending?” Mingyu asks after a moment.

“Yeah, sure,” Wonwoo says, swiping a couple of times on his phone. “I… liked this one? It’s not something I’d usually read, but you’d probably like it. It’s more on the funny side of things. Well-written, too.”

“Yes,” Mingyu says, jotting the title down on his arm. Then, catching sight of the expression on Wonwoo’s face he added, “Um. I mean, I liked the others one, too. I just—”

“You want to read something where the majority of the characters stay alive and no one is left hopeless and traumatized?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mingyu says, laughing sheepishly. “I don’t know how you handle that stuff.”

“A lot of people ask me that, really,” Wonwoo says. “My family used to be really concerned—actually, no, they’re still concerned. Again, my mom didn’t think you were real. She wants you to come to dinner sometime, by the way.”

“Will do,” Mingyu says. “I’ll bring cookies. But why were they concerned?”

“Where do I even start,” Wonwoo answers dryly. “They thought I was depressed. Or something. Because I liked listening to sad music before I slept and watched horror movies like they were Finding Nemo.”

“Okay, I’m minorly concerned,” Mingyu says. “But mostly impressed. Last time I watched a horror movie I couldn’t sleep for two days. I just— what?”

“It’s not due to serial killer tendencies or anything. I think it’s honestly just because much of the darker material is better in an objective sense. There’s a depth that most happy endings lack.”

“Okay,” Mingyu says, “I probably don’t know what I’m talking about, but that’s just not right. Happy endings are impressive.”

“When they’re pulled off well,” Wonwoo fires back, and Mingyu would keep on playing devil’s advocate just to see Wonwoo’s usually stoic face all revved up. “Most authors end up tripping over thirty cliches and love-at-first-sight scenes to get there.”

“Oh,” Mingyu says, small. “Do you not... believe in love, or whatever?”

“What?” Wonwoo says, stuttering over himself. “I—not—not right away.”

Mingyu returns to his essay to hide his face. “Okay?”

Wonwoo mumbles, “It’s not something I’ve thought about often… but yeah. I believe it can happen. It just takes work, I guess? From both sides.” When Mingyu sneaks a peek over, Wonwoo’s face is blazing red, and his embarrassment keeps them in silence for the next ten minutes.

---

The way Mingyu has described his friends to Wonwoo probably makes them sound like a particular breed of cryptids hell-bent on making his life miserable, but Wonwoo is smart enough to read between the lines to know that Mingyu loves all of them. (Even Jihoon. He’s got a spot in Mingyu’s will.)

Wonwoo can’t not know about them; Mingyu’s mentioned them too many times in too many fucked up stories.

But there haven’t really been any formal introductions. Partially because Wonwoo is a good few metaphysical kilometers away from their social circle, and partially because Mingyu is goddamn terrified. His friends are a handful. Wonwoo might end up traumatized for life or freaked out enough that he never speaks to Mingyu again.

But Mingyu is awful at not talking about Wonwoo, which means that his friends have been bugging Mingyu about meeting “that emo kid you like” for a while, preferably in a setting when they’re not all half-unconscious.

“Plus, I wanna figure out if he’s good enough for you,” Seokmin says, then quickly backpedals. “I mean. Actually. Uh.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that,” Mingyu says, grinning.

Seokmin plants his head on the table. “Dammit, I swore to myself that I’d only give you a direct compliment when hell freezes over and the apocalypse occurs.”

“It’s okay,” Mingyu says sympathetically. “We all slip up sometimes.”

But Mingyu finally runs into a dead end when Hansol and Seokmin have their double birthday party. Mingyu’s text-invitation from Hansol and Seokmin comes with an add-on specifically asking for him to bring Wonwoo, because you’re hilariously pathetic when you’re in love dude i wanna meet the cause of this.

Mingyu has said it a thousand times and will say it many more: he needs new friends.

---

“So,” Mingyu says, very casually. “Will you got to a birthday thing with me?”

Wonwoo stares at him like he just sprouted a third head (he gets the second head look on a daily basis, so that’s nothing new.) “What?”

Mingyu sighs. “My two friends have the same birthday, so they’re doing this thing…” Mingyu fumbles. C’mon you dumbass, you’re an advertising major, step it up . “Karaoke. It’s only for a couple of hours, and it’s not huge.”

“I—I don’t know them?” Wonwoo says, hesitant. “Why do they want me there?”

Because they know I have a thing for you. “I might’ve told them about you,” Mingyu says, praying to every god out there that Wonwoo will not read too much into that. “I mean, it’s okay. If you don’t want to come, or whatever.”

“No,” Wonwoo says, taking a deep breath, as though he’s already anticipating hiding out in the bathroom for the entire night. “I-It would be rude not to go. Just. I’m just. Um. I’m going to warn you right now. Full disclosure.”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to need to be drunk for this,” Wonwoo says, “And if I give a repeat of the stripping performance, don’t change your opinion of me.”

“Dude, of course not,” Mingyu says, relieved at how easily the words roll off his throat when all he’s got in his head are mental images of a stripping Wonwoo. The clothes he wears are usually slightly baggy and monochrome, what would it be—no. Mingyu is not going down this route. He cannot pop a boner right now.

---

He fills Wonwoo in on the details a few days before: Friday night, they’re going to this place near campus called “Carataoke” at seven, renting out one of the rooms. Dress casual. Mingyu and Wonwoo are going there together, and when Mingyu comes out of his room, Wonwoo’s face is bone-white as he shrinks into the bushes.

He’s clearly dressed to go, in a black jacket and blue jeans, but Mingyu tells himself to freak out over his unintentionally sexy ensemble later and asks, “Are you okay?”

“Never been better,” Wonwoo says, gritting his teeth.

“You don’t have to go,” Mingyu says, panicking. “I swear. I’m sorry, my friends are kinda pushy at times, I’m kinda pushy at times, and I know you don’t like-”

Wonwoo waves him off. “No, this- you’re fine,” he says, and Mingyu double takes. He’s fine? Wonwoo looks like he might pass out. “Again, I’m not good at this. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I’m going to come,” Wonwoo says, voice a thin whisper. “I will come. And get drunk. And meet your friends. Capiche?”

His voice is cracking in ten different places, and Mingyu feels the rock and the hard place crushing him in from both sides. “I-” he says, then tells himself that it’s okay, this will be okay. “Capiche. Tell me if you need to get out of there.”

“Okay.”

The walk to Carataoke is silent. They get to there two minutes early, and the only other person in the room is Seokmin, who’s eating chicken and holding a solo cup of beer. “Oh hey!” he says. “Wait- dude, that’s Wonwoo?”

“Uh, yeah?” Mingyu says, and when he looks at Wonwoo, there’s a look of disbelief and recognition on his face.

“Hold up,” Seokmin says, jabbing a finger at Wonwoo. “You’re like- the only reason I passed lit class last semester.”

“Yeah,” Mingyu says, laughing partly out of the coincidence, partly out of relief. “That’d be him. He’s like a human version of Sparknotes.”

Seokmin beams, “Except you don’t have to copy paste. And you’re also the Wonwoo that dragged me home when Jisoo was MIA that night?” Wonwoo nods. “Holy shit,” Seokmin says, “I’m really sorry. I kind of owe you my life.”

“No, it’s fine,” Wonwoo says. “Really.”

“He takes fries as an acceptable payment,” Mingyu laughs.

“Is that so?” Seokmin asks. “In that case, I owe you a lot of fries.” He peers at the side table. “Unfortunately, there’s none tonight, but here, have this beer. And chicken.” Said things are shoved in Wonwoo’s hands.

“Um—”

“Oh my god,” Seokmin says, “you eat chicken, right?”

“I eat chicken,” Wonwoo assures, and Seokmin groans a sigh of relief.

About at that moment, Hansol and Jisoo come in. Mingyu hastily checks Jisoo’s eyes—they drank out of the correct flasks this time. Jisoo gives Mingyu a small wave. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Mingyu says brightly. He pokes Wonwoo in the side. “That’s the guy you filled in for at the party.”

“Oh, hi,” Jisoo says. He turns to Wonwoo. “I’m not usually that incompetent, I swear. You’re Wonwoo? Wow, Mingyu made you sound—”

Mingyu death glares at Jisoo. Be very careful what you say.

“...Shorter? But he’s basically a tree, so he’s biased.”

Wonwoo says, “He offered to get a cup off the top shelf for me because he thought I couldn’t reach it.”

“That was one time,” Mingyu protests.

“One time too many,” Jisoo says, mock-outraged on Wonwoo’s behalf.

“Why does it always come back to attacking me?” Mingyu whines, but he’s smiling. The tension in Wonwoo’s shoulders has melted a bit, at least. Jisoo’s like the human version of an icebreaker. The warmth just radiates off of him in waves.

---

It turns out that Wonwoo doesn’t necessarily have to say much, because Seokmin’s going around telling everyone about he owes Wonwoo fries, and all Wonwoo has to do is nod. It also helps that everyone’s getting increasingly drunk as the minutes tick past, Wonwoo included, the one-liners going from semi-witty to completely nonsensical.

Somewhere between half an hour and an hour in, the majority of them are drunk, and the karaoking starts in earnest. Seungkwan stops pretending there’s a tsunami and yells, “I WANNA GO FIRST.”

Seungkwan is actually a ridiculously good singer. Actually, a lot of them are good singers. Many of Mingyu’s friends met through Jihoon, and Jihoon’s music skills are so overflowing that everyone around him gets some of the share. The alcohol makes them looser, more willing than usual, so the karaoke is messy but enthusiastic.

“Wow,” Jisoo comments through a mouthful of nutella pizza as Minghao backflips across the stage while somehow keeping time with the instrumental, “I’m not drunk enough to do that.”  

“Or talented,” Mingyu says. Jisoo shoots him a wounded look- Mingyu does not need the help of alcohol to be accidentally offensive. “I mean. Both of us. Minghao’s insane.”

“Fair enough,” Jisoo says, looking placated. “Do you wanna do a duet together? The lyrics would actually be semi-coherent.”

Mingyu laughs. “I’m good just watching, actually, but I wouldn’t be averse to that idea.”

It’s when the group acts start that Mingyu really starts watching in earnest. He wishes he had a camera to capture this: it’s very apparent that all of them are drunk, but at the same time, they’re good. Soonyoung’s impromptu choreography in particular would probably get a lot of likes on Youtube, and Chan’s (holy shit, why’s Chan here, is he even legal?) dance style is thoroughly reminiscent of a Korean Michael Jackson.

Wonwoo gets pushed onstage eventually, and Mingyu thinks that he might swallow his entire tongue. Wonwoo’s shirt and hair are disheveled in this unbelievably sexy way, and when he starts rapping, Mingyu deems himself dead. There’s no other explanation for this besides this being a particularly unfortunate wet dream. Mingyu’s going to wake up any moment now.

“Wow,” Jisoo says. Mingyu had forgotten he was there, drinking orange juice with a pained expression on his face. “He’s really good.”

Mingyu’s nearly in tears. “Couldn’t he have given us a warning?”

“Are you okay?” Jisoo says, squinting. “You seem—constipated?”

Mingyu snorts. “That’s one way to put it.”

---

They finish around midnight. At this point Mingyu’s nails are digging painful crescents into his palms, sweat on every surface of his skin. It’s so hot, dear god , and Wonwoo looks so fucking good. Damn, Mingyu wishes he were drunk.

But he’s not. He and Jisoo end up dragging everyone’s asses into two respective cars, and Mingyu gives Jisoo a tired high-five— thank you for putting up with these guys with me— and Mingyu unceremoniously deposits them into one apartment building just like last time. Except for Wonwoo, although Mingyu’s tempted.

But Mingyu is strong. He can handle another half hour with possibly the sexiest being on the planet. Who is also thoroughly plastered.

“Almost there,” Mingyu says, once they’re in Wonwoo’s hall. Wonwoo takes three tries to give him the correct keys, and then Mingyu slams the door open.

“Roommate isn't home,” Wonwoo slurs. God, the room is so clean. And quiet, the lighting warm, walls a pale shade of ivory. Mingyu feels the headache from the karaoke place start to abate. And then he realizes that he’s in Wonwoo’s room, where Wonwoo sleeps, and promptly freaks out again.

“I can see that, yeah,” Mingyu says, laughing nervously. It’s fine, it’s not like he’s planning on taking advantage of him or anything, all he needs to do is make sure that Wonwoo won’t be dead in a ditch tomorrow.

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo says quietly. His words are surprisingly coherent, and the apologetic tone isn’t cloudy at all. “I’ll buy you fries.”

“You don’t need to buy me anything,” Mingyu says. He stands there for a moment, thinking. He’s not quite sure how drunk friend protocol works—Minghao is a force to be reckoned with even when he’s pumped up on vodka, so Mingyu’s never had to find out.

Wonwoo slurs, “Please, you don’t have to take care of me.”

“I do, though,” Mingyu says. It’s my fault, I pushed you to come with us in the first place, and then rolls Wonwoo into hopefully what’s his bed. “Get some sleep.”

He heads over to the kitchen, rummages around for a glass of aspirin and some water, leaving it on the rickety bedside table before turning to leave.

“Wait,” Wonwoo says, urgent despite the slur to his voice, and Mingyu, stupidly, waits.

Wonwoo takes a moment to get his bearings. But then he’s sliding his arms around Mingyu and kissing him, the kind of kiss that has no place in kids’ movies. White noise floods Mingyu’s mind.

Holy shit , Mingyu thinks desperately, and then, a second later, do not fucking kiss back, he’s drunk. But despite his efforts to stay stone-still, he discovers a few things: that he’s flammable, a statue doused in kerosene, and Wonwoo’s mouth is a spark to a flame.

The kiss is so messy, tongue and teeth and lips, and Mingyu concentrates on the stain of alcohol on Wonwoo’s mouth and not the warmth underneath it. Wonwoo steps back a few seconds or maybe an entire eternity later, looking down.

“You don’t like me, do you.”

“I do, so much,” Mingyu whispers.

“I just wanted to do that before I got scared, again,” Wonwoo says. “I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Mingyu says. He straightens out his clothes, and then he heads down the stairs and walks out into the cold night air.  

+ Fact 1: Jeon Wonwoo is actually a very warm person .

Mingyu’s terrible at acting normal. It’s not that he’s a bad actor per se, just that his normal requires so much effort.

He’s always clinging. Always ranting. Always baking people cookies and sticking his nose in the air and saying, I made it in your favorite flavor because I had those ingredients, don’t think I actually care about you.

When Mingyu wakes up the day after the party, Minghao is already up. His roommate isn’t any different, a functional, if slightly tired, version of himself. “I made waffles,” he says cheerfully. “Toaster ones, sorry.”

“No, you’re good,” Mingyu says. He takes a waffle and bites into it listlessly.

“Dude, you’re not okay,” Minghao says. “You just—ate it.”

Mingyu rolls his eyes. “That’s usually what you do with waffles?”

“No, but—” Minghao splutters, “You usually complain about how you can taste the GMOs and douse it with maple syrup and whipped cream and possibly the blood of your enemies, you don’t just—”

“Drop it.”

Minghao does.

---

Mingyu acts like a zombie version of himself for the next five days before pulling himself together. It’s easy, because honestly, he’s just overreacting due to his feelings. People do dumb things when they’re drunk all the time, and Mingyu’s stupid because he’s wishing it’d mean something or whatever.

Minghao wrestles it out of him in approximately thirty minutes, and it must be pathetic enough because Minghao doesn’t talk about it again. The rest of his friends are fairly easy to face, too—even if Wonwoo’s name gets stuck in the back of Mingyu’s throat whenever they bring him up.

Mingyu is fine.

He’s so fine that he’s got his and Wonwoo’s chat thread up on his phone, fully prepared to invite him over to study again. He’s so fine that his hands are shaking so hard that it takes him a full five minutes to type out one sentence, so fine that he stares blankly at his phone for ten minutes until Wonwoo responds with a yes .

“Hi,” Wonwoo says, when he sees Mingyu. There isn’t even a trace of the Wonwoo from that night. Wonwoo is again in his baggy, monochrome ensemble, clutching the strap of his bag too tight, voice low and hesitant.

“Hi,” Mingyu says.

“I… didn’t strip that night, did I?” Wonwoo says, questioning.

Mingyu cracks a bitter smile. Well, at least this one is easy to answer. “No, you didn’t.”

“Good,” Wonwoo says, and they fall into an awkward silence.

Mingyu is good at keeping conversations going, creating topics out of thin air and launching them with a few well-picked words. But not now. Now, a thousand different things are warring in his mind, none of which he can say: how his friends love him, when’s Wonwoo coming again (he can’t be drunk every time, can he?), how Wonwoo looked so good onstage back there, how Wonwoo kissed him-

“The weather’s nice,” Mingyu says.

Wonwoo squints. “Uh, yeah, sure?”

Mingyu needs to say something. He needs to keep this conversation going. But air’s coming out short and he can’t breathe-

“I’m not stupid,” Wonwoo finally says. “I-”

“I know you’re not stupid,” Mingyu says, his words coming out shaky.

“You haven’t texted me in a week,” Wonwoo points out. “I missed your memes.”

“You—” Mingyu says, and he’s frustrated , because yeah he sends those memes and then Wonwoo will leave him on read and honestly he can’t get a response half the time unless he phrases his initial text as a question- “You could’ve texted first. That’s what normal people do.”

Wonwoo says, “Okay, clearly this is a whole other can of worms with you—”

“There are no worms. There is no can. The only thing in the pantry is ramen, it’s all we can afford,” Mingyu babbles. “Can we move past this?”

“Shut up,” Wonwoo says, eyes dark. He looks so mad, what the fuck, what did Mingyu do wrong. “And anyway, I couldn’t have texted you first, considering that all I remember when I woke up was you taking me home—”

“Designated driver, remember?”

“You took me home,” Wonwoo enunciates, “Put some aspirin and water on the bedside table, I know that was you and not my asshole roommate... and then I had the nerve to kiss you. Tell me I dreamed that. Tell me I didn’t do something so stupid.”

It feels like Wonwoo stuck a knife in his chest.

“You know what, maybe ten minutes ago I would’ve told you you dreamed it, but yeah, you kissed me,” Mingyu says, hurt. “You said some stuff afterward, too. You told me your drunk self was a ditz but I didn’t know you’d be so mean —”

“And this is why I didn’t text first,” Wonwoo snaps, “Because I screwed up.”

“You never fucking text first!” Mingyu yells. It comes out as a shout and he needs to keep yelling so he doesn’t cry or something equally embarrassing.

Wonwoo grits his teeth, looks away. “I didn’t know it mattered to you.”

“You know, if you screw up, you don’t wait for the other person to fix it,” Mingyu snaps. “ You text me . You say, ‘hey, sorry I kissed you, I was drunk.’”

“And what if you didn’t want to talk to me?” Wonwoo says, voice calm and cold and indifferent. “Honestly, I don’t even know why you talk to me in the first place.”

“Well, I don’t know why I do either, now,” Mingyu says, and something flickers behind Wonwoo’s face.

“Fine,” Wonwoo says, taking a step backward. “I’ll just leave, then.”

Mingyu raises his fingers in a mocking little wave, wondering how everything had gone this wrong. “Bye.”

When he opens a can of ramen in the evening, he gives a bitter laugh. All curled up in there, they do look like worms.

---

“I think,” Minghao says, “that both of you are idiots.”

“Thanks,” Mingyu says dryly. They’re sprawled out on the bed, watching The Notebook and sharing a pint of convenience store ice cream. The characters onscreen kiss, and Mingyu wonders if Wonwoo’s watched this. He can picture the disgruntled expression.

“See,” Minghao says, “You have your thinking about Wonwoo face on right now.”

“That’s a face I have?”

“Yeah. it’s a mix of sappy and mushy and wistful and frankly, it makes everyone in a two mile radius want to puke. You should talk to him.”

“No,” Mingyu says stubbornly.

“Mingyu —”

“Just this once,” Mingyu says quietly, not sure of anything anymore, “I want him to text me first.” And he wonders if that’s a stupid wish, because he knows if Wonwoo doesn’t reach out, Mingyu will crack first. He’ll crack first and take back everything he said and everything will go back to the way things have been.

Mingyu will make sure of it.

---

Heartbreak doesn’t look good on Mingyu, he knows. Even his hair is sadder than usual. But he’s handsome, and he’s got a brilliant smile, and even if his friends know something’s up, they’re not going to say anything. His friends are good at reading between the lines- they’ve probably got everything all figured out already.

The air is harsh and cold and the sky is bright blue above him, the sun blinding his eyes, and Mingyu’s bag feels heavy with the weight of the new advertising project his professor had assigned.

When he gets back to his dorm, there’s a letter shoved under the door.

It’s innocuous and white, a simple Kim Mingyu written on the back. It’s a familiar handwriting, a mix of scratchy and loopy, the handwriting of someone who prefers keyboard to paper. Mingyu picks it up, heart in his throat—

I feel really stupid doing this… I hope your roommate’s not the one who sees it. If it is, hi, Minghao—please. Spare yourself. This is shit.

So—I didn’t text first because I’m scared. I was so confused when you started talking to me. You’re so bright and beautiful, and I never talk to anyone. I didn’t want to mess things up, and I don’t know, I thought if I texted first you’d realize that I wasn’t worth it and I didn’t know what I’d do if you didn’t respond.

I’m not sorry for kissing you, though. I’m sorry about the fact I was drunk as hell, but to be fair, it’d take me about another two years to confess sober. Maybe I’d just never have said anything at all. I’m still not saying anything, but writing it is pretty close, right? (Excuse my bad handwriting.)

I don’t even know if you read this the whole way through. I’m not good with words, this is my fifth draft, I just needed to tell you this in one go. And I’m still a coward. React to this how you want: tell your friends what a loser I am, rip it up, whatever. But I hope you give me another chance, even if I don’t deserve it.

If you do, come to the restaurant tomorrow at five. I’ll buy you fries.

---

“Oh my god,” Minghao says gleefully, “He’s just as whipped as you are.”

Minghao reads the last line for the seventeenth time and screams.

---

Wonwoo’s already there when Mingyu shows up. He’s in a booth, knees pulled up to his chest, staring hard at a table.

“Hi,” Mingyu says. It’s two minutes past five. Maybe he waited those extra one-twenty seconds to make Wonwoo suffer a little bit.

“You came,” Wonwoo says, continuing to not meet Mingyu’s eyes.

Mingyu slides into the opposite side of the booth, slides his leg forward so that their legs are touching. “Yeah, I did. Did you expect me not to?”

“I mean—”

“I’m going to need you to hear me out,” Mingyu says. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna tell you right now that whatever you do, it’ll always be reciprocated. If you text me, I’ll text you back. If you yell at me, I’ll yell at you right back. If you like me”—and here, Wonwoo’s breath hitches—“well, I like you too, you dumbass.”

One side of Wonwoo’s mouth curls into a smile. “You didn’t kiss me back that night.”

“With exceptions ,” Mingyu protests. “I said I’d reciprocate, not take advantage of you.”

“That’s fair,” Wonwoo says, and he’s still got his face on the table. “So, um—what kind of fries do you want? Curly or regular?”

Clearly, Mingyu’s got to do everything around here. He shuffles out of his side of the table, slides into Wonwoo’s, and cups his face with his hands. Wonwoo’s eyes widen. “This,” Mingyu says, and leans in. It’s a restaurant so he keeps it chaste—he doesn’t want to scar anyone with their PDA.

“Um,” Wonwoo says, strangled.

“Do you want to go out with me?” Mingyu says, patiently. “I get that we’re both a fucking mess but we like each other, so you know, why not?”

“Okay,” Wonwoo says, “I can write you songs.”

“I’ll make you food.”

“I’ll try and converse with your friends without the help of alcohol.”

“Oh damn, I can’t top that,” Mingyu says, laughing. “Um- I’ll watch your awful depressing movies with you. As long as we do rom coms every other Friday.”

He’s watching Wonwoo’s face so closely. Mingyu wants to do ten thousand things at once—wants to hold his hand, press his face into his shoulder, kiss him until he sees stars. He wants to curl into him at midnight with Poltergeist playing onscreen, wants to take him to restaurants and banter with him over something fancier than fries. He wants to see Wonwoo in his t-shirt and tight jeans again, wants to make eye contact with him as he raps, wants to tear those clothes off of him in a hotel room afterwards.

He’s watching Wonwoo’s face and hoping he feels the same.

Wonwoo gives one of those dazzling smiles that could power a city. “Deal.”

[Extra]

The Jun Hotness Vaccine:

The half-person Mingyu dated and the last time Minghao got involved.

Mingyu doesn’t drink due to his medication, but he slipped up once a few months ago and ended up hooking up with Jun. They had a two-week semblance of a relationship that didn’t work out, mostly because Mingyu didn’t really have feelings and Jun was just trying to get over his pathetic one-year long crush on Minghao.

They’re still friends (albeit slightly awkward ones) and text each other most days. Mingyu is sworn to secrecy on the crush thing and sometimes subtly tries to talk Jun up to Minghao. When he and Wonwoo successfully got together, he returned Jun’s good luck charm.

Clearly, Jun needs it more.