Chapter Text
Jihoon doesn’t lie. Can’t, really. It isn’t dramatic. He doesn’t collapse in a Shakespearean fit or burst into flames. But there’s a quiet, aching pressure that twists into him every time he’s not honest—like invisible threads tugging too tight around his ribs, winding through his fingers, digging into the space behind his tongue. Like if he says one false word, his body will betray him.
It started when he was ten. His mother asked if he liked her cooking. He didn’t. But he said yes. And he remembered clutching his stomach an hour later with no explanation, like guilt had solidified into nausea. After that, he tested it. Tiny lies. Silly ones. "I brushed my teeth," when he didn’t. "I’m not tired," when he was. Every time, something in his body resisted. Until he stopped trying altogether.
By the time he reached seventeen, honesty wasn’t a virtue. It was just survival.
So it’s not that he’s mean. But people treat him like he is. The nickname started two years ago. Pinocchio. Because if he lies, something gives him away, thus, here goes the way he turn quiet. The way his hands tense. The way he physically recoils from untruth.
He hates the nickname. Or he used to. He’s grown used to it now. Like a second skin.
He wasn’t like Pinocchio—not in the way people joked. There was no wooden frame, no nose that grew with every lie. But Jihoon broke in other ways. Quieter ways. The lies he didn’t tell still weighed on him, curled like static under his skin. It wasn’t that he couldn’t lie. It was that even thinking about it made his throat tighten, his chest coil, his breath stutter like a skipped beat. His body betrayed him before he even opened his mouth.
So when he stayed silent, it wasn’t indifference. It was survival. It was restraint.
Today, that restraint was being tested.
Hyunjae’s voice had been droning across the room since the bell rang. Jihoon had ignored it at first. He always did. But the comments were getting more pointed.
"Is he mute? Does he hold a special card?"
Snickers.
Then Hyunjae leaned back in his chair, loud and deliberate: "I heard you like men. Is that true?"
The laughter that followed was sharp and hollow.
Jihoon’s pen paused in the air. His face didn’t change, but his grip on the pen tightened just enough.
And then—
A slipper flew across the room and smacked Hyunjae square in the chest.
The room snapped into stunned silence.
Soonyoung, slouched in the back row, hadn’t even moved much. His cheek was still pressed into his tiger pillow. One foot bare. One eye barely open.
“At least he can pull both ways,” he said, tone flat and unimpressed. “And you still got none. Now fuck off.”
Hyunjae stood up like he might do something—just as the classroom door slid open and the teacher walked in.
“Sit down,” the teacher said dully.
Hyunjae obeyed like someone had tugged the spine out of him. He sat.
Soonyoung yawned, adjusted his pillow, and went back to pretending he wasn’t there.
Jihoon looked at Soonyoung.
Jihoon watched him for a second longer than he meant to.
Soonyoung hadn’t even looked up after it happened. Just slumped back into his seat, head buried into his tiger pillow like the whole thing had barely cost him a breath. No theatrics. No attention-seeking. Just a slipper, a sharp line, and a nap.
Like defending Jihoon had been as natural as exhaling.
It unsettled him.
He looked away quickly, jaw locked.
It’s not like he was going to thank him.
———
The sun was setting low by the time the last of the students trickled out. Jihoon stayed behind, as always. His usual spot by the window was quiet now, bathed in tired orange light. His pen scratched gently against paper as he worked through physics problems he already knew how to solve.
From across the room came the soft rhythm of footfalls. Jihoon didn’t need to look up to know who it was.
He heard the drop of a backpack. A clumsy thud. Then the scrape of a chair being dragged across the floor broke the quiet.
Soonyoung slid into the seat next to Jihoon, one arm slung over the backrest as he leaned in to peer at Jihoon’s open notebook.
"Since when did we learn this?" he asked, brows furrowed like Jihoon’s handwriting personally offended him.
Jihoon didn’t look up. "This is literally our last lesson today."
Soonyoung blinked. "Oh."
He sat back a little, scratching his neck, clearly embarrassed. Then cleared his throat and added, with the weakest cover-up known to man, "Ah actually I remembered this hehe..."
Jihoon didn’t answer. His handwriting didn’t even slow.
There was a beat.
Then:
"A thanks would do it, you know."
Jihoon sighed, finally glancing up. Soonyoung was seated right beside him now, elbow propped on the desk, chin in hand. The golden light from the window cut across his face, catching the curve of his cheekbone. The faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his temple,his hair damp from dance practice and hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. He looked completely at home—like he belonged there.
"I didn’t ask for help," Jihoon said flatly.
Soonyoung grinned. "Yeah, but you got it anyway. Karma says you owe me."
Jihoon raised a brow. "And what does karma want?"
Soonyoung sat up, resting his arms on his knees. "Tteokbokki. I know a good and cheap place."
Before Jihoon could respond, Soonyoung was already standing, dusting off his sweatpants and swinging his bag over his shoulder.
"I’m hungry," he said simply. "Let’s go."
"I never said yes."
Soonyoung didn’t answer. He just nudged Jihoon’s chair with the side of his foot.
Jihoon stared at him.
Soonyoung stared back.
Eventually, Jihoon rolled his eyes, packed his things, and stood.
He didn’t say anything.
But Soonyoung smiled like he’d won the lottery.