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「 1 」
It happens almost in slow motion.
He’s walking with his friends, you’re behind them all wondering why people in groups walk so slowly. Then, like an actual fool, he trips over air. A part of you thinks he deserves it, having no patience for the way he’s been holding up the traffic with his friends, but as you watch on, some of that vengeful emotion ebbs away.
He yelps, and his friends all freeze for a second before they break out into laughter, no doubt waiting for the impending misfortune, and it takes a moment for you to push past your irritation and decide. You’re making a move whether or not you’ll be appreciated for it.
And so he careens, face almost meeting the floor in a grand show of romance while his friends howl. Almost. He stills, his hand having been grabbed by a lifeline that keeps him anchored.
Your hand.
He winces immediately, and you wince in return as you hear the telltale hiss that escapes his mouth. You curse at yourself for being so thoughtless.
You’ve saved him from falling flat on his face, but you pulled on his fingers too hard, and you’ve probably torn all the muscles in his hand and sprained his wrist too. God knows what else you’ve done. You’re about to apologise when he straightens up, turning around to look at you. He’s taller than you, you note as you lift your head slightly to meet his eyes, and you watch the sweet smile spreading across his lips as he thanks you.
The words fall from his lips, and though a large part of you is concerned you’ve hurt his hand beyond repair, a tiny voice in your mind says, 'He’s so cute.’
You squash the voice down, of course, but you’re the slightest bit disoriented and panicked at the realisation of what you were thinking, enough that no words come out and you nod at him dumbly after he says his thanks. He continues staring at you, the polite, helpful smile etched on his face, and you know his friends are looking at you too. They’re quiet now, unlike how they’d initially been bursting into giggles. You tear your eyes away from his face and look at his hand once to make sure you’ve not pulled off an entire finger or something equally horrifying, before you’re hightailing it out of there without a word.
Later, as you sit in class, replaying the incident in your mind, remembering the smile that he awarded you with, the way his eyes shone from the emotion, and the way his voice sounded like honey, you realise you don’t know his name.
Which is alright.
It’s for the best. You don’t need to know the name of every person you find cute. Granted, he’s possibly the cutest one you’ve seen. That might also be because you saw him trip over air.
But the school is big, and you don’t even know what year he’s in; you didn’t get a look at his tie. It’s not as if you’ll ever see him again.
⤐
「 2 」
Wrong, says the scheming universe, intent on proving otherwise.
You see him way too soon after that.
You’re at the local store, having been sent to carry out some errands and buy groceries, and your eyes widen as you see a familiar face behind the counter. You don’t want to face him, too aware of how you’d fled the scene and never even asked him if he was alright. You tap your foot anxiously as you hope to see the person behind the counter change soon, and a few minutes pass that way; you hiding and watching him, waiting for him to get up and go or magically vanish so you don’t have to see him. But those hopes are dashed the moment he looks over the shelves separating you two and his eyes meet yours.
He brightens up visibly, and it makes you wonder how a person can be so lively and bright-eyed. There’s no way he’s brightening up because you’re there, so it must be that he acts this way with everyone. That’s also the reason why he gave you that smile, no?
You’re taken back to the day he’d almost fallen, and how his friends had made teasing remarks to him once they thought you were far away. He’d laughed in response, saying something that you couldn’t quite hear, but you imagine that’s exactly what he intended, having caught on to a few of his words, telling his friends to lower their volume.
Some people are so bright and cheerful, and it genuinely surprises you how they can hold that much positivity in themselves.
Perhaps he’s just one of those people, the main characters in a movie, the ones that change the world with their existence while the supporting characters merely look on from the sidelines and behold their glory.
You’re a supporting character who had the fortune of being able to save this boy’s face from becoming a pancake. That’s quite a noble role you’ve been assigned. But nowhere in the script did it say that you’d have to make conversation with him.
So you stiffly reach the counter, putting your basket up for him to add up the purchase. You can feel his eyes on you as he moves, pressing some buttons that you don’t know about while he hums under his breath. But you resolutely keep your eyes on the counter, on each of the items as he puts them one by one in a bag.
You reach out to take it, but-
But you end up taking his hand instead.
Jolting, you rip your hand back away from his, curled over the top of the bag he was trying to give you. You stare at his hand nervously, the emotions all too clear in your eyes as you try to make sense of what has just happened. Gulping, you reach for the bag again, focused on just holding it where his hand doesn’t reach, but you get the shock of your life when he moves it forward, fingers colliding with yours momentarily before the bag is securely in your hands, and a smile is fixed on his face.
You realise he has a name-tag, but you’re too flustered to look at him for more than a second, and you refuse to look at the tag and put a name to his face.
As you duck your head down and speed-walk out of the store, you can hear the smile in his words, “Thank you for shopping here!”
You should thank him for leaving you unable to think, you roll your eyes as you scold yourself mentally.
⤐
「 3 」
It becomes a routine after that.
You see him everywhere. You see him in school, standing casually with his friends in the stairwell when you need to change floors - in the library when you’re looking for a book - in the cafeteria when you need food.
Sometimes, it’s just a fleeting look. You find him across the sea of students and you quickly look down, not wanting him to spot you. Sometimes, you look at him long enough that he can feel your gaze, and then you’re hastily looking away, hoping against hope that he hasn’t caught you. Sometimes, you find him looking at you when you see him, and your eyes widen and you turn your head away. You always wonder what he’s thinking, those times.
You’ve realised one thing about him. He gives his full attention to whatever has it at any moment. When he’s paying attention to his friends, it’s as if they’re angels from heaven, the way he makes them all seem so important to you with just a single look, just one smile at the jokes they’re cracking.
You wonder what he thinks when he gives youattention.
He’s even gone as far as to smile at you, and it leaves you feeling so nervous yet so alive at the same time. It’s an exhilarating feeling.
It scares you, knowing that you’ve already given your mind to someone whose name you don’t know, someone who you’ve never talked to. How long will you go before you crumble and give him your heart too? You shove that thought out of your mind, but you’re not sure of your resolve.
After all, you see him too much to ever have him out of your mind.
Your next embarrassing scene occurs when you’re going up the stairs. You’re in a hurry, having to climb up three floors just to get to the lab and you’re not happy knowing that you’re already late. Walking as fast as you can, you’re halfway to your destination, on the second flight of stairs when you reach out with your hand to grip the banister.
And it’s incredibly soft.
Your hand closes around it, the feeling registering in your brain but not quite allowing you to react, and your eyes slowly travel towards your hand. The staircase is U-shaped, and instead of gripping the banister for your flight, you’ve gripped the one for the next one.
Scratch that. Your hand isn’t even on the banister.
Someone else is holding onto it, in the process of walking downstairs and you’ve boldly placed your hand on theirs.
You look up at the person to whom the hand is attached, and because the world hates you, or maybe it loves embarrassing you, it’s him.
Him, with his eyes wide, mouth slightly open while his tongue pokes out as he stares at your hand, then at your face, then back down. Your heart having stopped and your feet frozen mid-step, you regard him without a word. You tear your eyes away the same moment you retract your hand, and then you’re walking quickly, turning, then climbing past him as you all but stomp up the stairs, wishing they’d open up and swallow you.
As your eyes flit down one last time, you see him still on that spot, and your eyebrows furrow in frustration as you bite your lip, beyond irritated at yourself for allowing yourself to be so affected by him.
It’s not even as if you can pass it off as a random incident now. You’d recognised him, and he’d recognised you, because the flicker of recognition in your eyes was mirrored in his. You know him and he knows you and you can’t claim to be strangers.
All that remains to be known now is his name, and you really don’t want to know that. Not when you know how soft his hand is, because knowing both the things is only going to put a name to the face that keeps haunting you and refuses to leave you alone. It’s only going to make your stupid thoughts that much realer.
⤐
「 4 」
You’re milling about in the lab with your classmates, aimlessly going from one shelf to another as you look for chemicals.
Halfway through the two hours long class, a bunch of students enter the lab, and you recognise them as your upperclassmen.
A stray thought enters your mind and you push it away angrily. Denial has always been a strong suit of yours, and your brain seems to think that if you pretend you hadn’t noticed the stripes of his tie while you both had your cute staring contest, he won’t be an upperclassman.
Anyway, you can’t see him among the ones that have entered, so you can count on him to be in a different class.
Your teacher notices that you’re mucking about without any intention of working, and you duck your head to avoid the glare that’s sent your way. Busying yourself with adding things to test tubes, you pray that you’re not taking your school towards a spectacular explosion.
Someone moves behind you, brushing past with an apology and you simply give a nod, engrossed for once in what you’re doing.
“Can I have this?” the words eventually reach you, and you turn briefly to see an unfamiliar person pointing to a bottle next to your workspace that you no longer need.
“Ah, yeah, just put it back on that shelf after you’re done.” You gesture towards where you picked it up from. You should’ve put it back already, your teacher always says you should do so once you’re done using something. But you also prefer working at your own pace.
“Where?” the person asks, and you turn around to point at the shelf properly, but the words die down. You remember the face from the first time you saw him. You’re talking to one of his friends, merely an hour after that monumentally embarrassing incident and it makes your brain go slightly haywire. He can’t be here, can he? You didn’t see him in the crowd, there’s no way he’s here-
“Seonghwa!” a voice calls out, and you exhale imperceptibly, internally telling yourself to calm down.
You should’ve expected it.
He’s an upperclassman, you’re surrounded by those; of course you’d see him. Of course.
Hell, you had expected it. You’d secretly been hoping for it.
But it still makes your heart beat faster, both in nervous excitement and anxiety, and you have to will yourself to not make a fool out of yourself.
'Seonghwa’ turns around to see his friend as said friend walks up to both of you, leisurely, looking for all the world totally unaffected, and you clench your fists, almost breaking a pipe in the process.
'It’s okay, it’s alright.’ You touched his hand, but he touched yours too. If you’re flustered, he should be equally so. And he did look affected, didn’t he? All wide-eyed and surprised. That’s enough for you to breathe a bit better.
He stops next to you, and gives you another one of his darned smiles. “Can we borrow this?” He points to the same bottle as if his friend hadn’t just asked you for it, and you nod like the idiot you are.
He picks it up, ever so helpfully giving a few drops from the dropper to his friend before filling up his own test tube. Then he holds it back out to you. His friend opens his mouth, and you fail to notice the exchange between them which makes him shut his mouth, and then your tormentor is looking at you, expecting you to take the bottle off his hands.
Which you do, after a suspicious stare directed at his limbs.
And because you’re a fool, which the universe has established time and time again, you end up grabbing the bottle and his hand.
Or maybe it’s just your imagination from how paranoid you are.
Your eyes stray to his face, and it betrays absolutely no emotion, so you quietly go back to your work, and he turns away too, walking away with his friend. Perhaps you didn’t do what you think you did.
Except the skin of your hand feels warm, and your face, warmer.
⤐
「 5 」
It’s towards the end of the year that your paths cross again.
You’re in the arts corridor, having just finished with drawing class, and you’re lagging behind the rest of your classmates. As always, you got too frustrated with how your work was turning out, and spent most of the class correcting your mistakes rather than making any real progress. As a result, you’re the last one to leave, having rushed through the sketch to at least feel a little productive.
Your eyes land on the music room. The door is shut, but some of the sound spills out. You can hear an instrument, though you can’t tell what it is, but the tranquil, soft tune of it produces a similar emotion in you.
You halt, mulling over your options. Either rush to your classroom right now and apologise to the teacher, or stay here and be undeniably late for your next class, but enjoy the melody. The latter wins out, and despite your mind screaming at you to be a good student and not be late, your heart stands its ground and you lean against the wall, next to the door.
Now that you’re closer, you can hear singing, and you shut your eyes, letting yourself be pulled under. Lost in the music, you don’t realise that your hand has drifted over to the doorknob. You’re just holding onto it, fingers curling, when a crash jolts you and you push the door open.
You stumble, having leaned too much of your weight on the hand that has pushed open the door, and you debate whether to own up like a self-respecting individual and apologise for the intrusion, or to just run away like a coward without showing your face to the occupants of the room. Which would be hard without shutting the door, because it’s literally in the middle of your way back to class.
Your freedom of choice is taken away from you as someone walks over to the door and peeks out.
It’s your hand-boy.
Well, he’s not yours. But you might as well call him that. If he can be your tormentor, he can also be your hand-boy. The stupid train of thought is cut off when he raises his eyebrow questioningly, and the faint amusement shining in his eyes isn’t lost on you.
But it’s alright. You’re smart.
“I heard a sound.” You say, internally clapping yourself on the back as you congratulate yourself. “Did something break?”
He has talked to you thrice now, once when he thanked you for saving him, once in the store where he works, and then in the lab. But this is the first time you’re speaking to him, and your voice trembles the slightest bit, throat tight. It’s foolish to think this way, but you don’t want him to think you’re stupid, or you have a bad voice, or any of the million thoughts creeping into your head and kicking up a storm of insecurity.
“Oh, that,” he rolls his eyes, eyelashes fluttering as the amusement takes over his whole face, and you want a recording of that moment, because he looks so beautiful and you replay it forever. There’s equal parts mirth and exasperation dancing in those pretty, bottomless eyes of his and it makes you feel so, so warm.
“That was just my friend messing around.”
“Hey, what’re you saying, hy-” Song Mingi pokes his head out of the room, coming up behind your hand-boy (you curse your brain for coming up with that name for him). The words die down when he sees you, and then his face is brightening up too. “Oh, hey, y/n, didn’t know you came around here!”
You were partnered up with him for a project once, and although that’s the only time you had a prolonged interaction with him, you assume you’re still on good terms. So you nod, and gesture to the art room behind you, not sure you’ll be able to speak.
With the person called Seonghwa too, you’d felt the same way. It makes you feel too exposed to the world when you’re with the hand-boy while a third person is observing you both.
“Ah, so you both know each other.” Said boy cuts in. “Mingi here decided that it would be fun to play with the cymbals. Sorry if it worried you.” He says, smiling amiably, but you can’t help but notice the slightest playfulness that lingers, which makes the red rise in your ears, the hue hopefully sparing your face. He sounds like he knows something, and you can only hope that he doesn’t know how hard he’s making your heart beat.
You shake your head, both to dispel the thoughts and to answer his question. Then, eager to leave, you bring up being late to class. Mingi’s eyes widen in alarm, and he rushes out an apology. It’s cute how flustered he can get on someone else’s behalf, and you resist the ever-present urge to ruffle his hair. He holds out his hand in a fist, expecting yours back to bump against his. Which he does get.
Everything is fine, you’ve evaded any embarrassing situation with your hand-boy. Except, because you’re an idiot, your eyes stray to him one last time.
And the expectant look on his face says volumes. Or maybe it says nothing at all, which is what confuses you.
Like a fool, you reach forward on auto-pilot, grabbing his hand, shaking it once, twice, before you let go as if you’ve been scalded. Talking more to the ground than either of them, you mumble, “Take care.” Sketchbook tucked safely in your arm, you all but run.
⤐
「 0 」
You’re a real fool. An actual idiot. A total dimwit. But as much as you try assigning loving names to yourself, all you can come up with is 'whipped for the mysterious, nameless hand-boy.’ And isn’t that the funniest? You have a raging crush on someone whose name you’ve never even heard.
The stairs fill you with dread, the arts corridor fills you with dread, but it’s not the negative sort. You always have stupid little butterflies in your stomach, making it churn while your heart thumps painfully loudly. Especially the hall where you’d first met him, saved his pretty face from being a pretty, flat face. You’ve made excuses to your family as to why it takes you so long to shop for groceries, because you really can’t tell them you’ve been waiting for your crush’s shift at the counter to end so you can avoid seeing him.
Are you a coward? Yes. Do you feel any shame admitting that? No. You’re quite brave on that front.
But if there’s one thing you really want to know, it’s his name. When you wrack your brain, thinking too much of him despite pretending even to yourself that that’s not what you’re doing, you can almost recall the characters on his name-tag that you’d tried not to look at, and mostly succeeded.
Yes, you did think that you couldn’t know his name when you knew how soft his hands were, because you didn’t want to fall for him. But you’re far past that stage. You know how soft his hands are, you know how prettily his eyes shine as if graced by stars, how his eyelashes flutter like the wind kissed them all. Not knowing his name now is injustice towards your poor heart.
You know a person who can tell you his name, but you also know that he can figure out why you want to know and completely ruin your life. (No, he can’t; you’re just dramatic.) Song Mingi teases people, even if he wouldn’t have a smidge of suspicion regarding your intentions while asking him his senior’s name, he’s bound to crack jokes, and if any of his jokes makes your face turn scarlet and words come out stuttering, then you’ll never live it down.
Hence, Mingi is out of the equation, and you’re back to having no idea how to find out your mysterious hand-boy’s name.
Seonghwa… The upperclassman called Seonghwa seems popular with your classmates, because you’ve heard his name once or twice in the conversations you happen to be close enough to hear. If you were to ask your classmates, would they tell you? How would you ask, anyway? 'Hey, can you tell me the name of that person’s friend? The friend who’s really cute and has a lovely laugh and a beautiful smile, with words that sound like flowers blooming in spring and eyes that just make my heart scream in frustration? And oh, those hands that I want to hold all the time. Right, I’m justslightly curious about him.’ That idea sounds stupid even to you, and judging by the last few months, you’ve had quite a few stupid ideas.
You can only rely on yourself to find out his name, it seems. And you’ll do your best to be your own wingman.
It’s almost funny how easily it all falls into place.
The plan seems foolproof. The easiest way to find out would be to go to the store and ask the person who works the shift after him. So you do that. You offer to go shopping quite enthusiastically, and your parents give you a doubtful look once, before they’re convinced you’re just trying to be helpful and make up for your earlier behaviour. Which is exactly what you’re doing; making up for the mistake of never reading his name off the tag he’d helpfully pinned to his uniform.
You’re at the store, waiting outside for his shift to end, and it leaves an unexplainable feeling in you when you think of how it’d look under different circumstances; you waiting for his shift to end, then leaving together with him- okay, you need to stop thinking that.
Once you see him leave, you wait long enough for him to walk away, before slipping inside. It doesn’t take long for you to buy everything. When the cashier is totalling up your purchase, you open your mouth once, twice. But the words don’t come. You can’t help but feel that if you asked, it’d shatter whatever you have right now. It’s also too easy if you find out this way.
So you walk out glumly with your belongings, looking at the ground and wondering for the millionth time why you’re so enamoured by a person who most probably doesn’t even think about you.
A shriek leaves you when something grabs at your wrist, and for a moment you have to convince yourself that it’s not a bug, not a snake or whatever scary thing you can think of. It’s a hand belonging to another person, a very cute hand, and that makes you feel better for the duration of ten seconds before another sound leaves you, a strangled gasp.
Your hand-boy smiles at you like the cat that got the canary.
Which is probably a figment of your overactive imagination because you saw him finish his shift and leave. He can’t be here ten minutes after you saw him leave.
“Hello,” he coos, voice smooth and soothing, but the expression on his face is anything but, sending your thoughts scattering and nerves spiralling into chaos.
Your other hand is clutching onto the shopping bag, almost tearing into it with how tightly your fingers are digging into the material, and you focus on loosening your fist till your fingers are no longer white. Anything to keep your attention off of the boy next to you, his presence too large, invading too much of your mind and filling your brain with nothing but thoughts of him.
You didn’t expect your attraction to him to be this bad, but being next to him is stopping you from thinking anything.
“H-hello,” you finally respond shakily, voice barely above a whisper and you pray that he hasn’t heard the stutter at the beginning. “Mingi’s friend?” you add on, trying not to make it obvious that you know him by any other description.
“That’s me,” he says cheerfully, “You’re y/n, aren’t you?”
Your name off his lips is almost too much for you, ears turning red again and you pray that your hair is covering them. You can feel the telltale prickling at your face as blood rushes to it, and you can also feel your hand beading with sweat. You pray that he doesn’t notice any of it.
But it’s wishful thinking when he’s so close to you that he could count your eyelashes, or you could count his. What you don’t realise is that he’s surreptitiously doing the former, while you’re missing out on the latter because you just can’t seem to look at him.
The traffic continues moving on the road, and you’re just standing in front of the store, you holding onto your bag, and him holding onto your hand. It must look all shades of weird, but the world goes on with its business.
“Y/n?” Your name rolls off his lips again, and you realise you never answered him. You nod again, having completely lost the ability to speak. All you can think of is how smart you were to not ask his co-worker what his name is, because if he witnessed the interaction, there’s no knowing how hand-boy would react.
“It’s nice seeing you here after so long.” He speaks again, and you turn to look at him, surprised and suddenly shy. He seems genuinely happy to see you, and the normal part of your brain appreciates that. The other part is busy crying over how amazing he is, but you ignore that.
“I come here often.” You blurt out. It’s not like you’re lying. You’ve just avoided running into him.
“I know!” He responds, still sounding cheerful and you blink. “I see you when I leave, you just always look too much in a hurry for me to approach you. I decided I’ll wait for you today.”
Good lord.
“I- yeah. I am. In a hurry. Now.” The words come out jumbled, and you hate yourself a bit when his hold on your wrist loosens and his hand slips away.
“That’s alright, I should get going too.” He continues with the same light-hearted tone he’s kept throughout the conversation, and you’re all too aware of how this is the longest you’ve ever talked. “I’ll see you around in school, alright? Just ask around for Kim Hongjoong if you can’t find me.” He smiles, and he leaves just as quickly as he’d made your soul leave your body by grabbing your hand.
Kim Hongjoong.
So that’s who he is.
And he said that he’d see you around in school.
You watch him leave, then slowly start walking in the direction of your home. It’s only when you’re in the safety and privacy of your room that you flop down on your bed and release a scream into your pillow.
You’re even more whipped now.
Y/n, who? Whipped For Kim Hongjoong, that’s who you are.
⤐
「 +1 」
You work up the courage to ask one of your classmates about Kim Hongjoong, and she tells you which year he’s in, and what class he belongs to. But that’s all you do. You don’t have the courage to actually go up to him, say hello, potentially become friends or even more. All you can think of is how brightly he shines whenever you see him.
It makes you wary of approaching him. It scares you when you think of how he must have so many other people that he could possibly like. It’s just a dumb crush, if you ignore it long enough, maybe it really will dissipate on its own.
He’s in the year above you, and you have two more years before you graduate. So you can count on seeing him around the coming year too, when he’ll be a senior and absolutely dashing in his tie with the senior stripes.
And he’ll have time for your juniors too, who’ll flock to him because he’ll be that model senior, won’t he? The one that everyone loves. You’ll just be one of those people. Your classmate mentioned he’s a potential candidate for the student council; doesn’t that make him some sort of god?
No use crying over spilled milk, and no use pursuing someone far out of your league, you tell yourself. So you go on with your life, studying for finals, or trying to, and hoping that you don’t fail and get held a year back. That’d just be worse in the grand scheme of things, what with your traitorous heart still wanting to not look like a fool if you and Kim Hongjoong ever cross paths again. Just imagining how he’d look at you if you got held back is enough to spur you into studying, but it’s also irritating as anything because he’s the reason why you’ve been so distracted throughout the year.
Finals pass by in a blur, in before you know it you’ve surprisingly passed and levelled up in school years.
And yes, you’re still avoiding Hongjoong like your life depends on it, every time you see him in the halls, you turn away and walk off in the other direction. And yes, you’re still crushing on him. You come across two more of his friends, Jung Wooyoung and Choi San, who are both in your class and sit right behind you. You pretend not to know anything about him most times, and it works, to a certain extent.
When they do bring him up, you just make one excuse after another, slowly perfecting the art of fooling people (at least, you think).
“Y/n, remember that time you saved that guy from falling on his face?” gets answered with “I’ve saved plenty of people from falling like that in my life, who are you talking about, again?”
Wooyoung gives a shit-eating grin and says he’s sure a lot of people have fallen for you, which both amuses and slightly saddens you. Because no, you don’t know how many people have fallen for you, if any at all. You’ve always been oblivious (read: blind), and your tendency to avoid people whenever you start developing feelings for them is a major hindrance at times.
You’d like to hear at least once that someone has a crush on you and you make their heart pound, but you’ve never received such a confession. And you don’t think you’re ever getting it from Hongjoong of all people, so it makes you even more determined to blow off any mention of him. You do become tentative friends with San and Wooyoung, and the friendship gradually gets to the point that you can actually feel comfortable laughing and joking with them about such things.
But you still never bring Hongjoong up, and neither do they, as time passes.
You sometimes still catch Hongjoong’s eye through a crowd of people, and every time you find yourself stilling as time slows down too, it sends a pang of hurt through you. There’s also guilt, because behind the ever-present smile you can see how his face falls, and his light dims. You’re the reason for that.
Wooyoung and San are both in the dance club, with their gorgeous friend Yeosang who sometimes drops by during lunch and spends time with the three of you. He’s the one who starts talking about Hongjoong again, mentioning him now and then, and that’s how the floodgates open.
Before you know it, San is moaning about his crush on one of the members of the music club, and how Mingi and Hongjoong get to spend way too much time with them. “It’s only natural, San,” you end up commenting, “He’s the club president, he’s meant to interact with the members.”
The boy’s eyes narrow as he stares at you, and then he cracks a smile. “Club president, huh? What about Mingi?” The question makes you defensive, and you abruptly ask, “What?”, to which he just shakes his head, unsettling you even more.
If that wasn’t enough warning for you to never speak again about the boy who stole your heart, Wooyoung starts talking about the store where Hongjoong works, and all of a sudden he has the juiciest gossip ever regarding the customers there. Do you care? No. Does San care? Not at all. Yeosang? Couldn’t care less. But both of them seem so absorbed that you start to feel like you’re being too unreasonable and suspicious with the way you keep avoiding him.
There’s always the chance that Hongjoong hasn’t yet figured out why you avoid him, and if you continue acting the way you do, he might just find out. And that’ll be even worse, now that you’re friends with his friends.
So you condition yourself to relax and not freak out whenever Hongjoong is mentioned.
It results in three things. One, you stop freezing up every time your friends mention him. Two, you actually come to terms with the fact that you’re completely, irrevocably, not-so-stupidly in love with him. You have to be pretty smart to be in love with such a guy, quite honestly. Three, you end up facing Hongjoong for possibly the first time in months, and you make yourself at least nod and smile at him. You receive that lovely smile from him, which makes your heart race like anything, but surprisingly, you’re able to act normal. (You hope.)
Your second proper conversation with him is something along the lines of you telling him to stop teasing San, and he widens his eyes, swearing up and down that he has no idea what you’re talking about, but Wooyoung tells you later that everyone already knows about San’s crush anyway. So, Hongjoong can still joke around with you, despite you having given him the cold shoulder - or no shoulder, honestly - for so long.
As you continue making small-talk with him, you realise he’s really easy to talk to. Putting aside the fact that you like him, he’s so cute and charming and interesting and all things good that you just can’t help but feel so happy when you talk to him, and it’s really easy.
There’s just one thing that has changed. You no longer get to hold his hand. You can’t act like you’re doing it in the heat of the moment, without realising, so you can’t step forward and grab his hand despite how you’re sometimes almost crying with laughter at the things he tells you.
Hongjoong is an idiot who finds the weirdest things funny, an absolutely beautiful, lovable idiot, and he makes you so happy you might combust. But you can’t hold his hand, because that’s one thing you just can’t convince yourself to do. That’s perhaps the only thing that’ll give away your love for him now, and you can’t let him find out. Not when you’re finally friends.
San asks you one day, “What’s the first thing you would do if you got together with someone?”
“Hold their hand,” slips out almost immediately from your mouth, because that’s exactly what you’re daydreaming about, and you bite your tongue when you notice the smirk on his lips.
“Why?” he asks, and you shrug, making an off-handed (yes) comment about enjoying the closeness.
He’d probably ask you more, but Wooyoung bursts into the classroom, looking way too gleeful with Yeosang hot on his heels, and you watch as the long time friends argue a bit before turning to you and San. “Mingi told your crush you like them, San.” says Wooyoung, just as Yeosang slaps a hand over his mouth.
You can feel the boy next to you freezing, his bottom lip quivering before he lets out a laugh that’s way too loud, and says he’s not afraid. He sounds like you did when you stayed up late at night, convincing yourself that you didn’t like Hongjoong, back when you didn’t even know his name.
So you pat his arm, and offer, “I’ll go scold him if you need.” He gives you a slightly panicked smile, but shakes his head, before he gets up and says he’ll talk to Mingi himself. You watch him leave, then turn to the other two boys and ask Yeosang why he didn’t want San to know.
He gives you a disbelieving stare, before shaking his head and muttering something, which makes Wooyoung burst into laughter. You let out an annoyed sigh, before getting up from your seat and walking out of class.
Hearing about crushes only makes you think of Hongjoong, as sappy as that sounds, and you’re also slightly mad at Mingi for throwing his friend under the bus so easily. You could never face Hongjoong again if someone told him, especially one of your close friends. San is a lot more sensitive than he seems, and you can only hope Mingi had a legitimate reason for doing what he did.
You’re wandering aimlessly when someone calls out, “What’re you doing out here?”
You whirl around, eyes meeting Hongjoong’s, and your mouth opens wordlessly, then closes. “Mingi.” You say, hoping that one word explains everything. It doesn’t, and you sigh before everything pours out, how you know San would be hurt if things didn’t go well, how Mingi shouldn’t have been the one to tell them anything.
“So you’re going in there for backup?” He asks, and you frown. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just walking around because I didn’t want to stay in class with Yeosang and that loser.” You feel bad for calling Wooyoung a loser, but you don’t like how elated he looked when he broke the news.
Hongjoong laughs at that, shoulders shaking slightly, which you totally don’t admire. You don’t, because you’re too busy trying not to blush at the sound, nails digging into your palms as you ball your fists.
“Good, don’t go.” He says at length, and you look at him questioningly. “I’m getting to see you alone after so long, without all those kids breathing down your neck. Stay with me?”
“Well, it’s not my fault you’re such a busy senior, with your club and studying and even work and everything.” You say, rolling your eyes and grinning to let him know you’re joking. He pouts at that, but you follow him anyway as he walks over to the stairs.
As you climb them, walking behind him, you remember how you’d seen him a year ago on these stairs, grabbed onto his hand like an idiot. The you from that time would never believe you’d actually ever get to walk next to this amazing being, and even call him a friend.
“Mingi actually told San’s crush because it got tiring for everyone to hear his moaning.” He offers as you both come to a stop once the flight of stairs ends and you reach the platform before the next one.
“But that’s not for him to decide,” you argue, “No one should have to be outed like that, especially by their friends.”
“But do you think San would do anything otherwise?” Hongjoong asks, and you don’t have an answer. He exhales, before he turns further towards you, and you shoot him a surprised look. “I don’t know about him, but I realised something. San still has another year here. I don’t. And if I don’t confess my feelings to the person that I like now, then I’ll not have another chance.”
Your heart sinks.
You’d always pushed the thought out of your head. But here it is. Hongjoong likes someone. He likes someone and-
And you almost miss his next sentence.
“That’s why I asked you to come with me, instead of seeking out San and trying to do damage control.”
Your eyes flit over to his. Your face says nothing, but your eyes say it all. He gives a soft smile, “It’s you, y/n.”
A beat passes.
“I’m telling you now because there won’t ever be a better time. It’s also because I don’t want someone else to steal the light, or even you, but yeah, I’d like if you heard from me that I like you. Which I do. A lot.”
Your hands are trembling, and you clench your fists harder than before, nails digging into your skin that much harder as you try to make sense of the words. “Are you joking?” the question finally slips out, and you hate that you can’t even say it as a statement, because you don’t want it to be a joke.
“I’m not, I promise.” He says it with such determination and assurance that you can’t help but believe him. “I really do like you, I have for quite a while.”
You’re silent for a bit, and he gives you that much, knowing you’re thinking a million things that need straightening out. He always knows. It’s why he’s Hongjoong, the boy who cares so much about people.
“How long?” You ask after a while.
“The day I almost fell face first on the floor, you stopped me from doing so. But I did fall. I fell for you when you took my hand and saved my life.”
You laugh, but you can also feel your eyes watering, and it ends up making you look more than a little shaken. He’s exaggerating, and from the grin on his face, he knows it too. But he’s not lying, because you do have eyes and you can see that he’s blushing, and he keeps clenching his hands shut into fists, then unclenching them.
He steps forward suddenly, and you have no warning before he grabs one of your hands in his. His palm is slightly moist, though it’s still warm, and with a start, you realise that he’s actually nervous.
“I really care for you. Have always, ever since then. Since the beginning. And I know you came to the store a lot. You’d go in right after I left, and all my co-workers had too much fun telling me that. They all said it was because you knew I had a thing for you.”
Fingers weaving in between yours as he curls them over the back of your hand, he continues, “These hands, I want to hold them all the time. I want to hold you too, of course, but…”
“But you just want me for my hands.” You say.
He laughs, a beautiful sound in the silence surrounding you, your own little world on the stairs, away from everyone else. “Not just your hands, but maybe they matter a lot more to me than you think. These hands are mine. Mine to hold, mine to love.”
The way he calls your hands his makes you tear your eyes away from his, flushing as your eyes settle on your hands joined together.
“Won’t you give me a chance?” he asks, and his thumb is still stroking your hand, his palm warm against yours as he holds your hand like it’s the most delicate flower on the planet. Safe. it makes you feel cared for.
As you blink back your tears, you nod.
He smiles, then closes the remaining distance between the two of you. After a year and a half of knowing this boy, he’s kissing you, hand in yours with that sweet smile of his against your lips.
• end •