Chapter Text
It was the first day of school. First period: AP Chemistry.
Hwang In-ho arrived three minutes early, as always. The classroom was cold and quiet, just how he liked it. He stepped in, eyes already scanning the space like a formula to solve, and was unsurprised to find it empty—save for one man standing at the front of the class.
“Ah! In-ho!” Mr. Kim, the teacher, grinned wide and gestured for him to come in. “I heard you’d be in my class. It’s a pleasure to have such a bright student this year. My luck hasn’t been great with the last bunch, but now…” He laughed nervously. “Now I might actually get through the full curriculum.”
In-ho only blinked. His sharp stare had a habit of making even adults shift in their shoes. “Thank you, sir,” he said, calm and cool, each syllable crisp with flawless diction. “I’ve heard good things about your class. I’m sure we’ll have a productive year. May I ask if there’s a seating chart?”
“No, no—free seating. Take your pick!”
With a nod, In-ho turned and sat at the desk farthest from the windows and closest to the shelves of chemical compounds—just in case he needed a quick reference. He opened his bag and took out only the essentials: a graphite pencil sharpened to precision, a yellow highlighter, and a college-ruled notebook already labeled “AP Chemistry - Hwang In-ho” in fine, slanted cursive. His materials aligned perfectly, equidistant at the edge of his desk like chess pieces waiting to be deployed.
The room slowly filled with students, chattering in the anxious, overly energetic way people did on the first day back. Pair by pair, desks were claimed, until only one seat beside In-ho remained empty.
Five minutes into class, the door swung open.
Enter Seong Gi-hun.
He was breathless. Papers nearly flew out of his backpack as he rushed toward the only remaining desk.
No.
In-ho’s calm expression flickered. Just slightly.
The infamous Seong Gi-hun—class clown, student council president, Honor Society historian (for some godforsaken reason), and all-around chaos generator—plopped down beside him with all the grace of a dropped bowling ball.
“Your shoe is untied, Seong,” In-ho said without looking up.
Gi-hun blinked, then glanced down at his foot. “Yeah. Thanks,” he muttered, bending to fix it with one hand while the other shoved stray papers into his desk.
He caught a glimpse of In-ho’s workspace. Perfectly straight lines. Highlighter capped and facing the same direction. Not a wrinkle in sight.
Gi-hun made a face. “Jesus. You iron your notebook too?”
In-ho didn’t respond. Just turned a page with mechanical precision.
This year was going to be hell.
Gi-hun slouched in his chair, drumming his fingers against the desk like he was playing an invisible drum set. His eyes darted around the room, still slightly red from staying up too late and waking up too early. He hadn’t even really, realized he’d landed next to him .
He side-eyed In-ho again. The guy hadn’t moved a muscle except to turn the page. His handwriting looked like it belonged in a museum, and he hadn’t even blinked at Gi-hun’s flustered arrival.
Gi-hun forced himself to sit upright, just to feel slightly less judged.
Mr. Kim cleared his throat from the front of the classroom. “All right, class, let’s settle in. I know it’s the first day, but this is AP Chemistry, not nap time. We’re diving straight in.”
Groans echoed across the room.
Gi-hun pulled a pen out of his backpack—clicked it, then unclicked it. Clicked it again. He felt In-ho stiffen beside him.
“You know,” In-ho said under his breath, not even turning his head, “there are quieter ways to express boredom.”
Gi-hun clicked the pen once more—intentionally—then smiled without looking at him. “Sorry. Habit.”
“Break it.”
That wiped the grin right off his face.
Mr. Kim began pacing slowly, hands behind his back. “This year will not be easy. I expect rigor, dedication, and attention. Which is why I’ve decided your first lab partner will be your partner for the rest of the semester.”
Gi-hun’s stomach dropped.
“No switching. No swapping. You will succeed—or fail—together.”
He turned toward In-ho at the exact same moment In-ho turned toward him.
Their eyes met.
Gi-hun whispered, “You’ve gotta be kidding.”
“I’m not thrilled either,” In-ho replied.
Mr. Kim looked pleased with himself. “Think of it as chemistry—in both the literal and figurative sense. Maybe you’ll even become friends.”
Gi-hun almost laughed. Friends? With Hwang Spreadsheet-for-a-Person In-ho? Not unless they bonded over violently disagreeing on everything.
Mr. Kim passed around lab safety forms while explaining the semester’s first experiment—something about molarity and solutions.
Gi-hun tried to pay attention. Really, he did. But every few seconds, his gaze drifted to In-ho’s notes. Neat formulas. Doodles of beakers. Little arrows and perfectly labeled compound names. The guy had already filled a page.
Gi-hun had a half-torn sheet of paper with “mole” spelled wrong.
He leaned over a little. “Hey, uh. Can I borrow—”
“No,” In-ho said flatly, not looking up.
Gi-hun gawked. “You didn’t even let me finish.”
“I don’t need to.”
Gi-hun huffed and turned away, but then—behind them—he heard whispering.
A few girls near the back of the room leaned close together, their giggles poorly hidden behind manicured hands and binder covers.
“Oh my god, he’s even more perfect this year,” one whispered, practically swooning.
“Right? Look at how he writes. That’s, like, calligraphy.”
“I swear he uses a fountain pen. Who does that?”
Their eyes flicked from Gi-hun’s crumpled worksheets to In-ho’s pristine notebook, every line evenly spaced, each heading underlined in a soft, tasteful gold.
“Do you think he smells good up close?” one of them murmured.
Another girl sighed dreamily. “He probably smells like fall themed candles and perfection.”
“And rejection. Don’t forget rejection,” the third said with a giggle.
They weren’t wrong. In-ho had turned down every confession he’d ever received, without so much as blinking.
“I heard he doesn’t even talk to anyone unless it’s for school,” someone whispered.
“Yeah, no one even knows, like, basic stuff. What music he likes, what his favorite color is—he’s just… a mystery..”
“I hear from people who’ve seen him outside school say he only drinks smoothies. Like, health smoothies.”
“No, shut up, he doesn’t even like coffee. That’s how you know he’s disciplined.”
“I bet he’s never had acne a day in his life.”
Another girl leaned in. “My cousin’s friend is in Honor Society and said he doesn’t even go to school dances. He just studies. Or, like, vanishes.”
“Oh my god. It’s so hot.”
“It’s so tragic ,” another corrected, sighing. “Like a tortured genius. He’s totally hiding something romantic and heartbreaking.”
“Honestly,” one of them added quietly, “even the way he sits looks expensive.”
The girls’ whispers trailed off into a quiet challenge.
“I dare you to ask him if he has Instagram after class,” one whispered, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Me?” another whispered back, cheeks flushing. “No way.”
“Come on. I bet he doesn’t even have one.”
“Alright, you’re on.”
⸻
Later, after class, the girl approached In-ho’s desk, heart hammering in her chest.
“Hey, uh… do you—”
Before she could finish, In-ho’s voice cut in, plain and cold as ice:
“I’m not interested.”
She blinked, stunned, words caught in her throat. No hesitation. No explanation. Just that.
⸻
The school bell faded behind him as In-ho walked home, the city buzzing with afternoon noise.
But inside the small apartment he shared with his parents, the air was heavy and thick.
His father’s slurred yelling spilled from the kitchen, punctuated by the clatter of bottles. A drunken roar, careless and angry.
His mother’s sharp voice snapped back, cutting and cruel, every word a calculated jab, dripping with bitterness.
In-ho slipped quietly past the chaos, footsteps soft against the worn floor.
He knew they barely noticed him. His presence was a ghost.
With practiced ease, he slipped on his shoes and slipped out the door before the shouting could find him.
The cold evening air was a relief.
He headed toward his refuge—the small jazz bar he’d found months ago.
A place where the world was slower, softer. Where the music hid his troubles in notes and rhythms. A place where life had a deeper meaning
He pushed open the door, the warm murmur of the crowd wrapping around him.
In the corner, the band was starting a slow, smoky set.
In-ho slid into his usual seat, eyes half-closed, fingers tapping gently to the beat.
⸻
Gi-hun hadn’t planned on being out tonight.
Sneaking out had been impulsive, the result of too much silence and not enough air.
But when he stepped inside the bar, the dim light and low hum of music hit him like a balm.
And then he saw him.
Hwang In-ho. What the hell?
Sitting alone, watching the band like he was part of the music itself.
Gi-hun smirked to himself.
“So, the famous Hwang In-ho lives a double life and isn’t as innocent as he seems?”
In-ho’s head snapped up. Standing awkwardly in the dim light was Seong Gi-hun — loud, messy, and definitely not someone In-ho wanted to deal with right now. But Gi-hun’s grin was unapologetic, and there was something in his eyes that hinted he wasn’t here just to mock.
In-ho’s gaze narrowed, the usual coldness settling over him like armor. “What do you want?”
Gi-hun slid into the seat across from him, unbothered. “Just saying hello to the mysterious guy who acts like he doesn’t exist at school but sneaks off to jazz bars like a secret agent.”
In-ho scoffed softly but didn’t deny it.
“Don’t you ever get tired? Keeping all that up — the perfect grades, the quiet act, the fake smiles?” Gi-hun’s voice softened, curious now.
In-ho looked away, fingers still tapping lightly. “It’s easier than dealing with the alternative.”
Gi-hun opened his mouth, about to respond—
—but a soft hush settled over the room as the band began again, the gentle hush of brushed cymbals and a slow, deliberate piano line blooming like smoke in the air.
In-ho held up a hand without looking at him. “My apologies,” he murmured, his voice calmer, nicer than Gi-hun had ever heard it. “But shh for a second, will you?”
Gi-hun blinked, mouth still slightly open. He glanced at the stage, then back at In-ho, who was already fully lost in the music. Head tilted slightly. Eyes half-lidded. Like something in him had gone soft and reverent all at once.
The band slid into “Li’l Darlin’” by Neal Hefti — though Gi-hun didn’t know the name. He didn’t know jazz at all. But he knew the way In-ho looked right now. Like the whole world had just been turned down in volume so this one thing could be heard.
It was slow. Unapologetically slow. Not in a dragging way — more like it meant to take its time. Like each note had somewhere to be but didn’t mind the delay. The kind of song you’d only understand if you knew how to sit still.
Gi-hun didn’t understand it.
But he understood In-ho.
The song stretched on.
Gi-hun didn’t recognize it — didn’t know jazz at all, truthfully — but the sound was warm and unhurried, like the whole band was exhaling at once. Each note felt like it had been chosen carefully, and In-ho—
In-ho looked completely lost in it.
Not in a distracted way. Not zoned out.
Locked in.
His eyes followed the slow groove of the upright bass, half-lidded, glass forgotten beside his hand. His fingers tapped lightly against the wood of the table, not for anyone else’s benefit — just muscle memory, just joy. His shoulders had dropped from their usual stiffness, his jaw relaxed. For once, his expression wasn’t unreadable — it was open. Soft.
Almost like a little kid watching something for the first time and realizing they love it.
Gi-hun had never seen anyone listen like that before. Like the world had narrowed down to just this sound, this moment, this invisible language only he understood.
He didn’t want to break it.
He almost smiled.
Then the final few notes came — slow and sweet and sure — and for a full beat after, no one in the bar even moved.
Then, soft applause.
In-ho sat back in his chair, blinking like he’d been pulled out of a dream.
Gi-hun watched him quietly. “You looked like a toddler watching fireworks just now.”
In-ho gave him a sidelong look, unamused.
Gi-hun grinned. “I’m serious. I didn’t even know you had a face that wasn’t bored and judgmental.”
In-ho didn’t reply at first. He just picked up his glass, rolled it between his fingers. “Jazz doesn’t care who’s watching. That’s the difference.”
Gi-hun tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“There’s no performance in it. It doesn’t ask you to smile or pose. It just… is. Slow. Raw. Messy, sometimes. But honest.”
Gi-hun studied him. “Is that why you come here? For honesty?”
In-ho didn’t answer right away. He was quiet again, but not cold. He looked… thoughtful. Bare.
Then: “I come here because no one expects anything from me when I’m listening.”
A pause.
“And I like the bass.”
Gi-hun chuckled. “You really are a nerd.”
In-ho shrugged, unapologetic. “Better than being loud and clueless.”
“Ouch,” Gi-hun said, clutching his chest. “That one felt personal.”
“Good.”
There was a beat of silence.
Gi-hun leaned forward, voice softer. “You know, you’re different here.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
In-ho didn’t look at him. He stared at the empty stage, but his fingers had gone still. His expression tightened — not angry, just guarded.
“I think you’re more yourself here than anywhere else.”
That made In-ho finally glance back at him, slow and unreadable. “Don’t say things like that.”
Gi-hun blinked. “Why not?”
“Because if you’re right,” In-ho said, voice quiet, “then you’ve seen something you weren’t supposed to.”
A weight dropped into the air between them. Not threatening, just true.
But Gi-hun didn’t look away. “You don’t have to hide it from me.”
In-ho stared for another long moment.
Then, slowly, he nodded. Just once.
He looked back to the stage. The lights were dimming again. Another song was coming, one that In-ho would of course recognize.
This time, he didn’t tell Gi-hun to shush
But Gi-hun stayed quiet anyway.
And In-ho didn’t ask him to leave.
After the song, Gi-hun chuckled, resting his cheek on his hand as he watched In-ho’s face come to life in real time. “I don’t know a single thing about jazz, you know. To me it all sounds like a bunch of instruments having a polite argument.”
In-ho turned to him, scandalized in the most deadpan way. “That’s the point. It is an argument. Or a conversation, depending on how you listen. The rhythm section lays down something steady and the horns sort of… test it. Push against it. You want friction. You want it to sound like it might fall apart, because then when it doesn’t..when it lands just right, you feel it everywhere. Your spine. Your lungs.” His voice had gone breathless without him noticing. “Even a single note from the bass can say more than some people do in entire conversations.”
He stopped.
His eyes flicked to Gi-hun’s, suddenly aware of how much he’d said, how unguarded he’d been, and he shifted in his seat like he wanted to physically take the words back.
Gi-hun just grinned at him, wide-eyed. “So that’s what it takes to get you talking.”
In-ho muttered something about regretting everything and looked back at the stage, but his ears stayed pink for the rest of the set.
The air outside the jazz bar was cooler now, the city breathing in a hush. Gi-hun adjusted his jacket and fell into step beside In-ho without being asked. He didn’t announce he was walking him home. He just… did.
They didn’t talk. Not at first.
The quiet wasn’t awkward—it felt suspended, like the lingering notes of the last ballad the band had played. Each footstep echoed faintly along the sidewalk, the soft rhythm of passing cars filling in the gaps.
In-ho kept his hands in his coat pockets. His shoulders hunched slightly against the cold, but his steps were steady, measured. His expression unreadable, save for the way his gaze flicked up at the darkened windows of apartment buildings, streetlamps glowing gold against his cheekbones.
Gi-hun wanted to say something. He didn’t.
They reached the corner near In-ho’s building, where the warm yellow light of the lobby spilled out across the concrete. In-ho stopped, standing in the glow for a moment. He didn’t look at Gi-hun—just stared ahead, as if calculating the fastest escape.
Then, quietly, with a strange softness to his voice, he said, “You should listen to Laufey. If you want to get into jazz… maybe.”
Gi-hun blinked. His chest tugged with something almost surprised. “What songs do you suggest? Or maybe…” He grinned a little. “Maybe we could listen together.”
In-ho turned to him finally, eyes flat. “ Bewitched. And Must Be Love. And absolutely not.”
He hesitated a half-second longer than he meant to.
The songs he suggested, of course, did not reflect the feelings he’d had in the jazz bar that night. That would’ve been far too honest.
And then, without waiting for a reply, he robotically turned on his heel and walked toward the front doors of his building, hands still buried in his pockets like nothing had happened.
“Goodnight, Seong,” he said without looking back.
Gi-hun stood there for a moment, watching him disappear through the glass doors like a dream that didn’t want to be chased.
“…I’ll listen anyway,” he muttered to himself.
And he would.
He already knew he’d replay the whole walk home in his head—probably until morning.