Chapter Text
The first time Minho lays eyes on Han Jisung in first year, he immediately gets the sense that Jisung is kind of an asshole.
Frustratingly handsome, surprisingly articulate, Jisung is just full of contradictions that Minho would rather die than spend even a second more of his time puzzling it over. It’s just his luck that they end up in the same form class, year after year, until finally they’re in their third, and Minho is giddy with relief that he won’t have to worry about ever seeing Jisung anymore after graduation.
It’s barely half-seven and their form teacher won’t show for at least another fifteen minutes. And yet, there’s already a large circle of students crowding around Jisung’s desk in the back corner of the classroom, adoration and curiosity constantly thrumming within a five-foot radius of boy-wonder.
"Were you scared to audition?” Minho hears someone ask, and he can’t help but scoff at her sickly sweet tone.
“A little,” is Jisung’s response, which of course garners a series of awwws that makes Minho grip his pen too-tight as Jisung’s bashful laugh, surely part of the facade, travels across the room.
Minho rolls his eyes. He doesn’t have to look to know Jisung is probably basking in the attention, leaning too far back in his seat, tie so loose it might as well have been undone, silver hair stark in a sea of black and brown and a pen twirling across his index, middle and ring fingers.
“Honestly,” Minho grumbles, staring determinedly at his closed textbook as Jisung launches into yet another story about schedules, or managers, or whatever it is trainee idols still in high school get up to on their quest to probable debut failure. “I don’t get why he’s even still here. His hair in itself is a rule violation. If he’s such a musical prodigy, can’t he just fuck off and drop out already?”
“Oh, wow,” Changbin says, amused, his knee knocking into Minho’s underneath their desks. “Since when did you care that much about rules?”
They’ve been best friends since they were kids, two babies in the laps of their church-going mothers, having spent every Sunday of their lives together and then Saturdays and weekdays too once they started schooling. At this point, Minho’s sure he’s seen more of Changbin than his own reflection and usually, he’s always loved it.
Unless, of course, they’re talking about Jisung.
“Since Jisung started breaking them,” Minho says, stealing a look over his shoulder. As expected, Jisung has reclined so far back he might as well have propped his feet up on the desk. Minho wouldn’t put it past him, turning back around and scowling at the smart-board. “God, I can’t stand the asshole.”
“Just call it what it is at this point, hyung,” Changbin says, and Minho hates that knowing expression, his raised eyebrow and twitching smirk.
“Which is what, exactly?” Minho frowns, already regretting giving Changbin the opportunity to elaborate.
"Sexual tension,” Changbin says simply, and beside him, Hyunjin snorts.
“Please,” Minho bristles, sitting ram-rod straight and pushing at Changbin’s shoulder without much force. “You’re deluded.”
“You sure Changbin-hyung’s the one who’s deluded?” Hyunjin huffs a laugh, though his eyes stay fixed on the tablet in front of him.
Having transferred halfway through their second year, Hyunjin is a breath of fresh air — sarcastic and video game obsessed, fitting seamlessly into their lives as if he’d been there all along.
"Quite certain,” Minho says curtly, refusing to be goaded. Yet, he can’t help but continue. “I just don’t care for teeny-bop idol wannabes who only pretend they want to be in school for the sake of maintaining their prim and proper images.”
At that, Hyunjin does look up from his tablet, exchanging a look with Changbin that annoys Minho to the core.
“Hyung,” Changbin says, expression caught between that of amusement and exasperation, “you have the entire collection of EXO’s discography signed and framed in your room. Teeny-bop is quite literally your shit. Don’t you think it’s a tad judgy to assume Jisung-ssi doesn’t care about school?”
Minho frowns upon hearing the rationale there. He swallows thickly, stubborn as ever and opts to reach across their desks to flick Changbin’s pen onto the floor. "Just because it’s framed doesn’t mean it’s hanging up,” is all he can say, relieved when Kang-seonsaengnim walks in and saves him from having to think or speak or hear anything more about Han Jisung.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Although Shim-seonsaengnim had had to cancel their evening study session last minute citing a family emergency, Minho has never been one to skip out on cramming his head full of knowledge as a too-stressed third year agonising over the upcoming Suneung examinations, university applications and maintaining his rank at the top of not only his class, but the entire form.
Managing to evade Hyunjin’s attempt at persuading (bullying) him into slinking off to the nearest PC bang at the first chance of an unexpected free period, Minho instead makes straight for the library after the evening meal, book-bag straining with weight as he cuts across the library and snags a study cubicle in the far corner of the room where the last of the Spring sunshine flows weakly in through the overhead windows.
Banana milk in one hand, he flicks through his planner with the other, each column crammed neatly with an endless list of assignments and reading materials.
Taking a second as he decides where to start, he lets his head fall to the side with some force, revelling in the subtle crack of his neck and the momentary relief that the stretch brings.
Oftentimes, he’ll hear from Changbin how he really should ease up on the studying, but Minho finds that rich coming from him, scholarship kid aiming for Hanyang and above, the both of them one and the same.
Plus, for as long as he’s known, the library has always been something of a safe haven for him, an only child lonely with both parents in the medical field, books for friends whenever Changbin was off on the many vacations his family enjoyed.
He wonders then how Changbin is getting on at the PC bang, an easy victim to Hyunjin’s persuasiveness, and smiles when he sees exactly how it’s going on Hyunjin’s Instagram story, the both of them squashed in close for a selfie, iridescent lights cast across their faces by rows of widescreen computers.
Slackers~ Minho swipes up to respond, shutting his phone off and reaching into his faded red book bag.
He rifles through its contents for his Advanced History textbook, its corresponding notebook and, most importantly, the off-white study timer he’s had since elementary school. He finds its old-school function helpful somehow, despite Hyunjin’s affectionate use of the words pretentious and needlessly retro whenever he sights it , and places the timer with care at the edge of the desk where table meets partition.
Just as he’s getting stuck into answering an essay question on the impact of the Cultural Revolution in China on the process of Mao Zedong’s deification, he sees movement in his peripherals and sucks in a breath when he registers silver hair impossible to ignore and that frustratingly loose tie hanging around Han Jisung’s neck as he slides into the seat beside Minho.
For a moment, study timer numbers climbing by 20 seconds, Minho doesn’t move.
After almost three years in the same space, it’s not as if they’re strangers. And yet, it’s not as if they know each other either, Minho being able to count the number of words they’ve exchanged with each other on his fingers, the wide berth he gives Jisung a very intentional thing.
Separated then only by the desk’s oakwood partition, he doesn’t even realise he’s holding his breath until his chest starts to burn and his thoughts go awry wondering why Jisung would choose to sit next to him in the sea of empty cubicles.
He flicks his gaze at the timer and sees only 22 minutes have passed since he’d drained his banana milk and clicked it on. Setting his jaw, Minho knows he is far too stubborn to pack up his things after such a short time, not wanting to let Jisung of all people disrupt his regimented work ethic.
Gripping his mechanical pencil, he forces himself to keep writing stiltedly, refusing to give the impression that he too is swayed by the ounce of star power Jisung supposedly has as an idol trainee, because really, he’s not and never has been.
Still, he can’t help but track what Jisung is doing as the other boy sifts through his Northface backpack, trendy and expensive in his lap, short-sleeved button-up open to show a black undershirt beneath that is yet another violation of the school rules. Minho’s eye twitches, his own uniform perfectly ironed, buttoned all the way and up to standard, tie knotted and sitting snug at his throat even hours after their last class.
Watching his study timer tick over into the 25 minute mark, beside him Jisung places the same Advanced History textbook on his side of the desk, humming a Zion.T song and tossing a Ryan-themed pencil case onto the table, school-bag kicked hastily onto the floor.
Annoyed and unable to resist, Minho clears his throat. “Can you keep it down?” he says icily, Jisung’s gaze flicking over to him seemingly for the first time as the humming stops.
Minho tries not to smile triumphantly at that. He bets Jisung is surprised, the arrogant fucker, probably having expected Minho to suck up to him like everyone else has since before he’d even become a trainee at the tailend of their first year.
But much to his dismay, Jisung just grins, a boyish thing that turns his too wide eyes into crescent moons.
“Sure. Song Minho-ssi, right?” Jisung says quite certainly, low-toned as if heeding Minho’s warning.
At that, Minho rolls his eyes. “Lee Minho,” he corrects pointedly, wishing then that he could crumple Jisung up and toss him in the bin like he’d done with the banana milk. Not that Minho cares about Jisung fucking up his name — he’s always known how self-centred the other boy is.
“Sorry,” Jisung says, stupidly sincere. “I should’ve known that. We’ve been in the same class for ages.”
"Unfortunately so,” Minho mutters under his breath, but Jisung seems to hear him, grin still fixed across his mousey face.
Jisung huffs a laugh. Minho keeps his eyes fixed determinedly on what has become gibberish on his notebook, frustrated with himself for feeling flushed beneath Jisung’s considering stare.
“You really don’t like me, huh?”
“Well,” is all Minho says, and the silence between them stretches as the study timer keeps ticking. If Jisung takes offence at the non-answer, he doesn’t let on, and Minho doesn’t care enough to gauge his reaction.
As the numbers creep past 30 minutes, Minho resumes writing, albeit not as focused as he should be.
The possibility of submitting a less than perfect essay as a result of Han Jisung is yet another reason to dislike him, Minho thinks, and he scrawls so hard on the notebook that his lead snaps.
Jamming his thumb atop the mechanical pencil to coax out more lead, Minho sneaks a glance at Jisung and is set on edge when he realises those ridiculous crescent moons are still on him.
“What,” Minho grits out, hoping he sounds vexed as opposed to flustered. Even so, he feels his face warming and knows two spots of red are likely sitting high on his cheeks. An utter biological betrayal.
As if reading his mind, Jisung’s full lips settle into a half-smile. “Nothing. Sorry,” he offers, twiddling his pen as he always does, silver littering his fingers. Two rings on the index and one each across his middle and pinkie, they’re the same shade as his hair, and Jisung is still staring. “I just,” he starts, and then stops, clears his throat like he’s shy all of a sudden. “Well, I was just wondering if you were working on Jeon-seonsaengnim’s assignment? The Cultural Revolution one?”
Minho frowns, and then nods. He looks over at where Jisung’s notebook is open, page blank apart from the essay question written across the top in boxy characters. “I thought you’d have messier handwriting,” he says before he can filter himself, and it surprises them both.
Laughing as if that’s not what he expected, Jisung’s expression opens up and he seems to take this as an invitation to peer over at Minho’s own notebook. “Ssaem seems to think it’s pretty messy, but he definitely wouldn’t have that to say about yours,” Jisung says kindly, looking up from Minho’s work.
Their eyes meet then and Minho swallows, suddenly very aware of how close they are sitting side-by-side, Jisung’s cologne subtle yet intoxicating, and Minho can’t deny he smells… good.
Even with the partition between them, it’s the nearest he’s ever been to Jisung and the longest they’ve interacted at all. It feels strange, like subverted expectations, and Minho shakes his head, is the one to break first before their knees can brush together with how they’re sitting, purposefully shifts away as he remembers himself and who exactly he’s talking to.
Another lapse of silence and the study timer continues its numerical ascent. When it appears Minho isn’t about to grace him with a response, Jisung seems to fall back into working on his respective essay until almost an hour has passed on the clock and Minho has barely made any progress at all.
Irritated at the fact that he’d have been perfectly fine had Jisung not waltzed in, he fights a losing battle in his head for a second longer — stubborn, stubborn, stubborn.
Finally, in a rare show of defeat, he starts to pack up knowing he’ll never be able to focus as long as Jisung is beside him, stupid silver hair and that hypnotic scent of lavender cologne on him, snatching uncharacteristically at his books before shoving them haphazardly into his bag.
“Are you leaving?” Jisung says, sounding strangely disappointed. It’s pathetic, Minho thinks cruelly, especially considering they’re barely more than strangers and Jisung couldn’t even get his name right an hour ago.
“Yes,” Minho says, allowing it to come across as sardonic since, ask stupid questions and all.
“Why?” Jisung has the gall to say, looking as if he’s about to stand when Minho does. He seems to catch himself at the last second, opting instead to peer up at him with furrowed brows.
“Why?” Minho echoes, thrown off now, but it suddenly occurs to him exactly why. “Oh,” he says flatly, bringing his bag-strap over his head in one irritated motion and adjusting the faded red across his chest. “Right. Han Jisung and the perpetual expectation that us mere mortals must fall at your feet.”
"Excuse me—?” It’s Jisung’s turn to sound taken aback, a mixture of bewilderment and that glimmer of entitlement flashing across his face. “What does that even mean?”
"Well,” Minho says, can’t help the snark in his tone. He can feel his heart beating fast in his chest, hears the thrum of it in his head, and tells himself it’s because he’s not usually one for confrontation. “I’m sure you don’t hear this often, or perhaps even realise it at all, but not everyone is so starstruck by you that we’d, what, thank you for your presence simply for sitting down. I’d suggest you get real, Jisung, because I’m sure as hell not everyone, and I’ve got better things to do than waste another second here talking to you.”
For a moment, Jisung appears lost for words. And then, full lips twitch into that conceited smirk Minho is more familiar with, the one that sets him on fire with annoyance and proves exactly what he’s always thought about boy fucking wonder.
"It sure sounds like you think about this a lot,” is what Jisung says, a picture of arrogance, and Minho barely resists the urge to throttle him.
Instead, he grabs roughly at his beloved study timer, the last of his things, clicks it off at 1 hour 12 minutes and glares down at silver hair and those ridiculous half-moon eyes.
“I can assure you,” he starts coolly, and though Minho’s not usually one to lie, says, “I don’t,” and spins quick-like on his heel before Jisung can say anything else, determinedly ignoring the way his heart continues to beat like a frenzied bird against his bones long after he’s gone.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
“I’ve got to give it to you, hyung,” Changbin says, looking positively delighted when Minho begrudgingly recounts the interaction with him and Hyunjin that night, the three of them at their usual spot outside the convenience store closest to school.
It’s nearly half-eleven, but with bowls of instant noodles and sugary sweet drinks splayed across the table, they’re not due home anytime soon, the neatness of their uniforms coming apart after hours.
“I just can’t believe you actually managed to sound crazier than you usually do whenever you’re on one of your Jisung-related tangents. I suppose it makes a difference, him being the one you’re spouting off said nonsense to and all.”
Kicking childishly at Changbin’s shin under the table, Minho stirs sulkily at his ramyeon as Hyunjin laughs beside him. He’d left the school library hours ago now, still buzzing from the unwanted interaction with Jisung, making straight for the study room off the corner of Hongik University, a sprawling space of sleek cubicles he wishes he would’ve just gone to in the first place had he not tried to skim on the crowds.
Having forced himself to work productively, he’d managed an uneasy rhythm burning hazily through his checklist, accomplishing less than he’d have liked and unable to shake off the feeling that his head was still stuck in a cloud of lavender cologne. Now, gripping his chopsticks too tight in the same way he’d held the mechanical pencil at Jisung’s side, he still can’t will himself to relax.
It frustrates him though he can’t seem to pinpoint why, and he brings a mouthful of noodles to his lips in an attempt to shift his focus.
“It’s weird that he’d sit next to you if you say the library was more or less empty,” Hyunjin muses, pulling Minho from his thoughts. “I wonder what his intention was there.”
“Fuck if I know,” Minho grumbles, sipping at the broth and wincing when he realises too-late how hot it is, a mistake he makes every time.
“Maybe he wanted help on his essay,” Changbin says, less of an annoyance now as he lays off teasing Minho for the moment. “Advanced History, right? I heard it’s the only class stopping him from breaking into top ten. Considering you’re rank one, it would make sense.”
“What?” Minho tips his head, so surprised he doesn’t stop to question why Changbin is keeping up with Jisung-related gossip. “Top ten… rank-wise? Academically?”
”Mm,” Changbin hums, mouth full and swallowing noisily, oil glistening at his lips. Hyunjin procures the pack of tissues he knows Minho always keeps in his bag, placing the red carrier back between their stools and handing a few sheets to Changbin, who makes a kissy face across the plastic table in return. “I’m surprised you didn’t realise. He’s been progressing pretty quickly since second year.”
”From rank 50 apparently,” Hyunjin adds, and at that, Minho flicks an accusatory glance his way. What was with his so-called best friends and fraternising with the enemy? Hyunjin shifts guiltily. “Hyung, it’s not like I’m seeking this shit out! Jisung-ssi’s a hot topic, you know that.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to listen,” Minho says unreasonably, a professional hater with a one-track mind whenever it comes to Han Jisung.
Still, astonishment permeates his thoughts as he realises he may or may not have been wrong about Jisung in some ways, and yet, who is Minho if not the most stubborn high-schooler in Seoul?
“It doesn’t change anything though,” he says firmly. “Who’s to say that means he actually cares? He’s probably only trying now because his agency told him to.”
”Sure,” Changbin says, mouth twitching like he doesn’t quite believe it.
“Whatever.” Minho sticks his tongue out, itching to change the subject, usually the voice of reason in all other aspects and painfully aware how unhinged he comes across when talking about Jisung. He points his chopsticks at Hyunjin. “Shouldn’t you be the one trying to get your rank up, Number 66?”
“Yah.” Hyunjin makes a face. “Don’t make this about me. I hear enough about that from my mother, thanks. You know she’s threatening to sell my computer again?”
“It’s probably because every time career counselling comes around, you tell ssaem you want to go into professional gaming,” Changbin says, not without affection, and they quickly devolve into a half-serious squabble over the likelihood of Hyunjin actually finding success in the world of e-sports, a yelling match that would be embarrassing if not for how often it happens.
Shaking his head fondly, Minho takes the chance then to check his phone properly for what feels like the first time that day.
Messages sit one above the other against the simple black of his lock screen, and he thumbs mindlessly through KKT and SNS previews until he sees an Instagram notification that has his breath catching in his throat where his tie suddenly feels too tight, Changbin and Hyunjin quickly fading into the background as he zones in on the small white text.
00:09 _doolsetnet requested to follow you
Though he’d never admit it, he doesn’t need to open the application to know exactly whose account it is, has come across the user profile enough times on his own without ever pressing ‘follow’, and Minho lets the screen go dark as he wonders what exactly Han Jisung is playing at, and why now after three years.
His mind statics like it had when he’d snapped at Jisung to get real earlier that day, but he’s quickly shaken out of it by Hyunjin accidentally knocking a canned drink over in his fervor, thankfully long empty though it slides noisily across the table.
“Yah,” Minho says, on edge and much sharper than intended, pawing at his tie to loosen it. Changbin’s eyes are on him then, immediately questioning. “Can you guys relax for once?”
“What’s wrong, hyung?” He asks with concern, playful quarrel forgotten as his gaze flicks momentarily down to where Minho’s phone sits beside his ramyeon bowl. “Is it your parents? Did something happen at the hospital?”
For a second, Minho considers not telling them what he’d seen, but with the way Hyunjin is now also peering worriedly at him from the side, he pinches the bridge of his nose in an exhale and reluctantly says, “My parents are fine. They’re both home, I think, but… It’s Jisung. He just— requested to follow me. On Insta.”
“What? No,” Changbin sits ramrod straight at that, disbelief and joy taking over his expression in an instant. Across from him, Hyunjin sits similarly in a shocked silence, mouth hanging open in a little ‘o’ that seems a tad dramatic even for him. “The plot fucking thickens!” Changbin says giddily, banging needlessly on the table with an open palm.
”Nooo, no, I don’t even know what to think,” Minho groans, a strange fluttering kicking up in his chest. He quickly writes it off as the sugary drinks he’d had taking effect. “What kind of game is this? I don’t even like the guy, let alone know him.”
”But maybe he likes you,” Hyunjin says, laughing as he dodges Minho’s attempt at an elbow to the side. “I’m serious! Maybe he likes the whole hot-and-cold thing.”
“There is no hot and there is no thing,” Minho says adamantly, regretting that the topic of conversation is already shifting back to the bane of his existence. It bothers him how, even despite his best efforts, Han Jisung always manages to become the centre of attention, forcing his way into the corners of Minho’s mind and making himself at home, those stupid half-moon eyes.
”So what are you gonna do?” Changbin tilts his head, seemingly still excited from the way his fingers drum against Minho’s knee under the table. “Surely you’ll follow him back.”
”I’m not even going to let him follow me,” Minho says, hating the way his voice lilts upwards in implication that he’s more affected than he wants to let on. “One unpleasant conversation today doesn’t change anything. It only adds to what I’ve already thought about him for the last two years.”
”That he’s attractive as fuck and maybe even a little smart too?” Hyunjin wiggles his eyebrows, toying with the crushed up can he’d knocked over moments prior when his phone starts to buzz, a snippet of G-Dragon’s Crooked ringing loudly. “Face it, hyung. Maybe Changbinnie had a point about the sexual tension thing.”
“Stop saying there’s a ‘thing’,” Minho bites back, successfully catching Hyunjin’s ribs with his elbow this time as the younger boy swipes at his phone to answer with a pained expression.
Even after he hangs up, the grimace doesn’t leave Hyunjin’s face and Minho knows already that it would’ve been his mother calling with a sharp interrogation on his whereabouts, midnight having come and gone long ago. “Fuck,” he whines, grumpily pawing at Minho’s shoulder. “I can’t believe I have to go now when things were just starting to get good between you and Jisung-ssi.”
“There is no me and Jisung-ssi,” Changbin pitches his tone up in mockery of an annoyingly accurate prediction of what Minho was about to say.
“Oh, god, shut up the both of you. You’re so irritating,” Minho huffs, making as if to hit Changbin though the other boy just flashes a wide grin at him. “Let’s all go at this point. I’ve had enough of this day.”
“Fine, but don’t think just because Hyunjinnie’s mum saved your ass this time that there won’t always be tomorrow,” Changbin sing-songs.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Much too soon, Minho’s alarm goes off as it does every morning at 5:40, too early yet for the sun to come through the sheer fabric of his curtains as he blinks away the remnants of a dream he’s already forgetting.
By the time he’s showered and dressed, grey uniform slacks neatly pressed and button-up crisp at the shoulders, he wanders downstairs into the kitchen and is unsurprised to see he’s the only one still home despite the hour.
An excessive amount of money and a note greets him in the dining room in lieu of his parents, a hurried scrawl that tells him they’ll both be working late that night and not to expect them for dinner. And even though it’s been years of this, Minho is tired of denying himself the disappointment, tossing the money back onto the table and balling up the note to bin it with a sigh.
Swinging by the kitchen to pick up two cartons of banana milk and a cream puff from the fridge, he’s all too glad to leave behind the marbled expanse of home with its high ceilings and minimalist interior, opting instead to munch at the pastry on his walk to school.
It’s a short distance, albeit strangely cold for Spring, and goosebumps run up and down his arms by the time he makes it past the gates at a quarter to seven, an old San E album keeping him company along the way.
Only a few students are there when he walks into the classroom, each calling a greeting to Minho as he makes for the row of lockers situated at the back, swapping out the books he’d need for the day with his earphones still in. Glancing over at the empty desk in the corner, he resists the urge to roll his eyes when he sees a handful of his classmates already hovering in its vicinity, clearly waiting for Jisung to arrive.
He ignores them and makes himself comfortable at his own desk at the front, head bent over his notes so he misses when Jisung does walk in with a can of coffee in hand and silver hair a mess.
It’s only when Jisung places the coffee down on Minho’s desk that he looks up, half-moon eyes squinting down at him with that boyish smile on his sleepy face. His mouth moves but Minho can’t hear him with music still in his ears, and he takes an AirPod out with great reluctance.
”Yes?” He says it flatly, hoping to deter Jisung from whatever it is that he’s doing with all these interactions out of the blue.
“I thought you might want this,” Jisung murmurs, voice a low scrape in the early morning, nodding at the can he’d placed by Minho’s study timer.
Minho eyes the brown packaging with what he hopes is indifference, though he can’t keep the surprise out of his voice when he says, “Kinda looks like you need it more than me.”
“It’s okay,” Jisung says, shifting his weight, still with a quiet confidence. It’s only half seven, yet his tie is a loose knot hanging halfway down his chest, and Minho feels the sudden urge to fix it. He pushes the thought away as quickly as it’d come. “I had one already on the way here, but— I just thought… Well, you’re always here early, so. Maybe you’d want a coffee.”
“I don’t,” Minho tells him. It’s not just because he dislikes him either, and he tries not to dwell on the fact that Jisung was thinking of him. “Not my thing.”
“Oh,” Jisung says, huffing a laugh and rubbing at the back of his neck. “That’s fair. I guess I’ll see you around then—?”
Minho doesn’t answer, simply looks back down at his notebook if only to hide his flushed face, and after a second, Jisung takes the hint.
He brushes past to meet his entourage, a chorus of cheerful shouts filling the room, and leaves Minho behind in a haze of lavender cologne, the coffee can sitting untouched and insistent on the table.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
By Saturday, Minho finally feels like life is back to what it was.
Apart from the occasional jibe from his so-called best friends, he doesn’t talk to or hear about Jisung more than he usually does after the whole coffee thing. And while he’s definitely still puzzled over it, curiosity an unscratchable itch in his bones, he’s a lot happier to just ignore it the same way Jisung’s follow request has sat unacknowledged in his notifications since the start of the week.
It’s also the first time he sees his parents in days, a split-second conversation about his studies before they leave for a business lunch that has Minho gritting his teeth lest he say something he can’t take back.
That frustration stays with him even as he makes it in the nick of time to the weekend cram-school session he’d tacked onto the rest of his jam-packed schedule.
Changbin is already there when he walks in, looking small in an oversized hoodie, books spread across a table in the middle row and his bag on the chair beside him.
“Hyungie,” he says, taking Minho’s wrist when he’s close enough to give him a happy shake. He moves his bag onto the floor to make room for Minho. “You’re here. What kept you?”
”Parents,” he says, and Changbin looks worried then.
“Oh. Not good?”
“As good as it’s always been, I guess.” Minho shrugs, making an active effort to relax.
It’s never been easy to shake off the tension that coils around his insides whenever he sees his parents, the vacant way they look at him and the needless pressure his mother especially places on him to study. As if it isn’t already what his life revolves around, the only constant he’s known since they stopped trying to hide the fact that they’d rather be at their medical practice than at home, a harsh lesson from nine years old and one he stupidly continues to have to learn.
”I’m sorry, hyung.” Changbin hasn’t let go of where his fingers are curled around Minho’s wrist, squeezing as if to tether him back down to earth. “Sleep at mine tonight,” he says gently. “My mum misses you, you know?”
Anger melts away at a slow pace, Minho trying not to twist Changbin’s tone into one of pity.
He knows it’s never been like that between them, and yet sometimes it’s hard not to feel resentful — how at ease Changbin’s own family is with each other, the way his sister always makes it a point to come home from university simply to be close.
Minho wills the thought spiral away with a tight smile. “Sure, Changbinnie,” he says, more appreciative than he can articulate, but at the look Changbin gives him, warmth written all over his face, it seems that he knows.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The weekend is a pleasant memory by the time school starts back up on Monday, a series of surprise tests in every subject sending Minho and his classmates alike into a sudden frenzy, break-times and lunches spent rapidly comparing answers and cramming for the next period, and then the next, and the next.
It’s like that until Thursday, Hyunjin a shell of his former self by the end of it, and Minho would probably tease him if he himself wasn’t feeling the immense weight of expectations on his shoulders, both his own to stay at the top and that of his mother’s.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Hyunjin moans, dark circles prominent against the pale skin of his under-eyes. They’re in the cafeteria now, having just been released from an assembly where their form teacher had announced the completion of the impromptu exam week. “Every single teacher should be put in jail for this.”
”That bad, huh?” Minho is sympathetic, carding his fingers through Hyunjin’s hair as the younger boy lays his head sideways on the table.
It’s just the two of them, Changbin across campus at his broadcasting club meeting.
“Horrendous,” Hyunjin says, eyes closed when Minho scratches behind his ear, the puppy dog that he is. “I can feel my mum on Facebook Marketplace now. She probably won’t even list my computer for half of what it’s worth.”
“I’ll buy it if it makes you feel any better,” Minho says soothingly, laughing when Hyunjin peeks an eye open with interest.
Whatever Hyunjin is about to say in response is interrupted by a soft cough. Minho looks up to see Jisung standing there, metal tray in hand and silver hair brighter than usual beneath the fluorescent lights, his hand falling from its place on Hyunjin’s head as the younger boy sits upright with a sudden burst of energy.
”Jisung-ssi,” he says, the traitor, and Minho stays stubbornly silent beside him. “What’s up, man?”
”Hi, Hyunjin,” Jisung says pleasantly, and then glances at Minho with a smile. “Minho-ssi. D’you guys mind if I sit here?”
“Not at all,” Hyunjin says quickly, jabbing Minho in the ribs as he starts to protest. “Sit, sit. How’d your exams go?”
“Oh, man, the teachers fucking suck for that,” Jisung says with a grimace, placing his tray opposite from Minho’s much to his dismay. He’s wearing a dark Fall Out Boy shirt under his uniform, unbuttoned as expected and Minho wonders, not for the first time, why the rules just don’t seem to apply to Han Jisung. “Some classes felt okay, but I honestly think it could go either way for me.”
”At least you have an ‘either way’,” Hyunjin says, only half-joking. “I was just lamenting to Minho-hyung about the fate of my computer. My mum’s definitely selling it once results are out.”
Jisung makes a sympathetic noise at that, picking at a piece of kimchi on his tray. “I hear you. My best friend goes to Hanlim and his mum’s already gotten a massive safe for his computer. If his grade point drops any lower this year, no more Overwatch.”
Sitting quietly still, Minho wants to ask why the hell Jisung is even sitting with them when usually he’s off with whatever group he chooses to eat with for the day, every table hoping for a chance. But with Hyunjin back to his carefree self for what feels like the first time that week, Minho can’t bring himself to sour the mood, opting instead to focus intently on his half-eaten fried rice as his back-stabber of a best friend chats animatedly about what games Jisung plays and if they should hop on Discord sometime.
“Chan-hyung would love that,” Jisung says. “He’s the one who goes to Hanlim. He prefers Overwatch like I said, but he’s honestly pretty good at everything. I’m close to his cousin too, and Felix is crazy at League. Pretty sure he was ranked Challenger at one point.”
”That’s insane,” Hyunjin says giddily, already whipping his phone out to grab Jisung’s Discord tag. “There’s only like a couple hundred accounts ranked Challenger,” he explains to Minho, who’s notoriously inept when it comes to gaming. “Does Felix go to Hanlim as well? Are they also trainees?”
“Yeah,” Jisung says, typing on Hyunjin’s phone before sliding it back. Minho expects him to start bragging now that they’ve acknowledged the dreaded topic, but he looks surprisingly shy. “I knew Chan-hyung before all that, and we decided to audition together right after middle school. He got in before I did, of course, but I made it eventually.”
Minho can’t help himself at that detail, and he blurts out, “Are you saying you failed?”
Again, Hyunjin’s elbow collides with his side at the blunt remark, the first thing he’s said the entire time, but Jisung isn’t offended, just laughs and nods his head. “Failed twice, actually,” he says, meeting Minho’s gaze steadily with those half-moon eyes. “I would’ve probably gone to Hanlim had I made it with Chan-hyung, but I suppose fate had other plans.”
Minho nearly chokes at that, heartbeat skipping into double-time the way Jisung says it, but he quickly brushes it off. Obviously Jisung hadn’t meant anything with the fate comment, because why would he have?
“It’s nice that you chose to stay here,” Hyunjin chimes in. “Kinda brings our school a little star-factor, ya’know?”
”Oof, way to put on the pressure,” Jisung laughs again, a bright, happy sound, and Minho’s realising he does that quite often. “I’m just lucky Nanyang’s been super accommodating about my schedule.”
”Is that why you get to skip out on evening study sometimes?” Minho asks, reluctantly letting himself be roped into the conversation. He can’t help his curiosity and Jisung is an open book, it seems, not quite as arrogant as Minho thought he’d be talking about his experience as a trainee.
“Mhm,” Jisung hums around a mouthful of rice. His eyes are scrunched up at the corners as if pleased by Minho’s question. “I have schedules three times a week, then more on the weekend, so it’s a bit of a gamble trying not to fall back on classes. Advanced History especially has been kicking my ass.”
“Really?” Hyunjin says with interest, as if he hadn’t known that already. He turns to Minho then, eyebrow raised. “Hyung’s great at that. He should tutor you or something.”
Jisung’s expression is one of consideration and uncertainty. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, peering at Minho now with dark eyes seemingly hopeful. “It’d be a huge ask. I wouldn’t want to take away from your own workload, Minho-ssi.”
Minho bites the inside of his cheek, throat dry when Jisung’s foot bumps into his ankle under the table, whether or not its intentional Minho doesn’t know.
He should say no, obviously, because it’s Han Jisung, who’s entitled and irritating and has an ego the size of the moon, but before he knows what he’s doing, he’s already nodding his head.
“Okay,” he says, ignoring when Hyunjin gasps beside him, despite being the one to suggest it in the first place. He’s more preoccupied with staring at Jisung, the soft look of surprise on his face, the upward tug of his lips into that boyish grin Minho is starting to see more often than not. “I’ll tutor you.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
“I can’t believe I fucking missed this,” Changbin says, bordering on a shout when they catch him after his meeting. The three of them are rushing back to class for the evening study session, shoulders and elbows knocking together every couple seconds with how close they’re walking.
“Nothing much happened,” Minho protests, face flushed after Hyunjin’s exaggerated recollection. “I still don’t like the guy, I just— I’m academically generous, what can I say?”
”Oh, shut up,” Changbin says, eyes shining, and Minho can practically see the cogs turning in his head, processing what Hyunjin had described. “There is so much more to this than just him needing tutoring. The library thing, the Insta thing, the coffee thing. Now this. I honestly think he might like you, hyung.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Minho snaps, feeling heat down to his neck, glad when their building comes into view so he can leave this conversation behind.
“How is it ridiculous?” Hyunjin butts in, keeping an arm around Minho’s shoulders even as they struggle up the stairs, heavy like he’s making sure Minho won’t run away, which. It’s a good call. “I definitely saw some heart-eyes in there and I know because it made me wanna throw up a little.”
“You don’t know shit,” Minho says lamely, shrugging Hyunjin’s arm off with their classroom only footsteps away. He keeps his chin up and determinedly ignores that his cheeks are likely still red when they walk in, a majority of their classmates already there save for the empty seat at the back.
Jisung had had to leave right after dinner for a practice of some sort at his agency, and Minho shakes his head, trying to forget the way Jisung had smiled delightedly upon saying goodbye, the collar of his shirt sticking up and silver glinting on his fingers as he’d waved.
“Hello? Minho-hyung,” Changbin calls, putting a hand in front of his face to get his attention. He ushers Minho into his seat, sliding in next to him with a knowing smirk. Beside him, Hyunjin snickers. “Did you hear what I said?”
”Do I even want to know?” Minho shoots back, feeling twitchy and exposed, rifling distractedly through his bag.
”I asked if this means you’re finally going to accept Jisung-ssi’s follow request,” Changbin says, ignoring Minho’s tone. “Now that you’re study buddies and all.”
“Yes,” Minho says, rolling his eyes when Hyunjin whoops, the child that he is. “I already did, if you must know. He said he’d text me a place since we agreed to meet on Saturday.”
Changbin looks positively gleeful. “You’re skipping cram-school for this?”
“Of course not,” Minho says, as if he would ever. “We’re meeting before then.”
“Nice,” Hyunjin says, and as their teacher walks in, “study date it is.”
Minho doesn’t get the chance to correct him.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
On Saturday morning, Minho spends an embarrassingly long time in front of the mirror figuring out what to wear. Countless combinations of shirts and pants and nothing feels right, everything is mismatched and God, he doesn’t even know why he cares that much, it’s just Han Jisung, and he’s definitely not giving Changbin the satisfaction of texting him for fashion advice.
He settles eventually on a navy and white striped sweater, a collared shirt peeking out from the top, and pairs it with faded blue jeans that are baggy and cuff nicely at the ankles, satisfactory enough.
His dad is in the home office when he walks past, back to the doorway and sifting through an array of papers at his desk. He doesn’t look over his shoulder even as Minho makes straight for the stairs, resentful and feeling stupidly like an intruder in his own home.
The cafe Jisung had texted him is tucked away in Sewoon Square, half an hour away if he rides the subway but he calls a taxi anyway, doesn’t feel guilty about it because it’s like recompense somehow, using his parents’ money. It means he’s early when he walks into the cafe at quarter to nine, an airy light-filled space with high ceilings and wraparound windows that exudes warmth in a way Minho’s house doesn’t.
Patrons scatter in little groups across a handful of tables and Minho snags a seat furthest from the order counter where sunshine pours in through walls of glass, breathing in deep and then out all at once because yeah, he’s a little nervous.
He’s wondering if he should order first when silver hair now familiar comes into view and Jisung is standing there all too soon, careful delight on his face as if relieved Minho had shown after all.
“Hi,” he says, looking unfairly nice in an oversized red cardigan, plain white tee underneath atop fitted grey dress pants. Silver rings Minho doesn’t think he’s seen before litter his fingers, a chain necklace hanging loose at his chest. Over the speakers, IU sings distantly about love and hope and Jisung’s sliding into the chair opposite with an uneven laugh. “I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
“Worried I’d run away?” Minho asks, smiling despite himself when Jisung laughs again, a light crescendo this time that Minho can’t help but want to hear over and over. He wonders what the hell he’s doing, sitting here with the boy he’s never liked, the tips of their shoes touching beneath the table.
“A little,” Jisung replies, half-moon eyes in full force. He takes the menu between them, doesn’t even skim it over before he’s nudging it towards Minho. “Have you had a look? There’s heaps of non-coffee options if you’re still deciding.”
"I saw,” Minho says. “Was eyeing the yuzu iced tea. Have you eaten yet?”
"Yeah, but I could always eat more,” Jisung says with a grin. “I can order some of the things I usually get when I’m here, if you want? Pretzels and the like.”
"Sure,” Minho says, trying not to dwell on the fact that it feels too easy, not awkward at all with Jisung looking at him. “Just take a receipt, I guess. We can go halfsies.”
"No way,” Jisung says firmly. “I’m the one who—“ he pauses, seems to toy carefully with his words, “asked you here. Let me get it.”
“If you insist,” Minho concedes, curious as to what Jisung was going to say before he’d corrected himself.
It only takes a moment before Jisung is back at the table, an assortment of pastries and their drinks arranged neatly on a tray in his hands. Minho peers with interest at the little plates topped with pretzels, as promised, as well as croissants and scones. Reclaiming his seat across from Minho, Jisung places the iced tea with care on his side, sipping appreciatively at his own iced latte.
“This all looks really good,” Minho admits, a part of him still hoping to find something wrong with the whole situation. He can’t help the suspicion that pervades his thoughts, waiting for the inevitability of arrogance in Jisung’s behaviour he’s so sure is there, bubbling beneath the surface.
"We can eat as we go,” Jisung says, gentle smile contradicting Minho’s guarded thoughts. “And hey, I hope you know what a godsend you are for helping me out.”
“Oh. It’s nothing really,” Minho says, a little embarrassed. He can almost see the shit-eating grins on Hyunjin and Changbin’s faces now, how weirdly well this is all going. I don’t even like you, Minho thinks weakly, stifling the thought. “I, um— enjoy History, that’s all. Where d’you wanna start?”
“That Cultural Revolution essay from last week really threw me off,” Jisung says, digging through his canvas shoulder-bag. He makes space on the crowded table for their Advanced History textbook and opens up his notes to the page Minho had peeked at the other day in the library. “Ssaem gave some feedback but it’s mostly things he’s said before.”
“And you’re having trouble applying it?” Minho guesses, gesturing for Jisung’s notebook which he slides over. “I’ll give it a read first and see if I can give you any pointers from there.”
“Sure. Thanks,” Jisung says, beaming as if Minho has even done anything yet.
They’re silent for a bit as he scans Jisung’s essay, munching on pastries and falling into something of a rhythm once Minho starts explaining what he can do to break into the next grade bracket. The essay isn’t half-bad, not like Minho had expected (or hoped), and he can’t shake the thought that it’s a little unfair how Jisung gets to be smart as well as magnetic, gets to have it all and is nice, too, at least as far as Minho’s seen.
Without realising it, their drinks are gone and plates empty, heads bent in close together until two hours have flown by and Minho’s neck hurts from leaning over Jisung’s textbook.
“Ah, shit,” Jisung says, digging his phone out of his bag when it starts to buzz, his ringtone an old EXO song that has Minho holding back a smile. “It’s my manager. I’ve got vocal training, like, now.”
"Answer it then,” Minho says, glancing at his own phone when Jisung takes the call. He’s surprised to see it’s almost noon, has cram-school in an hour and it’s at least forty minutes if he’s going to take the subway. Waiting until Jisung finishes up with his manager, he says, “I should probably get going too.”
“Right,” Jisung says, eyebrows furrowed as he scrambles to gather up his things. “I’m, uh, kinda disappointed. You make studying pretty enjoyable, Minho-ssi.”
“Flattery, huh?”
"Well,” Jisung starts, running a jewelled hand through his hair, silver on silver. “I was hoping you’d agree to tutor me again sometime.”
“I guess this wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be,” Minho says slowly, warm all over when Jisung laughs. He twists his wrist under the table until it clicks, focuses on that instead of the fluttering in his chest.
“So?” Jisung should be rushing, and instead he’s gazing steadily at Minho. “You doing anything after evening study on Tuesday?”
Minho can’t help but smile. “No,” he says, and Jisung grins back, unrestrained. “Text me where and I’ll think about it.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Hyunjin and Changbin sleep over that night when Minho tells them his parents are gone for the weekend to attend a conference in Busan. Even despite the giddy looks they keep shooting at him, he can’t help but feel relieved that at least he’s not alone, the three of them curled up close on the couch, never mind there’s more than enough space for them to spread out.
“Yes?” Minho says pointedly at the fifth glance Changbin throws his way. They’re watching My Annoying Brother again, or at least Minho is trying to, empty pizza boxes splayed open on the coffee table in front of them and Doh Kyungsoo acting his little heart out on the flatscreen.
"Sorry, just,” Changbin starts, and then he reaches across Hyunjin and grabs at Minho’s arm, gives him a happy shake like he can’t help himself. “It sounds like you had such a good time, hyung. I can’t believe he paid for you and you had such a good time.”
“Almost like it was a date.” Hyunjin squeezes where his hand is resting on Minho’s knee. “Burnt Seoul cafe is romantic as fuck, hyung.”
“Wasn’t a date.” Minho flicks at Hyunjin’s knuckles. “And it wasn’t romantic. He’s just— He’s not as dickish as I thought he’d be. That’s all.”
"Okay,” Changbin says, doesn’t sound at all like he believes him. “Even so. Not dickish is good.”
And that, Minho lets himself agree with, the TV flickering brightly over them.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Sunday is more lazy than Minho plans for, but Hyunjin is awfully convincing when he really tries, so the morning is spent attempting pancakes in the kitchen, too-thick batter ending up in places they don’t even go near as laughter fills the room in a way Minho doesn’t hear often at home.
They mess around on the little patio garden upstairs after that, playing board games and drinking from sugary cans until the late afternoon when Changbin has to go home for dinner, Hyunjin following an hour later, and then Minho’s by himself again but he tries not to dwell on it.
Dinner is spent in one of the rooms downstairs he’s claimed as a study space, jjajangmyeon ordered in that he eats slowly while going through a practice paper for Mathematics, study timer ticking faithfully beside him. His parents don’t get home until long after he’s gone to bed, but it’s not something he waits up for anymore, keeps his eyes closed even when his mother peeks in through the doorway, her perfume thick and floral.
He’s glad to be back at school the next day, Changbin getting in early and sitting close and warm next to him as they share a Biology textbook between them, taking turns quizzing the other.
It’s when he’s answering a question on which molecule is a monosaccharide that Jisung walks in, making straight for Minho’s desk to place a carton of banana milk at the corner in an almost triumphant kind of way.
“Hi,” Jisung says, knuckling sleep out of his eyes but smiling still. “Banana milk?”
“Would you believe me this time if I said it wasn’t my thing?” Minho can’t help the delight in his tone as he reaches for the carton, Changbin looking awfully amused in his peripherals but for once, he doesn’t even mind.
“I’d believe that you were a liar if you did,” Jisung matches him, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, grinning at Changbin with his hands in his pockets. “And I wouldn’t want to call Changbin-hyung a liar. Thanks for the tip, man.”
“My pleasure,” Changbin says, laughing when Minho makes an incredulous noise. “Don’t look at me like that! You should be thanking me too, if anything.”
"Thanks for conspiring behind my back,” Minho huffs, but he can’t help a smile, looking again at Jisung. “You really didn’t have to, ya’know?”
"Pre-payment for Tuesday,” Jisung says. “Are you still okay to tutor me in the library after evening study?”
“Yeah,” Minho says, ignoring when Changbin squeezes excitedly at his arm under the table like the school-girl he is. It’s bad enough that Jisung’s fan-club have also started to look over, eyeing the banana milk on Minho’s desk with clear interest. “I’ll text you if anything changes.”
”Sure,” Jisung says, half-moon eyes making an appearance. He brushes past Minho in a cloud of lavender cologne, laughing good-naturedly when his friends start to heckle him at his desk.
Without turning to Changbin, Minho looks straight ahead, biting the inside of his cheek.
“Don’t even say anything.”
Changbin just laughs. “I don’t think I have to, hyung.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
“You know, if shit like this keeps happening, it might actually be worth it to come to school early like you nerds," Hyunjin says, only half-joking.
They’re doing stretches on the football field, their physical education teacher counting to ten for every set across the semicircle. It’s already past noon and the sun is a glaring circle in the sky, the Spring breeze doing little to cool them down.
Minho hasn’t stopped hearing about the god-damn banana milk since the morning.
“It really wasn’t that interesting,” he says, lifting an arm over his head and bending his elbow at an angle. It’s mostly to hide his face so Hyunjin can’t see that he’s fighting a smile, though Minho can’t explain why.
“It’s like missing an episode of a drama,” Hyunjin insists, shimmying his hips in his inability to stay unmoving for even a second. Beside him, Changbin laughs when Minho shoots him an exasperated look. “I’m serious, hyung! This is genuinely the only entertaining thing in my life right now. Can you imagine how boring this year would be if we only had Suneung to focus on?”
"As if you’re focusing on it at all,” Changbin teases.
“More than I’d prefer if it were up to me.” Hyunjin rolls his neck to one side, and then the other. “Anyway,” his gaze swivels back to Minho. “Can you blame me for getting invested? With how hyungie’s pretended to hate Jisung-ssi since the start and is now playing teacher fantasy? Tell me that shit isn’t made for TV.”
“No need to let us know what gets you off, Hyunjin-ah.” Minho sidesteps when Hyunjin aims a kick at his ankle. “Yah. Respect, kid.”
“Is that how you talk to Jisung-ssi?” Hyunjin wiggles his eyebrows, quieting only when Jeong-seonsaengnim shoots a warning glance their way. He’s silent for a second before dropping to a whisper. “Interesting how you haven’t denied it being fake hatred, hyung.”
"He’s got a point there,” Changbin says, the absolute traitor.
“You’re both idiots,” Minho says sweetly, looking away and fighting the hitch in his breath when he unintentionally makes eye contact with Jisung on the other side of the semi-circle.
The same P.E. kit they’re all made to wear somehow fits different on him, white t-shirt rolled up at the sleeves and maroon track-pants cuffed at the ankle. It’s as if it’s part of his agency wardrobe instead of their school’s uniform and Minho feels his face warm when Jisung shoots him a bashful smile, wondering if the other boy had heard anything Hyunjin had said.
It’s a relief when Jeong-seonsaengnim’s voice cuts in and Minho is forced to pull his gaze away, listening like the model student he should be as they’re instructed to get into pairs and time each other for the mile run.
“I call Changbin-hyung,” Hyunjin says instantly, looping his arm through Changbin’s before Minho can even react.
“What? You guys were partners last time.” Minho frowns, reaching out to pull at Changbin’s other arm. “We have the system for a reason, punk. We rotate.”
"I actually agree with Hyunjinnie on this one.” As if to make up for it, Changbin gives Minho’s hand an apologetic squeeze. “You already have a partner, hyung.”
Minho stares at him incredulously. “Is this partner a ghost?”
“Hi,” a voice sounds from behind him, and then suddenly Changbin and Hyunjin are skipping away to grab stop-clocks from Jeong-seonsaengnim and Jisung is standing there, silver hair turned white in the sunlight. “I was wondering if you had a partner yet, Minho-ssi.”
“Oh,” Minho says, chest feeling light and open. “No, I— I guess my friends are kinda assholes.”
Jisung laughs. It sounds like bells. Minho doesn’t know when he started thinking in bad metaphors.
“I see.” Jisung shifts his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. “Would you wanna pair up then?”
Minho finds himself nodding without thinking about it. “Okay,” he says, following Jisung’s lead as they approach Jeong-seonsaengnim to collect a stop-watch. They decide Minho can run in the first heat and head over to where the starting point is, their shoulders bumping together as they walk across the field.
“Hey.” Jisung starts to slow down. “I was just wondering… Can I call you hyung?”
Minho stops completely. For a second, he doesn’t know what to say, heat rushing to his face and not because of the sun glaring overhead.
“It’s okay if not,” Jisung is quick to fill the silence, uncharacteristically awkward in a way Minho’s never seen before. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to say yes.”
“It’s okay.” Minho starts to reach out, realising what he’s doing and diverts to run his hand through his hair. He might not dislike Jisung that much anymore, but he still feels at odds with what he thinks of him. “Call me hyung. I don’t really mind.”
"Okay,” Jisung says, seeming to get back some of his humour, grins so wide his eyes crinkle at the corners. “It’s because of the banana milk, isn’t it?”
Minho laughs and doesn’t stop this time when he leans over and pushes at Jisung’s shoulder. “Shut up, dongsaeng.”