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The thing about college is that nobody really has an assigned seat or anything, but everyone kind of does. There are the drifters, of course, the ones that get to class right before it starts or even a little after, the ones who slip into whatever seats are left open for them to sit in and never really complain, but for the most part, everyone sits in the same places every day.
It’s not like it’s planned or anything, but if someone sits in the same seat every single class for about three weeks, invariably that becomes Their Seat. Importance of capital letters included. For example, Taemin sits in the exact same seat every single time he comes to Romantic Lit, ever since that first day he came in amidst the shuffle of students trying to figure out where would be the best place to sit for whatever level of participation they meant to give.
It’s not like he had staked claim on that seat or anything, it’s just that on the first day he had plopped his ass down next to one of the few guys who had already grabbed a seat and dug his pencil and notebook out of his bag to the blank stare of the guy next to him. Come next class, he could have chosen somewhere else if he wanted, but the guy had saved him a seat and then over time it just became His Seat next to the guy with the soft brown hair and the huge-ass eyes. Taemin is completely used to the status quo here, used to showing up to class and receiving a small smile and a nod.
Taemin wishes he had been paying more attention that first day to learn the guy’s name. Min-something. Ming? He doesn’t know for sure, and it’s not like he can ask, not after this long. Besides, they’re not friends. They’re just acquaintances. Like, yeah, Min-something will take notes for him when he misses class sometimes, and Taemin had definitely made an extra effort to make his writing legible enough to photocopy when he noticed that the seat next to him was empty, but that doesn’t really make them friends.
Still, Taemin is so used to plopping down in the seat next to him that it genuinely, absolutely startles him when his usually acquiescing seat partner speaks up a few seconds after he takes his seat. “Hey, uh,” the guy mumbles in those deep tones that had surprised the hell out of Taemin when he had first heard them, “someone’s sitting there.”
Taemin blinks. This is His Seat. This is always His Seat, and he’s kind of thrown off by the way he’s being kicked out of it. Like, wow, rude.
He gets that he’s kind of late today – he’d gone to hang out with Jongin and Wonshik last night and gotten completely wasted on strawberry wine, which sounds like a terrible idea, but… well, actually, yeah, was a terrible idea. Especially when it had culminated in himself and Jongin, both extremely inebriated, being driven back to his dorm by Wonshik’s painfully unimpressed boyfriend, Hongbin, both of them shouting at the top of their lungs about… the Lion King, maybe? Taemin’s kind of fuzzy on that one.
Needless to say, Key had laughed himself silly when Taemin stumbled in at two in the morning and then proceeded to be the shittiest roommate ever and take advantage of Taemin’s drunken suggestibility to get him to let Key dye his hair. So, after all of that, Taemin’s not only incredibly hungover, but he got no sleep, his throat feels like he tried to deep throat sandpaper, his scalp still kind of itches from the bleach, and his alarm didn’t go off on time.
So yeah, he was a little late in getting to class. No biggie. The professor isn’t even here yet, and Taemin really just wants to lay his head down and be allowed to pretend to care why John Keats had such a weird habit of writing odes to things.
And now this. It’s not Taemin’s day, and he takes a few seconds of processing time before picking up his stuff silently and moving away, taking a seat a couple rows in front of His Seat and plunking his stuff down, irritation all over his features.
It’s not a good spot. Ten minutes into the lesson the professor calls on him, and Taemin has to stare blankly at him and admit that he hadn’t done the reading. Between the titters of his classmates and the baleful stare of the teacher, Taemin’s pretty sure he’s just going to chalk this up as a shit day. He’s just going to go eat dinner, go play video games with Jongin, and probably do something horrible to Key’s bedsheets.
Plans solidified, he’s the first one out of his seat (though not His Seat, he thinks bitterly) when the professor dismisses them. On his way out, he notices that His Seat next to Min-whatever is notably empty. That absolute fuck.
–
The next time he strolls into Romantic Lit, he’s not quite as painfully hungover. Quite being the operative word, because at least he had gotten drunk on something more sensible this time. Fireball is definitely manlier than strawberry wine, even if it tastes like death.
But Taemin’s rocking the casual hangover look like nobody’s business, hoodie drawn up over his head to hide the mop of blond that he, surprisingly, doesn’t hate, and sunglasses firmly in place. He’s actually a little early to class today, and there’s no one to stop him from tossing his stuff onto the desk of His Seat and plopping down. He dares anyone to ask him to move. Not today. Today is a day where he has the capacity to stand up for himself without sounding like the wreckage of getting white-girl wasted gone wrong, and he’s going to defend his honor. Or at least His Seat.
He’s not sure if he’s expecting to actually have to defend it or not, but whatever he’s expecting, he’s kind of disappointed when Min-something sits his ass down and smiles his direction hesitantly, offering up a bass rumble of, “Morning.”
“Uh… yeah,” Taemin says intelligently. He’s incredibly underwhelmed, actually. “You too.”
“Here,” the guy says, and flips open his notebook. Taemin glances over curiously and catches a glimpse of the name written on the inside. Well fuck, if he had known it was that easy, he’d have done it weeks ago. Choi Minho. Right. He could remember that. Maybe.
Minho rips a couple of pages out of the back of the notebook, handing them to Taemin with a smile, and Taemin blinks down at them, expecting… well, he doesn’t know. Maybe an apology or something? Instead, he’s holding the notes from last class period. They’re a little better written out than Taemin’s own scribbled attempt at proper note taking, but he still has these notes. It’s a little demeaning actually, and Taemin feels his sense of baffled irritation flare up all over again.
“Are they okay?” Minho asks, and Taemin realizes he’s been blinking at the notes for a bit too long to be considered normal. Maybe Jinki was right; maybe alcohol is impairing his abilities as a student.
“Uhm, yeah,” Taemin says, “But I didn’t really need another copy? I mean, thanks, but I was here. I got it.”
“You were…?” Minho repeats in genuine confusion, and Taemin stares at him for a second before Minho’s face suddenly and abruptly turns red. “Did you, uh, dye your hair?”
“Yeah?” Taemin answers, totally thrown, and Minho groans softly. Taemin blinks and then barks a laugh. “Okay, seriously? I know I look different, but are you seriously expecting me to believe you didn’t recognize me with blond hair?”
Minho coughs uncertainly. “No, I… I didn’t. Sorry.”
Taemin’s laughing now, loud enough to draw attention, and he hardly manages to stifle it when the professor marches in and gives him a look. God, he’s going to get so much shit in this class if he doesn’t settle down. Forcing the corners of his mouth down with his fingers, Taemin tugs off his glasses with a wince and throws his hood back, trying to appear the good little student. He’s a religious studies major, goddammit. Someone’s got to give him some credit where it’s due.
The teacher stares at him a moment longer before he turns away and starts the lecture, leaving Taemin alone. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he sees Minho still staring at him, big eyes watching him like a hawk. It’s a little unnerving actually, and Taemin keeps getting distracted to the point where he finally has to look over at him a few minutes later and hiss, “Dude.”
“Sorry,” Minho mumbles back, low voice carrying a little too much.
Taemin winces, but the damage is done. The professor is glaring at them again, and at least Taemin’s not totally alone this time? If he’s going down, he’d rather have someone with him, even if that someone is kind of freaking him out. Still, Taemin’s mildly appalled when the professor’s glare turns into a deadpan look and a question that has exactly zero upward inflection on the end. “I take it the two of you are volunteering to be our first group?”
“Uh…” Taemin says, looking at Minho in hopes that he has some idea of what the fuck the professor is talking about. Minho looks as lost as he is, though. Well, might as well shoot blindly and hope he hits something besides his own foot. “Yes?”
“Good. The two of you will present first next week then. I hope you choose your topic well.”
Well shit.
The moment the professor turns his attention to picking other people, Taemin not-so-surreptitiously tugs out his phone and shoots off a text to Jinki who was the traitor who recommended this class after taking it last semester.
‘presentation???????????’
It’s possibly more question marks than are absolutely necessary, but Taemin’s found out that the more punctuation he puts behind his questions, the more thoroughly Jinki answers him. This time it backfires and Taemin scowls at the bubble that pops up: ‘hahaha. good luck.’
‘key u ass. give hyung his phone bck’
‘hes busy ;)’
‘tell him 2 get off ur dik and txt me!!!’
It a long few minutes of staring at his phone before he gets the next response, and he doesn’t entirely believe Jinki’s mildly offended, ‘why would Key be texting you if we were having sex?’
‘bc he likes 2 fck w me???’
‘I was in the shower, not fucking key’
‘hyung we all kno key fcks u.’
Taemin thinks he might have said the wrong thing when he watches the ‘…’ hover on the screen for about five minutes before it just stops and he gets a text from Key’s phone instead, just another ‘hahaha, good luck.’
Taemin curses under his breath and shoves his phone into his pocket, huffing angrily and staring down at the professor who’s going on now about some story that Taemin’s pretty sure he’s never read. He would probably be doing better in Lit if he read the homework, he figures, but it’s just so much reading. Taemin’s just not about that life.
It takes an excruciatingly long time before the professor stops lecturing and tells them all to be prepared with an outline of their presentations next Tuesday so that he can check them before they present on Thursday. Taemin’s so fucked. But the second they’re dismissed he sees Minho cast around, eyes catching on a girl from a few rows back with short hair and a twin set of piercings through her eyebrow. “Amber, what are you doing for the project?”
Taemin’s a little surprised because she doesn’t seem like the type Minho would hang out with, but at least she seems cool. Cooler than his nerdy little group of friends at any least. Not that he’s ever going to tell any of his friends that he described them as that, like, ever.
“I dunno,” Amber says, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “I’m working with Luna – blond girl, two rows down – so I’ve got to chat with her first. I’m thinking like Hawthorne maybe?”
“Right,” Minho says slowly, fingers playing with the edge of his bag. “Why Hawthorne?”
“Dude, are you trying to subtly ask me what the fuck we’re supposed to do for the project?” Amber asks, clearly not at all fooled. “It’s in the syllabus, man. Pick an author, discuss their most famous work, talk about their effect on literature or other art since then. Super easy.”
She claps him on the shoulder and then hops a desk to make her way down to the blond girl, chatting away immediately like they’re old friends. Taemin doesn’t know if they are or not, but at least their budding literary partnership is going better than his and Minho’s.
Taemin clears his throat. “So,” he says, “Do you have, uh, class or anything after this?”
“In an hour,” Minho confirms, “but if you have time we could probably at least look up the syllabus to figure out what she was talking about.”
“Yeah, good plan. Or, well,” Taemin says, remembering belatedly, “I’m supposed to meet up with my friends, and one of them had this class last semester.”
Minho stares a little blankly and then nods. “Okay, yeah, if you think that’d be better.”
Taemin grins and pulls his hoodie back up around his ears. “Right, cool. Follow me.”
He leads Minho towards the cafeteria, detouring abruptly as he gets closer so that he can duck around to the little area in the back. It’s usually a little less crowded than the inside, not as many people wanting to sit outside in a cool autumn air, but it’s also walled in, so it’s not so bad. Besides, Taemin likes being out here in the air. Between classes and the library, he spends enough time inside.
Jinki’s already there when Taemin flops down, and Taemin smiles his best sunshine smile at him, making adoring eyes at his favorite hyung. Jinki snorts. “Cut the act, Taemin. Next time you want help, let’s try not making insinuations about my sex life?”
“Hyung, I would never,” Taemin says, making his voice sound appalled, but there’s a smirk curling his lips, and his eyes dart back to Minho. “Minho, this is Lee Jinki. Jinki, this is Choi Minho.”
“I know,” Jinki deadpans, lifting his hand politely in greeting to Minho, and Taemin frowns in consternation. How the fuck?
“Minho!” Key’s voice greets as he approaches, dropping his things into Jinki’s lap and sliding in beside him. Taemin is just shocked that Key and his stuff aren’t flipped. Key is like the world’s biggest on freaking Taemin out by doing horrible couple things with Jinki right in front of him. Maybe it’s just because someone else is here that Key’s holding back, because Key seems to be perfectly happy to see Taemin’s classmate, greeting him with a totally unnecessary reminder of, “I changed my hair again, see?”
“Ah,” Minho says, smiling abruptly at Key. “It looks good. I like the color. It’s… distinctive.”
Key lets out an ungainly laugh, hand clapping down hard on Jinki’s knee, and Jinki sighs fondly and lets his boyfriend lean on him for support. When Key finally subsides, Taemin takes the second to ask the question that clearly needs to be asked here. “Why the hell do you know each other?”
“Why do you?” Key asks, raising both eyebrows at Taemin and then waggling them. “Minho and I went to high school together. He was in my year. We’ve been friends for longer than I’ve known you, Taemin.”
“Okay, cool,” Taemin says, and then, “How the hell did I miss that?”
“I would assume it has something to do with your attention span,” Jinki says moderately, and Taemin takes a second to splutter loudly while Jinki turns his attention on Minho and asks, “So how did you have the misfortune to come with Taemin today?”
“Ah, I sit next to him in Romantic Literature,” Minho says slowly, and Key lets out the least attractive snorting sound Taemin has ever heard, burying his face in Jinki’s shoulder to stifle the sounds of his cackling. Jinki pats his leg gently, hardly paying attention to whatever fit has possessed his boyfriend as he nods at Minho to continue. Minho hesitates, looking at Key for another moment before adding, “We were paired for a project, and he said his friend might be able to help.”
“Ah,” Jinki says, smiling sweetly. “That would make sense as to why you’re with Taemin and why he texted me earlier in a confused panic. Is it the author presentation? It’s honestly very simple.”
“Simple for you maybe,” Taemin grumbles. “We still don’t know what we’re supposed to be doing.”
“I was a little… distracted earlier,” Minho explains himself, like he thinks he has to. He looks sheepish. “I have to head to class pretty soon, so I don’t have much time, but I’d really appreciate any help you can offer, sunbae.”
Jinki smiles more brightly if that’s at all possible. God, he’s such a sucker for people actually being polite. Though, between Taemin and Key, he might be a little deprived of it. “Of course,” he says, “I’ll give Taemin all the information you two need.”
“Okay, cool, awesome,” Taemin says happily. Thank God for small miracles. At least Minho has earned them Jinki’s project assistance.
Taemin had lost that privilege about two months ago when he went to Jinki for help with a ten page paper that he had had to turn in the next day and tried to use some internet hack about sending a corrupted file to get more time, but actually ended up corrupting all of the work he and Jinki had been doing. Not his fault the instructions weren’t clear.
“Can I, uh, get your number?” Minho asks, startling Taemin who stares blankly for a minute, trying to figure out what the hell Minho’s talking about. Minho stares right back. “So we can figure out when to meet?”
“Oh! Shit, yeah. Uh… hold on. Let me…” He digs around in his bag for a minute, frowning when he can’t find his cellphone. Has he lost it again? He knows he had it on the way to class this morning. Or… no, wait…
Key, finally finishing his fit for the moment, raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed; he knows Taemin way too well at this point. “Is it in your pocket?”
“Right! Shit! Okay, uh, here.” Taemin digs it out and shoots Key a slightly-appreciative glance, passing the phone to Minho who taps in his number obediently. Taemin takes it and presses the call button, waiting until he hears Minho’s phone go off. It’s a practical ring, one of the musical tones programmed into the phone. Taemin suddenly feels a little weird about the fact that if they had done this the other way around, his own phone would have started blasting loud heavy metal music.
“Thanks. I’ll text you after class.” With one last smile, Minho disappears, waving goodbye.
It’s about five seconds of complete silence, and then Key snickers, “Oh my god,” and starts cackling all over again.
–
Taemin never does figure out what the hell Key is cracking the hell up about. He doesn’t even try to explain himself, just ignores Taemin’s constant questions and nudges Jinki for help on some of the questions, kissing his boyfriend in thanks after each one and sniggering again when Taemin makes emphatic noises of protest. Worst. Roommate. Ever.
“One of these days, someone’s going to think you’re homophobic,” Key points out as he goes back to doing math and letting Jinki focus on writing out information on the project that Taemin is going to need to do.
“And I care because?” Taemin asks, pawing weakly at Jinki’s paper in an attempt to turn it and see. “Seriously, what’s the worst thing that’s going to come of people thinking I’m a homophobe? You and I both know it’s not true. And it’s not like it matters what random people think when I’ve already got Jongin sitting on my dick once or twice a week.”
“Yes, and Key and I kissing is so awful,” Jinki deadpans, relinquishing the paper to Taemin and shaking his head in dismissal. He should be used to Taemin being so crass by now, really.
“Thanks, hyung,” Taemin says, pouring over the information. God, Jinki’s wonderful. He’s added little notes out to the side on who would be a good idea to use and everything. As much fond bickering as they do, Jinki’s the absolute greatest, holy shit. “Who’d you do?”
“Uh-uh, no way, Taemin,” Jinki says, scowling at him in that I-raised-you-better-than-that way that he wears all too well. “This is as much help as I’m giving you. You and Minho-ah should be able to do the rest by yourselves.”
Taemin pouts, but not too much. Key had let out another huff of laughter at Minho’s name, and Taemin is getting a little less annoyed and a little more nervous about all of this. “Fine,” he says, and stands up, folding the paper sloppily and cramming it into his pocket. “I don’t wanna do it right now though. I’m gonna go get curly fries. You want some?”
“Nah, we’re good,” Key says. “I’ve got class in fifteen, and I really need this done. Jinki…”
“Let me see,” Jinki says, sliding Key’s work over to himself. Taemin frowns. How come Key gets help? This is favoritism!
“I’m going to hang out with people who love me,” Taemin announces huffily. Jongin and Wonshik should be out of class soon anyway. Maybe Jongin wants to share curly fries with him.
He pulls out his phone to text Jongin and see, frowning when there’s an alert for a message from an unknown number. Who? Oh, right, Minho. That’s a thing now.
He saves the number in his contacts because the unidentified list of numbers is annoying him, and then opens the message. Minho’s the type who types all properly in his texts. Taemin’s not entirely sure why he’s surprised, because yeah, of course he would be.
‘Sorry I had to run. I have a math class across campus at 11. I’m free after 1 though, if you want to meet up. Or we can try over the weekend, but I have practice and a game, so it might be hard to find time. Up to you…’
Taemin frowns at the message. After all of that, it seems kind of shitty to just type the completely true, ‘idc’ that demands to be said. He could probably add on to that. If Minho’s going to give him a whole paragraph, he might as well give him a full sentence. It’s only polite.
‘yeah idc,’ he taps out, ‘im free til like 5 2nite so we cn meet if u wnt’
He starts to shove his phone into his pocket before remembering why he got it out in the first place. He goes to switch it over to his text chat with Wonshik and Jongin, but before he even gets there there’s another notification from Minho.
‘That sounds good. Do you like coffee? We can meet at the west café?’
Holy shit. Minho uses the proper spelling of words like 'cafe'. Taemin gapes a little, because who does that?
Taemin’s never felt self-conscious about texting before. He makes sure to at least include punctuation in this one. ‘yeah sure. when?’
‘One-thirty?’
‘ye’ Taemin texts back, because fuck it. ‘c u thn’
-
Taemin isn’t sure what drives him to be a little early to their meet-up. Maybe it’s just that Minho makes him feel a little awkward? Or, not awkward, maybe. Something the opposite of awkward.
Taemin is smarter than the acts, and he’s a fairly steady B student without putting forth too much effort, so he’s gotten pretty used to just… not putting forth a whole lot of effort. It’s literally the definition of “easier that way,” and Taemin is okay with it, even though he usually ends up with Jinki trying to push him to be better, sighing over his grades in that I-know-you-can-do-better older-sibling manner that makes him feel like way more of a brother to Taemin than Taesun half the time.
But with Minho, the guy just seems so sincerely hardworking that it makes Taemin feel a little jittery. Why couldn’t he have a partner who was happy just skating by? It’s less frustrating, and Taemin wouldn’t have to worry so much about putting a lot of effort in and still only getting a mediocre grade. Mediocre grades for mediocre work are fine and good, but he’s pretty sure Minho’s going to want them to put their all into this, and Taemin’s a little nervous about it actually.
So nervous that he finds himself at the west café (proper spelling and all) almost fifteen minutes early, bouncing his leg under the table and wondering if he could possibly run back to his dorm and get something to put in his coffee for the sake of nerves. He feels like he’s too full of energy, and he fiddles with his phone, debating asking Jongin if they can go dance. It’s not his major – his parents didn’t approve – but there’s really no one to tell him no to wasting time in the studio with Jongin.
Before he can send off the text though, his phone buzzes in his palm with a notification. ‘I’m here.’ it reads, ‘Where are you?’
Taemin looks up. He’s like three tables from the door. Not too hard to find. But Minho’s standing in the doorway, looking around for too long to have just missed Taemin on first glance.
Taemin raises his hand in the air and gives a little bit of a wave. “Minho?”
Minho hesitates for a moment, half glancing behind him like he thinks Tamein might be waving at someone else, and then heads over, slipping into the seat across from Taemin. “Hey,” he says, dropping his bag onto the ground. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re five minutes early,” Taemin points out, raising an eyebrow. “It’s fine, dude. Jinki gave me some notes or whatever, so we can get – could you not?”
Minho flinches and tears his eyes away from where he’s examining Taemin with too-close attention, like he’s trying to dissect his features. It’s that same thing he was doing in class, and it’s unnerving to a degree that Taemin doesn’t care to examine. He feels his cheeks go hot about the same time he sees Minho’s go red, and he’s pretty sure they’re for different reasons.
“Sorry,” Minho says at once, raking hand through his hair. “Sorry. I just… I wanted to make sure I recognized you next time.”
“Thanks for that,” Taemin says, scowling. Surprisingly, the comment kind of hurts. “Nice to know I’m that forgettable. How many blond-haired Koreans do you know on this campus?”
“A… a few, honestly,” Minho says, shrugging helplessly. “Look, can we just—“ He gestures to the table like he expects their work to already be there.
Taemin huffs and tugs out the paper Jinki gave him. “Whatever. So Jinki said it might be best to do Lord whats-his-face,” he said, unfolding it to slap it on the table. “I figure if that’s cool with you?”
“Lord Byron?” Minho asks. “That’s fine with me. We’re supposed to be dissecting his major works, right? So we could probably focus on Don Juan?”
“Yeah, sure,” Taemin says, and then sighs. “Or we could just split up with work and meet back up on Monday to put together what we have? It’d probably be a little easier than… I don’t know, fact-checking each other.”
Minho pauses, looking a little taken aback, and then slowly, hesitantly, nods. “I suppose that would work,” he says, eyes flickering around like he’s wondering why the hell they bothered to meet up if Taemin was just going to do this.
But Taemin keeps feeling like Minho’s still dissecting him, even when he’s not looking at him, and he feels like shit about it. He just doesn’t want to be here anymore. He wants, at least, to go dance or get laid or something to take this frantic energy out from under his skin. “Cool,” he says. “Great. I’ll do all the historical bullshit for Don Juan, you talk about its effect on stuff now?”
“That’s… fine,” Minho says, but the inflection makes it clear it’s only coming out of his mouth because he has no idea what else to say.
Taemin doesn’t dare give him time to figure it out. “Alright, awesome. I’ll text you this weekend and set up a time for Monday,” he says, grabbing his stuff.
He leaves in a totally calm and dignified manner, not like he’s running away at all.
–
Jongin isn’t any help. Or, well, he should be, but he isn’t. As much as Taemin had wanted to dance or to fuck or something, when Jongin offers either, Taemin merely flops on his best friend’s bed with a moan.
“What’s with you, man?” Jongin asks when Taemin transitions from what Taemin assumes is forgivably pathetic to unforgivably annoying. “Seriously.”
“I don’t know,” Taemin says with a sigh. “It’s this stupid partner project. I don’t want to do it.”
“Then don’t do it?” Jongin says, leaning back in his chair to balance it on two legs. Taemin knows the right back one is wobbly from the time they tried to fuck there and almost broke their necks, and he hopes Jongin remembers that before he breaks his chair. Luckily, he sets it forwards again before anything disastrous can happen. “It’s not like you’re going to fail the class if you bomb one grade.”
“I can’t,” Taemin grumbles. “I’m not the only one I’d be fucking over.”
“Ah, the moral dilemma,” Jongin says, almost singsong, and Taemin glares at him. “Come on, man. It’s not that hard. Do your thing, get your grade, and then you’re done.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Taemin says, rolling over to smush his face into Jongin’s pillow. It smells like shampoo and hair dye, and Taemin sits up. “Fuck it. I don’t want to think about this. Help me do something stupid and immature.”
“What?” Jongin asks, squinting at him. “I mean, sure, but what?”
Jongin is a good friend. Jongin is such a good friend that Taemin doesn’t even end up having to explain to him what they’re doing until they’re at the nearest beauty supply store and Taemin is making his way definitively back towards the hair dyes. And even then it’s just because Jongin blanches. “Aren’t you supposed to let your hair sit for a while before throwing more dye on it? It’s going to fry, Tae.”
“It’s not like I’m bleaching it anymore. It’s already blond,” Taemin reasons. “It’ll take color just fine.”
“It’s your future male-pattern baldness,” Jongin says with a shrug, examining the hair dye absently while Taemin skims the colors. “You think I’d look good with blue hair?”
Taemin glances up. “God no, Jongin. Do not do that shit to yourself.”
He grabs a packet of dye of the shelf and watches Jongin squint at him again, eyes darting to the packet in Taemin’s hand and back. “Because you’re obviously the person I want to take advice from.”
“Learn from my mistakes, child,” Taemin says, waggling the packet of lavender dye in Jongin’s face.
He throws the packet onto the counter and counts out the bills for it quickly, forking over perfectly good food money. But at this point, it’s go hard or go home, and Taemin doesn’t particularly want to go home right now. What he wants to do is dye his hair and then go out and have a night full of terrible life choices.
He doesn’t quite manage it. Dying his hair takes longer than he’d thought, and by the time they finish, it’s too late for them to crash any parties without being the soberest ones there, and Taemin has got to say that even he knows that catch-up isn’t a good time.
But he’s got the entire weekend to get too drunk to think about his project and most of Sunday night to hash it out to presentable to give to Minho, so he and Jongin spend half the night playing video games, and the entire next day fucking up their sleep schedules, and Taemin still has an entire Saturday night to make bad choices.
He and Jongin text Wonshik to ask about parties, and Wonshik directs them easily to one without even having to think about it. “My friend Leo’s on the soccer team,” he tells them with a shrug. “They’re celebrating some big win or something. But it’s gonna get out of hand. They have Lu Han on the team.”
Taemin knows what that means without asking, and he’s a little excited for it actually. Any party Lu Han is at somehow inevitably explodes. He’s pretty sure the last one was in the school paper. He’s honestly totally down for that right now.
“We’re in,” Jongin answers for them, and Wonshik agrees to swing by and pick them up on the way. Or, at least, Hongbin does, wonderful, responsible, pre-law designated driver that he is.
“Please,” Hongbin says, looking at them, “do not get drunk enough to puke on my seats, or you’re walking home later.”
“Don’t worry so much,” Taemin says, dropping into the backseat with a grin. “When have we ever failed you before?”
Hongbin gives him a baleful look. “Taemin, do not make me kick you out of my car. And please don’t get purple dye on my seat.”
“Sir, yes sir,” Taemin says, and at least has the common courtesy to hold his head away from the seat for the drive to the apartment off campus where Taemin can hear the music the second he gets out of the car. Fuck. Yes.
The party is already raging, and Taemin doesn’t recognize more than half of the people. He knows a few – Lu Han is there, doing body shots off a guy that Taemin thinks is named Minseok, and Taemin knows Lu Han’s boyfriend, Lay, who is watching in fond amusement. He recognizes one of Hongbin’s pre-law friends, Kyungsoo, and a couple of others scattered here and there, but it’s pretty crowded, and Taemin can’t even see everyone, much less recognize them.
“I’m gonna get wasted,” he tells Jongin promptly and tugs his friend to the kitchen. There’s liquor on the counter, and Taemin promptly grabs a bottle and throws back enough shots that he almost regrets it, washing them down with a swig of beer. He doesn’t want to think right now.
Jongin doesn’t match him, not shot for shot, but it’s not too long before they’re both giggly and leaning up against each other, talking in loud, erratic bursts. Whatever they’re saying – and Taemin will never remember later – draws in a tall boy with too-big ears and too-wide grin who promptly begins hitting on Jongin, and when Jongin makes it clear he’s more than happy to let it happen, Taemin snorts and waves, ducking back into the other room where Lu Han has somehow convinced Lay that it’s a good idea to make out against one wall.
Taemin snorts. He doesn’t know where Wonshik and Hongbin have disappeared to, and he doesn’t really think he wants to find them. Instead, he weaves his way towards the guests, aiming for the stereo. Instead, he bumps nearly face-first into the last person he was expecting to see.
“Sorry!” Minho says, like he was the one that had smacked into Taemin, and Taemin feels that familiar feeling of disbelief welling up in him. “You okay?”
“Fine!” Taemin says, and he has to half yell over the music. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m on the soccer team,” Minho says, grinning almost blindingly. He’s ecstatic, drunk with victory and probably more than a little alcohol. “I like your hair!”
Taemin, despite himself, flushes and grins back. “Thanks. I like it too.”
Maybe… maybe they just got off on the wrong foot. Maybe Minho’s not so bad.
“Who’re you here with?” Minho asks, looking around like he’s trying to find someone and then shrugging and giving up.
“Wonshik brought me. He’s friends with… Leo, he said?” Taemin guesses. He doesn’t know if that’s right. He’s more than a little fuzzy by now. “Didn’t expect to see someone like you at a party like this, honestly.”
“I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not,” Minho says, laughing. He has a nice laugh, Taemin thinks.
“It’s not an insult,” Taemin says to be fair, throwing up a shrug. He’s drunker than he thought, and the motion overbalances him a little, sends him tilting forward for a second before he regains his balance, grinning up at Minho. “You just seem like too nice of a guy for a party involving body shots.”
Minho laughs again, loud, booming, and it makes Taemin’s chest squeeze a little. What the fuck? Is he having a heart attack?
“I’m not one for body shots, usually,” Minho admits.
“What are you usually for then?” Taemin asks, and there’s something in his own tone he didn’t expect, something challenging, something eager to dissect Minho the way he always feels like Minho’s trying to dissect him. He’s daring Minho to give him something to work with, some kind of answer to all the questions he has.
Whatever answer he hoped for though, he’s not sure he was expecting Minho’s lips on his, pressing hard against his lips. Taemin gasps, mouth opening, and he expects Minho to take advantage, but Minho only pulls back, looks at him again in that fucking way he has, and Taemin groans in annoyance and kisses him again, wanting Minho to stop looking at him like that.
At some point, he hears a wolf whistle from nearby, but by that point, Minho has his half pushed against a wall, Taemin leaning back into it for support with his arms around Minho’s neck, pulling him in for more, more, and Minho pressing in just as eagerly, lips sliding over one another. Taemin’s not going to take it further, not with so many people, not when he’s this drunk, but this is fucking amazing, and he’ll take this any day.
“Wait,” Minho gasps, and Taemin whines a little as he pulls back, but he lets Minho go, not one to push. “Wait,” Minho says again, and he’s looking at Taemin like he wants to memorize him, like he wants to peel Taemin apart and be able to put him back together. “I don’t do this. I don’t usually—what’s your name?”
Taemin freezes, blood running cold. “You,” he says, and he doesn’t know what his voice sounds like through the blood suddenly rushing in his ears, “have got to be fucking kidding me. Fuck you, Minho.”
He shoves past Minho, feeling the older boy try to grab his arm. There’s confusion laced into Minho’s features, and that somehow makes it worse.
“Get off me,” Taemin spits, hatefully, and yanks free of Minho’s grasp. Minho doesn’t try to touch him again, but it hardly makes Taemin feel vindicated. “Jongin!” he shouts, “We’re leaving.”
How Jongin hears him above the noise is a miracle, but his best friend is at his side at once. He takes one look at Taemin’s face before glancing to Minho, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, okay. Come on.”
They find Wonshik and Hongbin easily enough, Wonshik tipsily kissing Hongbin’s neck while Hongbin smiles and plays with his hair, but it doesn’t take Hogbin more than a glance to push Wonshik away gently and murmur, “I think it’s time to go. Wait until we’re home.”
Taemin doesn’t look at them while they pull themselves together, only curls his arms around himself. Now that the anger is fading, he just feels… sad. Hurt.
“You want to talk about it?” Hongbin asks, as he ushers them into the car, tucking Wonshik in the back with a stern look so that Taemin can curl up in the passenger seat.
“No,” Taemin says. “I wanted to make bad choices tonight. I got my wish. Don’t worry about it.”
Hongbin casts him worried, pitying looks all the way back to Jongin’s dorm, but Taemin doesn’t say anything else until he and Jongin are up in Jongin’s room, alone, the door locked behind them. Jongin wraps his arms around Taemin, hugging him gently. “Hey, you okay?”
“Fine,” Taemin lies. “Sorry I fucked up you getting to know smiley.”
“It’s whatever,” Jongin says, too nonchalant, and when Taemin give him a look, Jongin admits, “I got his name and number. I’ll find him again.”
For some reason, that breaks the dam. Taemin starts laughing. Or crying. Or both. Probably both. It doesn’t feel nice, and Jongin tugs him to bed and holds him until he falls asleep.
–
Taemin’s phone goes off the next morning, but he doesn’t look at it. It’s probably Minho, wanting to schedule a time for tomorrow. Tomorrow is Monday, the day they’re supposed to meet again. Taemin doesn’t want to look.
It’s Sunday. He should be in church. He’s a religious studies major. Instead, he stays in Jongin’s bed all day, playing video games with his friend and occasionally finding himself staring into space as his character stands there, Jongin racking up kills on him without even trying.
He doesn’t know why this is such a big deal. Mostly he feels hurt, upset, but it shouldn’t be this bad. He barely knows Minho. He guesses he just feels… used. It’s not a good feeling.
“I need to do my project,” Taemin says listlessly, sometime towards the evening.
Jongin frowns. “Your Romantic Lit one? Just… call Jinki-hyung. He’ll help you.”
“He wants me to do my own work,” Taemin says, shaking his head.
Jongin frowns harder. “I think, just this once, he’ll understand.”
Taemin doesn’t say anything, so it’s Jongin who ends up grabbing Taemin’s phone. He doesn’t like pretending he’s Taemin to text, and their writing styles are too vastly different to even try, so he just uses Jinki’s speed dial, setting the phone on the bed and hitting the speakerphone button.
Jinki picks up on the third ring. “Hey, Tae.”
“Hey, hyung,” Taemin says quietly, and there’s a too long moment of silence. Taemin feels his stomach flop. Jinki knows him too well.
“What’s wrong?” Jinki asks, but Taemin doesn’t have an explanation for him. Not one that makes sense.
“Some fucker at a party,” Jongin says, shaking his head. “Listen, hyung, Tae has some project due this week, and he’s not… he’s not gonna be able to do it by himself. And I don’t know how to help him.”
“The Romantic Lit one?” Jinki asks, and Taemin knows it’s coming. “I thought you were working with Minho?”
He knew it was coming, but it doesn’t stop the flinch that wracks through him, and Jongin gives him a wide-eyed look, mouthing Minho’s name with a questioning glance. Taemin nods slowly.
He’s never seen Jongin flip that fast from soft to absolutely hateful. “He’s not working with Minho,” Jongin snaps into the phone. “Absolutely not.”
There’s a stunned silence from the other end of the line, and then Jinki asks, “Jongin, what happened to Taemin?”
“It’s not that bad, hyung,” Taemin defends, shaking his head. “Quit making it sound worse than it was. We were drunk. We made out a little. And… and then he asked me what my name was, like he didn’t give enough of a fuck about me to even remember.”
“Taemin,” Jinki says, voice calm enough that Taemin realizes how bad his own was shaking. “I’m su—“
He stops abruptly, and there’s a muffled noise of talking, and then of things changing hands. It’s Key’s voice on the line next. “Taemin, it’s… I need you to answer something for me, okay? And it’s going to seem insensitive, but bear with me.”
If Taemin didn’t know better, he would bristle, but he knows Key. Key is blunt, doesn’t sugarcoat things. This is the closest to Key being delicate with his feelings that Taemin’s ever likely to get. “What is it?” he asks.
“Did you do anything to your hair? Did you have a hat on, or wear distinctive makeup?” Key asks.
It’s so out of left field that it takes Taemin a moment to answer, and it’s Jongin who starts, “What does that have to do with—“
“My hair’s purple now,” Taemin says, rubbing his face with his hands. “Why?”
“Fuck,” Key says from the end of the line. “Taemin, hey, I need you to trust me. I’ll even go with you if you want. Or Jinki can, if you feel better with him. But I think you need to talk to Minho.”
“I don’t want to,” Taemin says, feeling like Key just sucker punched him. “I don’t even want to see him.”
“I know,” Key says, and there’s something in his voice that the phone line makes too tinny to pick up correctly, but it sounds soft. “I know, but I think you need to.”
“I’ll come with you,” Jongin offers at once.
Taemin smiles at him. Jongin is the best friend, fuck.
“No. No, just… nobody come with me. I… I’ve got this. It’s not that bad.”
He wishes that his emotions would believe that too.
–
He texts Minho a time to meet up, doesn’t even check to see if he answers. He just shows up at the café the next morning, too early to be awake. He has his hood pulled up, his sunglasses on. It’s not from a hangover this time for once. It’s from the absolute lack of sleep he got, staying up to stress over the stupid project he didn’t want to do in the first place.
It’s finished, at least. It’s finished and more thorough than anything else he’s ever turned in. It’s almost like he cared except that it was more that he cared about not thinking about anything else.
He hears the door open, glances up to see Minho looking around lost, and Taemin watches him for a full thirty seconds before he lifts his hand in greeting. Minho stares at him for a minute before coming over, settling in with a surprisingly cautious, “Taemin?”
Taemin wants to laugh. Or cry. Or both.
He doesn’t do either, just says, “Glad you remember.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Minho asks, confused. “I know your name.”
Taemin does laugh then. “You didn’t Saturday night,” he spits, and he wants it to be angry, but it mostly comes out tired. “Alcohol can’t possibly affect you that badly.”
“Saturday…?” Minho asks, and then his eyes widen impossibly far, face going pale. “Oh god. Taemin, I… did you…?”
He reaches out, like he’s going to touch Taemin, and Taemin flinches back so hard the chair squeaks across the floor. Minho drops his hand quickly, looking miserable. “I’m sorry,” he says.
“You should be,” Taemin says, and it’s flat, honest. He doesn’t even want an apology at this point. He mostly just wants Minho to understand how bad he fucked up. “You know, I thought maybe we just got off on the wrong foot. I thought, maybe, that that was why you were always looking at me like that. If you liked me, or whatever. It would explain it. But you didn’t even remember my name, Minho. It felt like shit, you know that? I feel like shit.”
“I…” Minho says, looking helpless. “I remembered your name. I didn’t remember what you looked like.”
Taemin barks out something too biting to be a laugh. “That’s better?”
“No!” Minho says quickly. “Of course not! But, it’s… your hair is purple now, right?”
“You’d think that would be more distinctive than blond for you,” Taemin says, and that one does feel a little vindictive. Good. Maybe he can go back to anger and stop feeling so awful.
“It is,” Minho says, swallowing roughly. “But not… not when I first see people. Taemin, I… Key didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?” Taemin asks. “What should he have told me?”
“I have prosopagnosia,” Minho says, and if that’s supposed to help, it doesn’t. Taemin stares blankly, and Minho flushes, looking like he wants to sink into the floor.
“I can’t…” he starts, and then lets out a frustrated sound. “It’s called ‘face blindness’. I can’t tell people’s faces apart. I have to use their voices or their mannerisms. Or their hair.”
Taemin doesn’t know what to say. It doesn’t make it better. It kind of just makes him feel worse for a whole new set of reasons. “So you don’t know what I look like.”
“No,” Minho says. “I… that’s why, when you dyed your hair blond, I…”
“You thought I wasn’t there that day,” Taemin realizes, things slowly clearing up. He bites his bottom lip. “Why didn’t you just say?”
“It’s not… I don’t know. I’m sorry. It’s not a common thing. Key knows. Amber does. Some others. It doesn’t come up a whole lot,” Minho says, shaking his head. “I just… I didn’t expect you to dye your hair again so soon. And I… I’ve been trying to memorize your mannerisms, but you… you get upset, when I do.”
“Of course I get upset,” Taemin snaps. “You’re staring at me creepily. What am I supposed to think?!”
“I’m sorry,” Minho says again, and Taemin deflates. He wishes Minho would stop apologizing now. “I really am.”
“So why did you kiss me then?” Taemin asks, softly. “At the party. I thought, maybe…”
“Because,” Minho says, “Because you were… you were fun, and flirting with me, and I was a little drunk. We both were. It’s not an excuse, and it’s not a good reason, but… I thought you were enjoying it too.”
“I was,” Taemin says, honesty burning its way up his throat and making it feel raw. “I was having fun with you. And I thought you were having fun with me, not, you know, a random stranger.”
“You aren’t a stranger,” Minho protests.
“Might as well be,” Taemin brushes him off, shaking his head. “Look, I just… I don’t want to think about it anymore. It’s… this whole thing is fucked up. And it’s… I guess it’s not your fault either. I couldn’t have known. You didn’t know. It’s… it’s done. Let’s just finish the project.”
There’s a long, quiet moment. “So I’ve fucked up any chance we had at being friends?” Minho asks, after what feels like too long.
Taemin sighs. “Maybe not. I don’t know. Just… it’ll take time, okay? I’ll still sit next to you in class. And I’ll tell you if I dye my hair again.”
“I…” Minho starts, then stops. “Alright. I’m okay with that.”
Taemin looks at him for a moment and then sighs again. “If you’re going to stare, just warn me first.”
Minho hesitates, just for a moment, before smiling hopefully.
Taemin, at very least, doesn’t shoot him down.