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1.
Minwoo is an angel—truly. The ‘A’ in his stage name is for agi, for accommodating, for angel, for adorable. The way staff members gently gossiped about him like he was an otherworldly kind of pleasant was absolutely true. The way he acted in front of the cameras was the way he acted all the time. He has a hapless kindness about him like he never knew any other kind of way to be.
When I first meet Minwoo, I don’t think much of him. He’s handsome but not Donghyun handsome or Hyunwoo handsome. The most stand-out thing about him is his perfectly-set, perfectly-straight teeth, the kind that can only be the result of years of braces. And he is always showing them off, always smiling—warmly, gently, softly. He is also always the first one to share his snacks, to bring everyone in the practice room drinks. When we are pushed too hard, we have hot packs for our muscles and whatever aches are left in our minds, Minwoo is the salve for that. But it’s not unique to me. It’s for all of us.
Maybe it wasn’t really different between me and Minwoo until it was. Or maybe it was always different between us and it just took me so long to notice because he’s truly an angel to everyone. It’s the dead of winter and we’re all run ragged with end-of-year tests and projects and we’re all probably one germ away from getting really sick. When I get my frozen little fingers on the keypad of our dorms it looks like it’s midnight already but it’s probably only like four.
Minwoo is already bundled up on the couch when I pry the door open and shrug my backpack off. “Yejunnie!” He greets with his unique brand of infectious enthusiasm. “I’m making ramen, do you want some?”
It’s precisely what I’m looking for on a day like this—warm, comfort food from warm, comforting Minwoo. It’s not just nice—it’s pure relief—it strips all of my responsibilities off of me and leaves them at the door. “Yes.” I sigh. “Please.”
He smiles at me and holds his hand out while he passes me on his way to the kitchen. It’s the same ambiguous gesture we all do amongst ourselves. Maybe we are hoping for a high five or a handshake or a full, fingers-interlaced hand hold or maybe just a lingering touch. So I offer him my hand and let him decide. “Your hands are so cold.” He exclaims and it is only the pleasant—nearly overwhelming—warmth of his skin that reminds me how cold I really am.
“It’s still snowing.” I offer as an explanation.
“So you just leave your fingers out there to freeze?” He laughs. “Give me your other hand.” He clasps both of my hands between his, trying to rub the cold away.
“What about the ramen?”
He shrugs. “It’ll be fine.” He says like I don’t know how much he hates soggy, bloated noodles.
And standing right in the middle of the highest-traffic intersection in our dorms (the almost-hallway space between the living room, kitchen and our bedrooms) I realize that I have no idea if we’re the only ones in the dorms. But we feel a little bit like the only two people in the world.
2.
Bedrooms get doled out via luck mostly. We take volunteers for Hyunwoo’s roommate due to his incessant sleep-talking. But otherwise it’s just luck that lands me in the bunk above Minwoo. I come concerningly close to rooming with Jaeho so I consider it a real stroke of good luck.
Minwoo might have some complaints about me though. I don’t sleeptalk but I frequently get sucked down Wikipedia rabbit holes and almost always drag whoever is with me down with me. Maybe art school and the idol life isn’t quite intellectually stimulating enough for me. But, whatever, I substitute. I don’t know how many linked pages I’m down into this particular rabbit hole but I do know that I’ve been narrating my whole journey to my bunkmate. “…So fish taste fishy because the oils that help them withstand water pressure.” I finish excitedly. But there’s no response, not even an uninterested grunt. So I lean over the edge of my bunk to take a peek at Minwoo. He’s wearing comfortable clothes with his peaceful face tucked into the crook of his arms, his eyes closed. “Are you sleeping?” I whisper.
“No.” He answers, his voice soft, sweet and ethereal. And even if he was lying, it’d be hard to be mad at him with that voice. “Why would I? I like hearing your voice.”
“Because it’s boring?” I supply. At best, the other members put up with my rambling because they cared about me. No one liked it.
“Not when it’s you.” He smiles up at me easily.
“Really? Because Hyunwoo always falls asleep on me. I think he pretends to sometimes just to get me to stop…” I trail off, embarrassed. Hyunwoo was among the cluster of us who rarely did anything for anyone else’s benefit. So I don’t hold it against him until it is out of my mouth and into the open.
“Then that’s his loss.” He says with the most confidence and surety. “Look how much I just learned about fish.”
“Thanks, you’re the first person to say anything like that.” Even Dawit, who tries his best to be a sturdy and caring father-figure for us, only puts up with my endless chatter. It’s a little too much to admit that and keep looking at him so I avert my eyes to the messy rack of clothes on the other wall.
“If only you taught my history class. I never remember anything from it.” He groans.
I look down at him again—something about history on my tongue—when he winks at me. And I feel like a stupid little cartoon character with an arrow going straight though my heart. And it is, for sure, Minwoo who shot it. I can’t tell if cupid is involved here or if I’m just stunned by the affection and the cheese. “Why did you do that?” I squeal, burying my—no doubt, tomato-red—face into my pillow on pure instinct alone.
I don’t see his face but I can imagine it—blank eyes, cocky smile, the skin scrunched up cutely at the bridge of his nose. And he answers me in one, nerve-wrackingly ambiguous word, “practice.” I’m not sure about much here but in my heart of hearts, I know there are no Zeniths involved in this.
3.
The company graciously decides to lighten our schedules as all of us hurdle towards our dreaded art-school evaluations. The school organizes evaluations so seniors go first and then juniors and then us—me and Jaeho and Yewang. And we’re finally down to just the three of us left to take our evaluations. Minwoo has been light on his feet and even more fairy-like for the past week, free from the stress again. Me and Yewang band together tighter than we ever have been under the dire circumstances. And Minwoo is out here making shopping plans with Donhyun.
The night before evaluations I am too jittery to sleep and for once I’m glad for the performing arts school because I can at least rely on muscle memory instead of my frazzled brain. So I’m still awake when Minwoo quietly, gently creeps into our room. “Yejunnie?” He calls, just above a whisper. “Are you still up?”
I groan in response, annoyed that I still am.
He breaks into a fond, excited smile at my response. “Sorry you can’t sleep.” He offers, blindly patting at my bunk before finding my head and stroking my hair comfortingly. “Hey, check the fridge before you leave tomorrow morning, yeah?”
I life my head and squint at him curiously. My eyes are fully adjusted to the dark and I can see Minwoo clearly even if I’m just a vague series of lumps to him. He looks like a cherub. “Why?”
“There’s something in there for you.” He answers simply.
“What?” I press.
“It’s not that exciting.” He brushes off. “Just don’t forget it. Sleep tight, Junnie.”
And I hate to admit it but it’s easier to fall asleep with Minwoo in the room with me. When I check the fridge in the morning there’s a lunchbox sitting on the middle shelf. It’s plain and I can’t see inside but there’s a note stuck to the outside. Our Yejunnie, good luck <3 it reads in light blue ink. It’s simple and kind just like Minwoo.
Lunch comes between different kinds of evaluations—just a breather, not a real break. But I get to crack open the lunch box. None of us have really gotten around to truly learning how to cook yet so it’s mostly leftovers and things from the convenience store. In the middle compartment, glaring up at me, there is a lumpy, clearly homemade roll of gimbap though. Next to it, I catch a glimpse of the note and my heart warms or flutters or whatever.
Yewang doesn’t show up to the cafeteria until I’ve already started on my lunchbox. He’s holding a similarly plain lunchbox but not the same one and when he gets closer it’s easier to see that it’s just one from the convenience store near our dorms. “Where’s your lunchbox?” I ask once he sits down across from me.
He doesn’t actually swear ay me but the glare he gives me says enough—stressed, exhausted, annoyed. “This is my lunchbox.” He points to the manicured set in front of him.
“Minwoo didn’t make you one?”
“Oh, so Minwoo made that one?” He catches on. “That’s why it looks like that huh.” He yanks the lid off of his lunch and tears into his perfect little omelet.
“I thought he made all the 05-liners one.”
He looks up at me with a glare that is equal parts annoyance and utter confusion. “Are you mocking me? Or did evaluations fully ruin your brain? Why are you saying the stupidest shit imaginable?”
“Why wouldn’t Minwoo make one for all of us?”
“Why wouldn’t Minwoo make one for all of us?” He mocks. “Because you’re his favorite.” He pretends to swoon over the statement, making fun of someone for sure I just can’t tell if it’s me or Minwoo.
“I’m his favorite like you’re Jaeho’s favorite. We’re just roommates.” I defend.
“Jaeho didn’t make me this lunchbox. Jaeho doesn’t even let me near his snacks. Jaeho throws shit at me to wake me up. You and Miwoo are different.”
I look down at the lumpy gimbap, the sweet note, the little serving of fancy pudding from our favorite bakery then back up to Yewang. I don’t have a defense for that.
“Oh my god, you really never noticed.” He laughs. “Better save that revelation for after evaluations huh?”
And Yewang is only ever right when you really don’t want him to be. So whatever is revealed here, I immediately shelve. And even after evaluations, it stays buried.
4.
We start comebacks like we always do, with a shoot. This time it’s a photoshoot, a cozy, cute one for winter. It’s not quite winter yet but our sweaters and scarves aren’t uncomfortable on the crisp, fall day we do the photoshoot either. Once again fate has put me and Minwoo right next to each other on the shooting schedule. So we spend our free time together naturally. We don’t’ play games or talk endlessly like normal, we just end up taking a nap in the van.
Minwoo is wearing a big, thick, light blue sweater with snowflakes on it and still has his crispy blonde hair (though it is not as crispy as mine). We both fall asleep with the standard, black medical masks on our faces mostly because we forget about them. Minwoo was wildly excited about one of the sets we were going to use that was filled with antique-looking stuffed animals. But he got so wound up that he fell asleep pretty much the moment we settled in the van.
I wake up to the sound of the van door sliding open, the sunshine flooding over both of our faces. It’s just our manager thought and he doesn’t even climb into the van. He just leans over and shakes me gently. “Ayden, five minute heads-up and then the makeup team wants you.”
I blink up at him confusedly and furrow my brows.
“Yeah?” He presses. “Five minutes and you’ll be ready for makeup?”
“Yeah.” I croak out.
“Okay,” he acquiesces, “I’m trusting you.” His worried face and hurried actions tell me that he’s not really giving me a privilege, he’s just got a bigger, more pressing problem to deal with somewhere else.
I stretch and wiggle around to keep myself awake and I guess that wakes up Minwoo too. “It’s time for makeup.” I fill him in.
“Me too?” He asks with that wide-open blankness that begs you for only the kindest truth.
“He didn’t say anything about you too.”
“Hm,” he rubs his face, “I’ll go with you anyway.”
The van door shuts by itself just as I was reaching for it and it forces me back down in my seat. Minwoo still looks half-asleep next to me so I tug at his sleeve but he doesn’t follow me, he just leans over me. And then he slides his hand up to the nape of my neck, cupping the juncture lightly. It’s so intimate and so new to me that I just freeze. Sometimes the hair stylists touched my neck like this but they always did it in a distracted, professional way and that is not how Minwoo is touching me.
And then he leans down further and presses out mouths together. Our skin doesn’t touch—we’re still wearing our masks—and all I hear is the soft, papery crinkle of two medical masks rubbing together. I don’t know if I can call it a kiss but I don’t know what else to call it. I watch, wide-eyed, as Minwoo’s eyes slip shut for a moment like it really is a kiss though.
“Good luck.” He murmurs. He doesn’t look like anything shocking or unbelievable or life-altering just happened. I am utterly shell-shocked and he looks like the same serene little cherub he did when we entered the van.
All I am capable of is stumbling out of the van on unsteady legs like a newborn fawn. Minwoo does not follow me out. And I just blink into the harsh sunlight of midday like I just made the whole thing up.
There’s no lingering touch. I can’t feel the burning of where his skin touched mine. Because it didn’t. There’s no proof that anything transpired at all in the nearly-empty parking lot. There’s nothing but my own memory. And maybe I did make it all up. Maybe it was nothing but a dream after all.
5.
Minwoo avoids me for the rest of the photoshoot. And I avoid the thought of all of it. And we’re both so good at it that it’s almost like nothing happened at all. Almost.
I guess this is the tipping point, the thing that is impossible to ignore. Once the shoot is over, it is all I can think about. Minwoo plops down in the seat farthest from me on the way home and I end up next to Donghyun. If there is one thing I can always rely on, it’s the ability to just zone out while Donghyun talks endlessly and excitedly about himself at any opportunity. Which blows right now because it leaves with the vivid image of Minwoo’s hand on my neck and the echoing, soft, papery sound of masks on masks on a constant loop in my head. But also Donghyun’s utter self-infatuation is probably for the best because it leaves him with no space left to worry about my infrequent, half-hearted responses.
There’s really nowhere for either of us to run in the dorms now that we’ve spent months intertwining our things and beings and lives. But Minwoo tries. He really does. He stays out in the living room playing some game with Jaeho and Dawit until I should be asleep. But I’m not asleep and Minwoo really should know that.
He comes in quietly, stealthily, like he’s trying to not wake me up but then he realizes I’m not asleep. “Yejun,” he gasps involuntarily and tries to back out of the room.
“Minwoo.” I don’t know the tone I intend to use but even though all I say is his name, it sounds like an accusation.
It stops him at least. He doesn’t quite make it to the doorway where he freezes. And we’re just locked in an uncomfortable, tense silence. The tension is utterly foreign to our room which has been a cozy refuge for both of us since we moved in.
“Where are you going to run this time?” It comes out bitter and I don’t even feel it fall from my mouth.
He deflates like a sad, forgotten balloon. “I didn’t think you’d want to be around me.
“You kissed me.” I hiss. I’m sure any real argument between me and Minwoo would be unusual enough to be juicy gossip for the rest of the group and I do not want this argument to leave this room.
“It wasn’t really a kiss.” He immediately downplays.
“Then what am I supposed to call it?”
He flops down on his bunk so I can’t see him anymore. “I don’t know.” He finally answers. “I’m sorry?” He offers.
I think there are a lot of things Minwoo should be sorry for—running away from me all of today, being so vague and secretive with me, that one time he ate the whole package of fresh strawberries before I got home. But not matter how hard I try, I can’t put the actual act of kissing me on that list. So maybe we’re not really communicating at all. I climb down off my bunk and in next to Minwoo.
He looks completely shocked to see me this close, shrinking against the wall and away from me.
“I don’t want you to stay away from me and I don’t want you to apologize.” I establish. “I just want to know why.”
He pulls one of his big stuffed animals into his chest and looks down at it. “I didn’t think it was really happening. I thought it was a dream.”
Or maybe we were truly communicating. Mind reading. Whatever. “When you didn’t say anything about it, you made it feel like a dream.” I sigh. “But why would you do it even if it was a dream?”
He curls up tighter around the poor, contorted stuffed animal. “Because you’re my favorite.” It’s a confession. That’s the only word I have for it. But it is not a romantic confession. It’s guilt-ridden, a sinner confessing to their sins. It weighs heavy and hardly feels like a confession to me. It feels like it should be confessed to the others. Minwoo was given seven others to treat like family, to be his closest friends and he chose a favorite. And it weighed on him as heavily as if he picked a favorite sibling.
“I think everyone has a favorite.” I try to comfort him. Because there were eight of us, all of us perfect strangers before we passed our auditions, and it was only natural to be closer to some than others. Jaeho and I still had never had a serious conversation that wasn’t about what we were gonna eat for dinner. And I’d be hard-pressed to tell you Dawit’s birthday but I had Minwoo’s burned into my heart.
“Then who’s your favorite?” He challenges.
And I think about the way his birthday is burned into my heart. And how sometimes the dorms feel more like home than my parent’s home because I know that Minwoo will be here. And how Minwoo always makes ramen the way I like it. And how he actually takes the time to listen to me. How he likes listening to me. The only real answer I have is him and I can’t quite force the name off of my tongue yet. So the silence tells him everything he needs to know instead.
“So we should just forget this ever happened, I think.” He offers gently.
“What if I can’t forget?”
“Then I guess we can pretend.” He shrugs. “This is my problem anyway.” There’s something new in his eyes—a steely reserve usually only seen on Dawit when he has to challenge some authority figure for the best for all of us. But this time it’s just between me and Minwoo. He’s only challenging himself.
It’s the kind of affection that makes my heart feel full to bursting—not pleasantly but painfully, more emphasis on the bursting than the affection. And when it bursts, the thin, insubstantial barrier between the two disappears leaving only an indistinguishable mixture, equal parts hurt and adoration.
He cups my face gently—a familiar kind of overly-sweet friendliness. “Let’s go to bed, yeah?”
It is a fork in the road that I can nearly see in front of me. If I climb back up to my bunk—if I leave—I feel like I won’t be able to take that back. But I don’t’ know if I can commit to whatever it means if I stay either. I don’t want to crawl up to my bed and sleep alone, though, I can say that much. But Yewang will not let me into his bed for sure and I can’t imagine Hyunwoo or Kyungmin offering any real comfort, Donghyun either. And Dawit and Jaeho weren’t really options. The only person I ever shared a bed with was Minwoo.
He takes his hand away from my face but doesn’t press me for anything. He just looks at me with gentle curiosity.
I want to scream that I don’t want everything to stop, I just need it to slow down. I need some time to catch my breath, to gather my thoughts. But it seems like Minwoo has already pulled the breaks. We’re already at a standstill. And the only option seems to be to climb back into my bed and sleep alone. Even if every step I take away from Minwoo feels like a new, stinging rejection.
+1.
It works for a month. We pretend like nothing has changed for a month. And Minwoo keeps his promise, everything feels completely unchanged. We share snacks and meals and friendly, open smiles and the kind of familiar skinship that I only share with Minwoo. It’s easier because we are promoting and busy and distracted, probably. Maybe that’s what stretched it out to working for a whole month. But every time Minwoo offers me affection that is clearly only a fraction of what he’s capable of—of what he wants to—I feel it puncture my heart.
It takes a full month to build up in my mind and my heart. That’s why the tentative peace lasts so long. Every time Minwoo pulls away from me after an overly-familiar hug or wiping some stray crumbs off of my face, it feels more like I’m missing something. Even though I don’t know what it is and I shouldn’t be able to miss something I haven’t known, it feels like something is being kept just out of my hands. And I’m only curious at first. Minwoo takes kissing off the table before I even really get one. But all I’ve been expressing the whole time is curiosity, not criticism. Don’t stop. Please slow down.
But anyway, it leaves with a lot of time to think about kissing Minwoo. It pretty much forces me to spend a lot of time thinking about kissing Minwoo. I think about the gentle, reassuring way that he cupped my neck and wonder if he kisses just as gently as he does everything else. I wonder what would happen if I caught him off-guard with a kiss this time. I wonder if he would freeze or melt, if he would have instincts for that kind of thing. I try not to think if he has more experience than me (there’s only a year difference between us anyway) but it lingers in my mind. Sometimes I wonder if anyone got their mouth on his before the braces changed his smile forever.
So, I think about kissing Minwoo a lot. But it’s not even what pushes me to doing something about it. I can be curious about what kissing Minwoo is like for years, decades even, I’m very patient. It’s the missing that hollows out my heart. It’s the missing that makes sleeping alone feel like an empty bed. It’s something I guess he didn’t factor into his plan to make everything normal again. We didn’t share beds often, maybe it just slipped his mind. It only happened when we were in the thick of things—stressed, homesick and miserable, when evaluations were harsh, when we were not the pretty little golden children the company usually treated us as. But that cellophane-thin barrier between me and Minwoo has made it feel like I’m in the thick of things again. And the only comfort I will take is his.
Maybe it starts out as a ploy to confront him, maybe I just miss him enough that his bed will suffice but either way, I nestle myself into the stuffed animals and pillows on his bunk while I’m alone in our room. When he finally gets back to our room he smiles at me brightly like I’m a little kid or a pet getting up to something a little silly. “What are you doing on my bed?” He greets fondly, rubbing at my arm before he shrugs off his jacket.
“Things aren’t normal.” It’s maybe not the best way I could’ve started this. Or maybe it is. I know, above everything else, Minwoo wants me happy. Maybe it’s best to just admit that it’s not working.
“W-what’s not normal?” He stutters, his hand faltering on its way to my hair.
“This.” I gesture wildly around me. “Everything. I know you’re trying to make it normal but it’s not.”
He gives me a confused pout. “Well, how do you want to fix that?”
The solution comes shining through like a ray of light directly from heaven. If I had asked the universe for a sign, nothing could’ve been clearer than this right here. I could neatly wrap everything up. I could fix everything right here. I could take things back, they were not permanent. And I could get us moving again, could lift the breaks. As long as nothing really had changed anyway. I grab his hand and use it as leverage to pull him down to my height. I tilt my face to accommodate his, still far enough away that we aren’t sharing air but close enough that my intentions are obvious. And I wait. I give him an out. He doesn’t take it, though. Instead his hand creeps back up my neck to the short hairs at the base of my skull.
So I kiss him. His lips are soft but papery—clearly recovering from a harsh winter and an even more brutal comeback schedule. It’s more than a peck. But it’s barely more than the kind of kiss my parents share before my mom goes to work in the morning. Both of our lips are parted and it makes a wet noise when we part. And the shiny, warm layer of spit on my lips might not be my own.
I can feel the unbearable heat on my face—the visible and touchable embarrassment. But I power through. Minwoo has never laughed at me before. “You’re my favorite. You’ve always been my favorite, I was just scared to say it.” I admit, fiddling with his hand in mine. “Am I still your favorite?” I ask, hanging the question like the most fragile and delicate glass ornament in the air between us. It feels almost reductive to call him my favorite. Like I could ever feel the same way about Berry Berry Strawberry ice cream as I did about Minwoo. But it also feels like a perfect fit. He’s my favorite. I’ll do things with him that I won’t do with the others. He’s special. He’s my favorite.
He laughs, clearly stunned. But then both of his hands come up to cup my face, shaking my head lightly. “Of course you’re still my favorite. You’ll never stop being my favorite.” He breathes. “You’re you.” He sighs like it says everything. Like there’s no flaws to compensate for or any annoyances to work around. Like there are only reasons to love me. And, god, that’s the way he makes me feel. Always.
I can only hope that I can make him feel the same way.
(Bonus.)
“Did Dawit finally get you to start making up your bed all the time?” Yewang asks, lounging in my room to study for a history test.
I give him a puzzled look. “What are you talking about?”
He gestures towards the top bunk. “Your bed always looks pristine now, what’s up?”
“Oh, I don’t really use it anymore.” I answer easily, not really thinking about the implications of my words.
“Why not?”
I tuck my tongue behind my teeth, embarrassed. “Do you really wanna know?”
“Don’t drag this out like it’s juicy.” He scolds, flicking a folded-up piece of paper at my head. “You never have anything juicy to tell me.”
“Me and Minwoo have just been sleeping in his most of the time.”
“Why? Did you break yours or something?” He’s focusing on folding another piece of paper into a little airplane, not really paying attention.
“No, he’s just my favorite and we like it better that way.”
He looks at me with saucer-wide eyes, his mouth hanging open enough for me to see the entirety of his crooked top row of teeth. Then he gags, pretending to stick his finger down his throat. “’Favorite’?” He mocks. “God, could you not have chosen something normal? Babe maybe?” He gags again. “Nasty. I’m sorry I asked.”
“C’mon,” I tease, “don’t you have a favorite?”
“I have a favorite fucking milk tea shop. I do not play favorites with you bastards.” He spits. “But you’re definitely my least favorite now, jesus.” He pretends to shake the information from his head. “I better not hear anything that is not related to history for the rest of the night, you nasty fucking sap.”