Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sieun likes to think he knows people. He sees what they do, understands what they mean, compartmentalizing each action, each word, each look until it’s easily identifiable. Every person is supposedly different, but probabilities don’t lie. There is a mathematical explanation for human behavior, a formula Sieun’s learned to live with his entire life. 

His friends are the easiest to predict, mostly because he spends so much time with them.

Baku is an inevitable kind of unpredictability--every part of him is overwhelming from the stretch of his shoulders to the sound of his voice. Many people mistake his enormous personality for a lack of awareness, which could not be farther from the truth. Baku is perfectly aware of his effect on others, often using it to his advantage, especially when dealing with people like Gotak and Sieun who tend to find people like him almost incomprehensible. His affinity for physical contact is surprisingly coordinated, and while Sieun’s calculated a fool-proof technique to counter his artillery, Gotak frequently falls to its whims. It’s not a matter of “if,” but a matter of “when.”

Juntae is incredibly intuitive, though his understanding stems from his empathetic disposition. He finds solutions to problems never explicitly mentioned. He bought magnesium tablets for Sieun when he couldn’t sleep, got Gotak that new brace when his old one started fraying, offered Baku a place to stay after a particularly bad fight with his father, and gave Suho a collection of stickers to spice up his cane. He’s not like Sieun, a machine manufactured for mapping out predictability for the sake of his safety. For Juntae, it’s something far more natural, far more human. If Sieun’s a satellite sent to study storms, Juntae’s simply a man, one who smells rain before it falls.

Suho is hard to pin down, mostly because the scope of him is seemingly never-ending. Sieun is constantly discovering something new every day, unearthing different parts of Suho he can barely conceptualize. It feels like they exist in two separate periods, thousands of years of history stretching between them, making this inevitable meeting seemingly impossible. And yet, here they are, existing at the very same time at the very same moment. So, though ridiculous, Sieun likens him to some sort of archeological discovery--perhaps the remnants of an ancient civilization, maybe a temple dedicated to some polytheistic deity. Some would say a god of war, though Sieun knows now how wrong they’d be. It’s time. It has to be time.

And then there’s Gotak, arguably the easiest to predict since his priorities seem to stem from one person. His inclination towards Baku is interesting, for it’s so “in your face” it’s a miracle neither of them address it. No one in their little group does, making it some unspoken secret only broken through pointed looks and knowing smiles. It’s clearly amusing, but Sieun also finds it a bit concerning, mostly because Gotak seems to lack any sense of self. Who is Gotak and what does he fight for? All roads lead back to Baku. Maybe there’s something Sieun’s missing, but from where he’s standing, Gotak is Gotak because Baku is Baku.

They’ve been friends for two, going on three years now, yet Sieun’s only seen the Gotak he’s been willing to give them. Sieun understands the sentiment--there are ugly, gnarled parts of himself he’d rather hide--though he’s already given so much of himself to his friends that it’s hard not to notice when one of them isn’t doing the same.

Sieun doesn’t push, he’s not that kind of person. He waits for people to give themselves to him. They usually do.

Except for Go Hyuntak.

It’s the one anomaly, the one glitch in his carefully crafted system, that lingers, that really sticks. Suho used to do that to him, back in soft, summer days spent sitting outside convenient stores. He’d say something or do something or be something incomprehensible, shifting Sieun’s world off its axis. This isn’t something that goes away.

They started university about a month ago, well everyone but Baku and Suho, who both decided the kitchen was their calling. They still moved closer to campus, finding a job at another nice barbecue restaurant. Juntae’s studying game design, something everyone expected, and he seems to have little regret. Sieun himself lamented over what to do for months, fighting his mother, his father, fuck even himself. Like many times in Sieun’s life, it’s Suho who grounds him, who gives him the answer. Maybe something pre-med? A doctor? Surgeon? Something? It’s a start at least. If there’s one thing he regrets, it’s not knowing how to help Suho, how to save him. Now, he can make sure that never happens again.

It felt right, choosing neuroscience. It proves people are calculable, easy to read when you know where to look. It just made sense.

But then suddenly, out of nowhere, Gotak’s in his biology lab.

He picked business school at first, giving some bullshit reason, clearly uninterested. Then, suddenly, he’s switching to biology. Sieun hasn’t asked why, can’t figure out why, but still, he wants to know, why ?

They see each other more now, fighting over where to sit in the lecture hall, fighting over what to do in lab, fighting over something they might never figure out. They’re just too similar or too different or too something . But somehow they work. It’s all very confusing.

It’s been a month of this weird back and forth, so Sieun starts thinking he’s got him all figured out. Pieces were falling in place, and Gotak started feeling like a person instead of just the idea of one, someone who existed solely for someone else.

But then it happens.

The question.

It started innocently enough. They meet in the library after dinner, Sieun insisting they get ahead on a research project worth an abhorrent part of their grade. It’s getting late, the hours stretching closer and closer to morning. They’re basically alone in their little corner, the only people watching are dead, forever memorialized in rotting bookshelves. Maybe the silence gave him courage, the kind one uses to ask stupid, ridiculous, unimaginable questions.

“Let’s date.”

It feels like a computer virus, a system shut down, a spark in his internal circuit board, setting fire to his body, heat licking at his face as he burns and burns and burns. This was never on his radar. He never saw it coming.

Gotak must mistake his silence, for he asks again , this time much louder, which doesn’t help make it feel any more real. His head is filled with an assortment of system protocols, his brain constantly rebooting, scrambling to figure out how any of this makes sense. Because it doesn’t. The probability of Gotak ever asking him out has always been zero. There isn’t any universe where this happens.

The worst part? Gotak’s nervous . He’s shifty, leg bouncing against the bottom of the desk, arm rubbing the back of his neck, and he refuses to look Sieun in the eye; instead, he finds page 96 of a textbook he probably doesn’t even read suddenly fascinating. Sieun isn’t fucking stupid. He knows the biological responses typically found in attraction. He knows what the word flustered means. It just… fuck, this can’t be it.

Somehow, he finds his words right about the same time as Gotak, who opens his mouth to start talking again, which no fucking way . Not right now, he can’t bear to hear it. So he speaks instead, though he doesn’t say what he should. It’s not “No,” or “I’m sorry,” or “Why?” Because he isn’t thinking straight; hasn’t been since Gotak asked the damn question the first time. His brain is otherwise compromised, so it’s no wonder he says something as absurd as this:

“Don’t you like Baku?”

Gotak finally finds the will to look him in the eye. He looks thoroughly caught, mouth slightly agape, and it gives Sieun enough time to process the situation. He’s clearly right--Gotak’s reaction alone is proof of that--but still, this new data only conflicts with the very real and definitely happened confession. Damnit, he has to hear him out. He just wanted to fucking study.

“I mean--fuck, Sieun, you really know how to catch a guy off guard--” Says you. “--Yes? God, yeah , I do, that’s kind of the whole point.”

Somehow, the more he talks, the less sense he makes, so the only thing Sieun’s getting is a headache, that annoying, not-quite-there kind.

“You’re not making sense,” he says, seemingly snapping Gotak back to reality.

“Fuck, you’re right,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck again. “I meant to explain, but it all just came out. Just bear with me.”

It’s only through carefully crafted indifference that Sieun’s able to keep his composure. “Please, enlighten me.”

Gotak sighs, clearly still flustered. “I don’t mean we actually date. We would just act like we do.”

Sieun stares, still unsure. “Why would we do that?”

“To piss off Baku.”

Sieun swears he’s not an idiot. People are supposed to be easy to predict, but Gotak continues to fuck with his head. 

“Look,” Gotak starts, leaning close, “he’s always pissing me off, talking about girls when they’re clearly not interested, pretending like we’re not fucking obsessed with each other. I’m sick of it.”

“So you want us to date?”

“Yes.”

“To piss him off.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s it?”

“Well, maybe it’ll push him off his ass long enough to ask me out, but--”

“Why don’t you just do that?”

Gotak looks at him like he’s crazy. “I can’t be the one to do it? He hasn’t earned it!”

“Earned it?” What the hell does that mean?

“He flirts with girls in front of me ,” Gotak says, poking himself in the chest. “What self-respecting man would ask out a guy like that?”

Remember that headache? Yeah, now it’s raging.

“I’m not dating you,” Sieun says.

Gotak has the audacity to look hurt. “You didn’t even think about it!”

“Lower your voice,” he replies, deadpan. He’s getting tired of this conversation, frustrated by his own lack of understanding. He has the data, Gotak practically gave him the answer, and yet there’s still something missing, something Sieun can’t quite wrap his head around.

“Come on, just think it over for me--”

Sieun slams his book shut, the sound hitting like a slap in the face. It’s enough to shut Gotak up, letting a necessary silence settle. Sieun takes this time to close his eyes and question how, after everything that’s happened in his life, he’s ended up here. He could shut it down right now; he probably shouldn’t humor him like this. But there’s that missing piece, that last lingering question…

He can’t help it. Sieun has to know.

“Why me?”

It feels like a loaded gun, and he’s handing it to Gotak, watching him aim, waiting for him to fire. He wonders how his blood would splatter, what answer he’ll find drowning in crimson curiosity.

“Why you?”

Sieun nods. “Why not Juntae? Or Suho?”

Gotak snorts. “I considered Juntae, but I think lying for that long would end in some sort of murder suicide. And then Suho was never an option because, well, you know.” Sieun does not know. He’s already dug too deep, though. He doesn’t need to hit rock bottom.

“I still don’t see how I’m the solution to this problem,” he says.

“Smaller chance of murder suicide.”

Sieun glares at him. “You’re not doing yourself any favors.”

Gotak laughs. Great, now he finds this situation amusing. “Sorry, sorry! I really don’t know what you want me to say. You’ve got the brains for this kind of thing, and we’re starting to spend more time together for class. I thought it’d make sense. Plus, you’re hot--” What. “and it’d be kind of funny to see Suho squirm--” Okay, double what.

“What does Suho have to do with this?” He didn’t mean to say it; the words sort of slip out. Sieun’s always been in full control of his mind, his body, his mouth . He doesn’t let things “slip out.” Fuck, he’s still so out of sorts. It’s getting progressively more and more frustrating.

Gotak blinks, staring at Sieun like he’s grown a second head. “I mean, he’d be jealous as fuck.” 

God, it’s like Gotak’s speaking a different language. “Jealous of what?”

“Me.” He states it like a fact, which doesn’t make sense . There isn’t a world where Ahn Suho would be jealous . The probability’s always been zero. “Seeing you with another guy? His 9/11. Fuck, there goes another murder suicide.”

“You’re wrong,” Sieun says, needing the words to feel real, to feel tangible. Gotak gives him another look, one that only seems to piss him off more. “Suho wouldn’t care.”

“You’re kidding.” At Sieun’s pointed stare, he huffs a little, shaking his head. “The guy’s in love with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He feels his face burning with anger, heart beat, beat, beating in his chest. His hands start to sweat, so he bawls them into fists, letting his nails dig into the skin of his palm in a last ditch effort to gain back control, grabbing his irritation by the throat and slamming it against the ground. It takes everything in him not to punch Gotak in the face.

He doesn’t seem to take the hint. “Seriously? But aren’t you--” Gotak pauses for a moment, brows pinched together before his eyes widen, almost like he’s been struck with some sort of grand revelation. Damnit, Sieun hates this, the not knowing . He feels so lost, drifting helplessly in a never-ending sea, destined to drown in his own incomprehension. “Holy shit.”

“What?”

“Okay, I didn’t expect this.”

“Gotak.”

“I mean, you’re so good at reading people, I thought--”

“Gotak, just spit it out.”

He bites his lip. “Nevermind, forget I said anything.”

Sieun blinks, thrown off. “Excuse me?”

“We don’t have to do it,” Gotak says. “The dating thing. It was stupid anyway.”

It’s like getting hit with fucking whiplash. There’s no input for this kind of situation, nothing that would make much sense, anyway. And without any input, there can be no output, no possible reaction for Sieun to give. So he just sort of stares, watching Gotak skim a page from their textbook, writing a few things down before flipping it around.

“Does this look right?” he asks like the last ten minutes didn’t just happen. It’s fucking insane. It doesn’t make any sense .

No input, no output. There’s nothing he can do but delete the file and start all over.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “It looks right.”

Gotak nods, turning back to his work. All Sieun could do was follow suit.

They work in relative silence, though the question still lingers, pressing the weight of it against his hippocampus. No matter what he tries to feed his brain, nothing’s enough to swallow it. Dating Gotak. Making Baku jealous. Suho. Suho. Suho. Suho. Suho--

It follows him out the library, takes the empty seat next to him on the bus ride home, unlocks the door to his apartment, settling next to Suho sleeping on the couch, his textbook sitting on his chest like a cat, the pages kissing the skin of his neck. His mouth is open, drool falling down the side of his mouth, and his hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat. His shirt rides up his stomach, and Sieun stares and stares and stares before poking it, watching Suho violently flinch awake. The sound of his textbook hitting the ground pulls him off the couch, and he unceremoniously falls to the floor. Sieun can’t help it, he smiles.

“Fuck you, seriously,” Suho says, laying back on the floor, his hands to his forehead.

“You should have gone to bed,” Sieun says, looking down at him.

Suho squints up at him. “Wanted to wait for you.”

For a moment, he hears Gotak’s voice in stunning clarity. The guy’s in love with you , he says. Great, now he’s pissed off again.

Suho doesn’t seem to notice. “How’d the project go?”

“Fine,” Sieun says, forcing the anger to subside. He doesn’t want to lash out, especially not at Suho.

“Wow, what a way with words.” Sieun frowns, nudging Suho’s shoulder with his socked foot. He chuckles, wrapping his fingers around Sieun’s ankle, and pulling him forward.

“Suho, wait--”

“Too late!” he says, knocking Sieun off his feet and onto the ground next to him. He slams against the rug, glaring at Suho behind his bangs while he full-belly laughs.

“That hurt,” he says because it did. He rubs at his hip, sure there’s a bruise blooming on his skin.

Suho has the decency to look at least a little concerned. “Just lay with me for a second. It’ll feel better.”

“There are no medical studies that prove this.”

“Sure there are.”

“Really? Which ones?”

“Oh, you know,” he makes a motion with his hands, “the really good ones.”

“Uh huh,” Sieun says, turning his head to the side. Suho matches him, letting them lock eyes. He’s grinning, and Sieun feels a small tug on own his lips. “Very credible.”

“So, you have to stay,” Suho says. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Doctor’s orders.”

They lay like that for over an hour, talking aimlessly, letting the conversation wander. Despite the hard press of the floor against his back, it’s comfortable, familiar. Suho talks and Sieun listens like it’s the most natural thing in the world. They fit perfectly like this, touching skin to skin, breathing the same air, their heartbeats a synchronizing symphony.

And yet, he can’t help but wonder…

What would happen if things changed?

If Sieun ever fell in love.

If Suho ever fell in love.

Would anything be different?

Sieun swears it wouldn’t. They’d be okay. Right?

The probability was always one. Not until Gotak. Now he’s not quite sure. 

Maybe it’s the hour, his fatigue fucking with his head. But Sieun… he’s curious . About Gotak, someone Sieun’s only just starting to get to know; about Suho, someone who may or may not be in love with him; about himself, someone Sieun’s never even tried to understand. Three people, three anomalies, three possible solutions. This kind of study, a personal exploration into the human psyche, is too perfect to give up.

Shit, is he really considering this?

Suho shifts, the back of his hand pressing into Sieun’s palm.

Huh, he really is.

They get up soon after, Sieun grabbing Suho’s cane and helping him to his feet. Sieun watches him go, how he nods a good night before closing the door. Sieun grips his doorknob, jaw locked, contemplating something he knows he really shouldn’t.

Sieun’s too stubborn to give in immediately, letting his denial settle as he showers, changes, and falls into bed. He stares at his ceiling fan, watching it spin and spin and spin. He stands abruptly, feeling the bed shift under his weight as his hand grips one of the blades. The spinning stops just like he thought it would.

He lets it go, feeling the breeze brush his cheek as he fumbles for his phone. It doesn’t take long to dial the number, letting each ring bounce off the walls of his bedroom. He hears the click, the sound of Gotak’s voice, hoarse from sleep. He asks what Sieun wants.

A lot , he thinks.

Instead he says, “Let’s do it. Let’s date.”

There are six unanimously considered steps in the scientific method.

First, observation. There’s something you study that requires further understanding. You stumble across a question, one that clings to you, that won’t go away. It’s the brush of two arms, a bowl of hot, steaming soup, a look that lingers.

Second, research. You dig a little deeper, see what others have already found hidden deep beneath soil. It’s a suggestion from a friend, six simple words wrapped up in fact. 

Third, hypothesis. You take what you know and make a prediction based on its probability, something testable, proven right or wrong or not quite either. It’s “ If Suho is in love with Sieun, then he will feel jealous of Gotak because he wants to be Sieun’s boyfriend.” A ridiculous proposition, but a necessary one.

Fourth, experiment. You test something you maybe, probably, definitely shouldn’t. Take the world and cut it open, let its blood pool at your feet as you break its bones and grab its heart. No stone is left unturned. It’s a control and an independent variable, a man in love against a man who could be. It’s Baku and it’s Suho.

Fifth, analyze. Take what data you gather and mold it into something that matters. A number is only a number until you make it mean something. It’s the reaction of a scorned man, one so desperately in love, he can’t think straight, can’t feel straight, can’t be anything but one thing: jealous.

Sixth, report. It’s not a scientific discovery without peer-observation. If no one else sees it, is there even anything there? It’s pointed looks and secret smiles, a collective understanding between friends. It’s a confession, a kiss, something sacred. Or it’s nothing at all.

He’s already done the first three--he’s made an observation, did as much research as he could stomach, and came up with an unbiased hypothesis necessary for the next step, experimentation. He’s still not quite there yet; there’s a level of preparation needed for this kind of investigation. He’s meeting Gotak for lunch in order to discuss the specifics, so he doesn’t have much time to see Suho before he has to leave.

“Don’t study too hard,” Suho calls from the couch. Sieun nods, not trusting himself to actually say anything else. He hates it, lying to Suho, breaking a promise he made to himself years ago. No more secret keeping. They had to tell each other everything.

But in order for this to work, for his results to matter, he has to take some risks. It’s in the name of science. If he knew anything about Sieun at all, Suho would understand.

Surprisingly, Gotak beats him to the cafe, waving him over to a small table pressed against the back wall. It’s quiet, away from most people, the optimal spot for secret conversations. 

Sieun sits in the opposite chair, watching the way Gotak stuffs half his bowl of noodles in his mouth. He blinks up at Sieun and says, mid-chew, “You want something?”

“No,” he says, watching the way broth flings from the bowl. “I thought we were discussing the parameters of our agreement.”

“Yeah, with lunch.”

Sieun should have expected this. “You eat. I’ll be fine.”

Gotak scoffs, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Yeah right, you never eat until you have to. Besides, Suho would kill me if I didn’t make you try something . You set up, and I’ll get you food.”

He’s up before Sieun can argue, leaving him alone at the table. He can’t help but linger on that one line, on Suho . Sieun never realized how all-consuming he is, how he practically permeates his life, existing in every corner, keeping a watchful eye at all times. Does Baku do the same? Does he exist in every part of Gotak like Suho does in him? It’s just another variable to look out for.

Gotak comes back with a small dish, one Sieun’s skeptical to try despite Gotak’s insistence, but he ultimately concedes. It’s surprisingly good--he likes it spicy, something Gotak somehow remembered.

“How is it?” he asks. “Rate it out of ten.”

Sieun puts down his chopsticks. “An eight.”

“Hey, I’ll take it,” he says, grinning. “Next time, I’ll try to aim for a ten.”

Sieun takes this time to pull out his notebook from his bag, an extra one he found stuffed under his desk. Gotak points at it with his chopsticks.

“What’s that?”

Sieun flips to the first page. “The parameters,” he replies.

Gotak nods, chewing is food. “You put a lot of thought into this.”

“This isn’t some white lie,” Sieun says. “We have to convince everyone that matters that we’re romantically involved. We can’t wing something like this.”

“This is why I chose you,” Gotak insists. “You think of these kinds of things.”

“I thought it was to avoid the murder suicide.”

Gotak waves him away. “The odds are the same either way. Just tell me what you’re thinking.”

Sieun nods, looking down at his list. “First, we have to establish some rules.”

Gotak looks confused. “Rules?”

“Boundaries,” he reiterates. Gotak snaps his fingers in understanding. “For starters, this will not interfere with my studies. If I suspect any impediments, we end it.”

“Understood.”

“Next, I don’t mind physical affection, but nothing egregious. Throw and arm around my shoulder, hold my hand, kiss me if you have to, but--”

“Wait, hold on,” Gotak interrupts, shifting in his seat. “You’re okay with us kissing?”

“Couples kiss,” Sieun says slowly, like the concept never occurred to Gotak.

“Well, I know that,” he reassures. “I just didn’t think that’s something you wanted.”

“It’s a necessary sacrifice,” Sieun concludes. “Like I said, nothing egregious. A kiss on the hand, the cheek, the lips, doesn’t matter. Maybe nothing longer than five seconds if you want a distinction. Unless that’s not okay with you?”

“It’s fine by me,” Gotak says. “It’ll sell it better anyway.”

“Exactly,” Sieun says, crossing it off. “Next, we should probably hold off on telling them, at least for a couple weeks.”

“Why?”

“It’d feel a little inorganic if we did it now,” he explains. “There’d be no build up. We need to leave room for some contemplation. They need to start suspecting it before we confirm.”

“A trail of breadcrumbs,” he says, pointing at Sieun with his chopsticks. “I like it.”

“Finally, I suggest we have three designated hang outs a week.” Sieun holds up one finger. “One dedicated to our biology project.” He holds up another finger. “A second one for ‘date night’--I’ll leave most of the planning up to you since you have more experience.” He holds up one more finger. “A third one with all our friends.”

“Like our movie nights?” he asks.

“Yes, exactly. Now, that number can fluctuate from week to week. I might need more time to study, so I’ll have to cancel. Or Suho may want to do something stupid like karaoke. We have to make sure we’re designating some time to each other in order to really sell it.”

“That works for me,” he says.

Sieun nods. “Okay, perfect. Before we get into anything else, do you have any rules you’d like to add?”

“A few, actually,” Gotak answers, setting down his chopsticks. “First, pet names: yes or no?”

Sieun opens his mouth to say no, but he thinks about the objective. What exactly might (allegedly) piss Suho off? This breed of intimacy is bound to cause some sort of a reaction, right?

“That’s fine,” he decides. “But only ‘baby.’”

“Anything else and I’m trying too hard, got it.” Huh, he stole the words right out of his mouth.

He continues, only slightly amused. “Anything else?”

“You have to go to our games,” Gotak says, smirking. He’s far too smug about it, which makes Sieun frown. Even though it’s only a rec sport, he avoids them for a reason. A pick-up game after a long day of class is one thing. A community-collective activity is another.

But, it wouldn’t make sense if Sieun didn’t go. So, he agrees.

“One more thing,” Gotak starts, “give me some of your clothes.”

Sieun blinks, thrown off. “Why?”

“For me to wear,” Gotak says. “Just a jacket, maybe a nightshirt. I’ll give you a few things too. It’s like a roundabout way for someone to stake their claim.”

“Their claim?”

“Yeah, it’ll let people think you’re mine.”

Sieun still doesn’t see it. “Suho wears my stuff sometimes.”

Gotak grins, and there’s a glint in his eye. “Exactly.”

Sieun suddenly feels pissed off again, most likely at himself for not seeing it earlier. Just another piece of evidence. Sieun doesn’t know whether he’s happy about it or not.

“Whatever, I’ll add it,” he says, scratching a note near the bottom of the page.

“Give me the grey sweatshirt,” Gotak adds, making Sieun freeze. “The one you gave Suho.”

Sieun doesn’t like his tone. “He’ll get mad at you.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Damnit, he’s good.

“The point is to piss off Baku. Or did your objective change?”

Gotak shrugs. “It didn’t. But yours did.”

Sieun’s jaw locks. No use in denying it. “I’m testing a hypothesis.”

“You want to see if I’m right,” he teases, leaning forward. “I’m fine with it. Use me however you want. It’s only fair since I’m using you too.”

“Putting it like that isn’t doing you any favors.”

“It’s the truth,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender. “What is it we learned the other day? A, uh, symbiotic relationship?”

“Close,” Sieun corrects. “It’s specifically called ‘mutualism.’”

“Yes, that!” He grins, leaning back in his chair. “Mutually beneficial.”

He’s not wrong exactly. They both will, hopefully, gain something from this experiment. The difference lies in the after --Gotak could end up with a lifelong partner while Sieun... he’ll at least know where Suho stands. What he does with the results is unclear. 

“Is that it?” he double checks. At Gotak’s nod, he flips to the next page. “Okay, next priority: we need to get our stories straight.”

It takes a while, mostly because Gotak starts suggesting Sieun fell for him first, which 1) would never happen in any universe and 2) pissed him off so much he almost called the whole thing off. They decided to keep it a fairly recent revelation--they both started growing closer since the start of the semester, their newfound feelings born from their forced proximity. It came quickly for Gotak, who found Sieun’s dedication to his studies inspiring, and greatly appreciated how he helped Gotak acclimate to something as rigorous as pre-med.

“You’re going into pre-med?” Sieun asks, thrown off.

“Yeah, I think so,” Gotak replies, shrugging. “Did I not tell you?”

Sieun shakes his head. “Congragulations,” he says, only a little conflicted.

“I’m not thinking anything crazy like you,” Gotak says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe a physical therapist? Some sort of pediatrician? I just want to make sure some reckless kid gets the help they need, is all.” Sieun can’t see beneath the table, but he’s certain Gotak’s rubbing his knee. He’s not wearing the brace today, but it’s still something that surely simmers in the back of his mind, a constant, never-ending reminder. Sieun shouldn’t be surprised, but he is. For someone so unsure of himself, Gotak seems to have a lot figured out. Or he’s getting there, at least.

For Sieun, they decided on something slower, something with roots in Eunjang but didn’t break soil until university. It’s harder to sell the idea of Sieun with a crush; he’s never hinted at any romantic inclination (or felt one, in that regard), so they spend more time on him than Gotak. His feelings stem from exploration, from expansion. Due to his upbringing, pure and unadulterated love was rare and far in-between. Having someone be special enough to care for him, to love him in a way that matters, was enough for him to take the first step.

“I confess to you?” Sieun asks, skeptical.

“When have you ever held your tongue?” Gotak teases. His argument’s sound, so it’s approved. Simple and easy.

“Okay, let’s consider today our official anniversary,” Sieun decides, writing the date in bold at the top of the page. “We’ll hang out a few times after, drop a few hints, then we find a time to tell the group together. Sound good?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, grinning.

“Perfect.” Sieun starts packing his bag and gathering the empty dishes. “I have to review for a quiz tomorrow, but I’ll see you in class.”

“I can start walking with you around campus,” Gotak suggests. At Sieun’s skepticism, he continues, “Breadcrumbs, remember?”

Sieun does remember, but he’s still reluctant. Suho likes to visit him on campus sometimes, especially before the restaurant reopens for dinner. Despite being roommates, they really don’t get much alone time. Still, it wouldn’t make sense if he never saw Gotak on campus. It’s for the best.

“My first class lets out at 11:20,” Sieun says.

“It’s the really pointy building, right?”

“Yes,” he deadpans. “The really pointy building.”

Gotak smirks. “Got it.”

They both stand, chairs scraping against hardwood. “Don’t forget to send me a list of likes, dislikes, and any other relevant information.”

Gotak snorts. “I told you, no one’s gonna quiz us.”

“I like to be prepared.”

“Huh, I never noticed.” Sieun’s glare only makes him smile harder. “Thanks again, Sieun. Really, I can’t believe you even agreed.”

“It’s like you said: mutually beneficial.”

Ridiculously, the plan works . They slowly start spending more time together, Gotak walking him to every class, Sieun coming over to study while Gotak watches basketball in the living room, ordering for each other at restaurants, doing everything in their power to dangle the possibility of a relationship in front of their noses.

And it’s working. It’s actually working.

When Sieun’s class wraps up the next day, he finds Suho already waiting outside with a bag of food, most likely a snack to eat for lunch since he overslept and couldn’t make Sieun breakfast. He hands him the food, opening his mouth to speak, when Gotak stumbles into one of Sieun’s classmates, apologizing profusely as they walk away.

“Sorry, I’m a bit late, I got lost,” he says, smiling.

Suho blinks at him, thrown off guard. “Doesn’t your first class start after lunch?” he asks, clearly confused. Sieun watches closely, hoping to catch any atypical reactions.

“Yeah, but I wanted to talk to Sieun about something before lab later,” Gotak says, shrugging.

Suho doesn’t seem to buy it, but he doesn’t say anything on the walk to the library. He’s surprisingly quiet, letting Gotak and Sieun talk aimlessly about their project. Maybe he’s not feeling well? Or perhaps it’s something else. He doesn’t have enough data to be completely conclusive.

“I’m on my break,” Suho says, lingering by the library door. “I’ve got to head back, but I’ll see you later?” The question’s directed at Sieun and only Sieun, something Gotak also seems to pick up on.

“Yeah, see you later,” Gotak says, stepping closer to Sieun’s side. For a second, he swears Suho’s jaw locks.

Later, after lab, Gotak invites him over to his place. It’s a small three bedroom apartment a few blocks away from Sieun’s with a perpetually broken elevator and seven flights of stairs. They typically hang out at his apartment for Suho’s sake and for the better air-conditioning unit. Honestly, Sieun doesn’t know why those three stick with a place like that, but it’s really none of his concern.

Sieun almost told him no, but Gotak said they’d just be watching a game in the living room, and he can study at the kitchen counter. It’d be strange enough to question but safe enough to let go, if only for now. It helps that Baku will be home, taking his one night off for the week.

Baku’s only mildly surprised to see Sieun, throwing his arm around his shoulder and asking him stupid questions like if he’s here for the game.

“Clearly not,” he replies, setting his stuff up on the counter. “I’m here to study.”

Juntae smiles shyly. “Couldn’t you have done that at home?”

Sieun hesitates for only a moment. “According to Gotak, I can study anywhere and still get work done.”

“It’s a superpower,” Gotak adds.

“He told me to at least pretend to hang out with you. So I’m here.”

Baku puts his arm around Gotak, pulling him closer. “Who would have thought you’d be the one to convince him, huh?”

Gotak shoves him lightly away, clearly playing. “Well, it wasn’t gonna be your ass.”

“Doesn’t matter!” he declares, clapping his hands. “We’ve got a game to watch! And with Sieun here, we’ll definitely win!”

“Whatever you say,” Sieun mumbles, climbing on the barstool and opening his textbook.

Gotak shifts closer, dropping an elbow on the counter. “You need anything, just let me know.”

Sieun, for a moment, forgets it’s all an act. It’s so unexpected, all he does is nod, which makes Gotak smile. He looks over his shoulder, finds Baku staring at them, brows pinched. Gotak walks away like nothing happened, settling on the couch with a bowl of chips. Sieun has to admit, he’s good.

It’s small things like that, a steady invasion into different aspects of each other’s lives, that keeps the ball rolling. He feels it, those pointed looks, those unanswered questions left lingering. Baku’s been only a little pouty, and Suho mentions Gotak once or twice in passing, clearly trying to gauge Sieun for answers. Juntae’s a wild card, definitely catching on but unwilling to say anything too incriminating. He’s probably the person Sieun’s most worried about. He can smell rain before it falls, and there’s definitely a big storm coming.

It takes two weeks for Sieun to ask for his sweatshirt back. It’s weird since it’s technically been Suho’s since the day he woke up, grabbing it from the chair Sieun sometimes slept in and, in Gotak’s words, staking his claim. He wore it almost everywhere--around the house, to class, at work, everywhere . And Sieun never mentioned it, never acknowledged this unspoken gift. It just sort of happened.

So, he couldn’t just ask for it back, not out of the blue. It had to be carefully crafted, the perfect scenario. It happens one day at the library, Suho insisting he stay and watch Sieun study during his lunch break. Sieun purposely forgot to bring an extra hoodie, and he chose a table directly under a vent. He’s not particularly bothered by the cold, but he plays it up a little just this once, rubbing a hand over the goosebumps on his arm, shifting in his seat, glancing up at the vent every few minutes. Suho being Suho notices, asking if they need to move. At Sieun’s insistence they stay, he drops it, but Sieun doesn’t let up. It only takes a few minutes of cleverly timed sighs for Suho to peel off the jacket and toss it over the table. He catches it, hiding his satisfaction behind a pointed glare.

“I said I’m fine,” he says because he’s stubborn. He knows it and Suho knows it, so it’s imperative he acts like it.

“Doesn’t mean you are, though,” Suho says, smirking. “Just put it on and give it back later. I don’t mind.”

Sieun nods, staring down at his book in order to hide his guilt.

Suho leaves with a wave, and Sieun doesn’t see him until nearly midnight.

Sieun doesn’t give him the sweatshirt.

Instead, Suho finds it on Gotak a few days later. They’re meeting for dinner, their schedules somehow perfectly aligning. Sieun and Gotak decide to show up late and together since Baku and Suho would both be using their breaks to hang out, and Juntae was coming directly from class. At first, Suho doesn’t notice, waving them over, cheeks puffed with food. But the closer they get, the clearer his vision, and by the time they're scootching in the booth, Suho’s staring at the jacket hugging Gotak’s frame like he can’t believe it’s real. It takes a bit longer for Juntae and Baku to catch on, and they don’t do much to hide their shock, glancing between Suho and Gotak like someone’s going to start swinging. Sieun knows he should take this opportunity to collect more data, to really gauge what Suho’s feeling, but he can’t bear to look him in the eye, not right now. So he stares at his menu instead, letting Gotak point to a few things he might like.

Thankfully, Baku helps fill the silence with his usual nonsense, setting off Gotak, who starts fighting with him across the table. Juntae still seems thrown off, but he hides it well, laughing when Baku almost spills his drink all over the table. It’s Suho who’s noticeably different. He’s stopped staring at Sieun, instead he finds the front door exceedingly interesting. Sieun lets his gaze wander a few times, watching the way his jaw locks, how his leg bounces against the bottom of the table, how out of his element he looks in that moment. He’s frustrated, for sure. But is it jealousy or just annoyance? Did he care more about the sweatshirt itself or what it meant? Sieun doesn’t have a definitive answer.

The food comes quickly, Baku and Gotak taking over the grill once everything settles. Suho seems to be a bit more present, teasing Baku for his frankly absurd food combinations and carefully watching the meat cook on the grill. He takes his off earlier than normal, putting it on a plate and holding it above the table. It takes Sieun a second to realize it’s for him.

They lock eyes for the first time all night, both holding steady. It’s strange; Sieun has no idea what Suho is thinking.

“What the hell, I thought everyone’s in charge of their own food?” Baku asks, mid-chew.

“It’s how Sieun likes it,” Suho says, watching Sieun hesitate before taking the plate, pinching the meat between his chopsticks and pushing it in his mouth. Suho’s right, it’s perfect.

“Thank you,” he says. Suho nods, smiling slightly.

“Hold on,” Gotak says, grabbing the sauce basket. “What’s that sauce you like? The really spicy one?”

Sieun blinks, turning his gaze back to Gotak. “Yes,” he deadpans. “The really spicy one.”

Gotak grins at the callback. “Fuck off, I’m trying to help.” He ends up finding it tucked in the back corner, and he pours a small serving in a sauce dish.

“I can do that myself, you know,” he says, unable to stop himself from smiling as he dips his meat in the sauce to take a bite. He doesn’t realize how quiet it’s gotten, not with the sizzle of meat and the general chatter. He’s more concerned with the clatter of silverware somewhere to his left, spooking him enough to lather sauce across his cheek. He glares at the employee, Baku laughing somewhere near him. He sees Suho from the corner of his eyes, the semblance of a smirk on his face as he starts grabbing a napkin and leaning in.

Except, it isn’t Suho who helps wipe away the mess. Instead, Gotak takes him lightly by the chin, tilting his head slightly as he drags his napkin along the side of his face.

Sieun feels it immediately, the eyes. Baku’s laughter dies, replaced by an almost shocked silence. The food is burning, their meat turning a deep, charred black. But it doesn’t matter, not right now.

“You did that on purpose,” Gotak says, smirking as he sets the napkin down on the table.

Sieun’s reaction time has improved considerably since they started this, so he easily counters: “Did not.”

Gotak snorts, turning back to the burning food with a yelp. “Damnit, Sieun!” he shouts, trying his best to save what meat he can. “Look what you did!”

Sieun pretends to roll his eyes, letting Gotak flounder by himself. “What I did?”

“Yeah, you and that face!”

Sieun frowns. “My face?”

“Your face!” he repeats, sighing at the charred remains of their dinner. He looks up at Baku, scowling. “What the hell, dude! You said you’d watch our food!”

Baku doesn’t even try to reply, too engrossed in Gotak to bother. He looks confused, perplexed, every other synonym you can think of, he’s all of them. And Suho… Huh, he doesn’t look far off. He’s got the same look, the same stunned expression, except it’s aimed at Sieun instead. The pinch of his brow, the shape of his mouth, the look in his eyes, it makes him look almost hurt . The revelation is such a shock to his system that Sieun has to look away, catching Juntae right as he opens his mouth.

Sieun knows what’s coming. There will be no more breadcrumbs, no more quiet contemplation. Not after this.

“What’s going on with you two?” he asks, tentatively. It’s clear he’s still unsure, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Sieun wouldn’t either, if he’s being honest. But now’s not the time to beat around the bush. The look he shares with Gotak proves it.

So far, everything’s gone according to plan. Sieun prays it stays that way.

“Uh,” Gotak says, smiling slightly as he rubs the back of his neck. “I guess we’re dating?”

Baku full body flinches, laughing slightly, though it lacks any real humor. Juntae blinks at the confession, almost like he wasn’t expecting it. And Suho… well, Sieun wouldn’t know. He refuses to look at him.

“You’re fucking with us, right?” It’s Baku who speaks, leaning in like he’s telling them some big secret. He’s smiling, but it’s awkward and not quite there. “Ha, good one guys! I almost believed you for a second.”

Gotak lightly smacks him on the head, and he flinches back. “Shut up, idiot! We’re being serious.”

Baku’s smile falters. “Wait, really?”

Suddenly, it’s all eyes on Sieun. It’s almost instantaneous, the shift. He’s become the deciding vote, their last desperate attempt for some semblance of normalcy. Because there isn’t a universe where Go Hyuntak and Yeon Sieun ever go out. The probability has always been zero.

But things change. People surprise you. With the right set of data, anything can be proven wrong.

He takes the time to look at Suho, the way he watches him, daring Sieun to say it. And he almost doesn’t, he almost drops the act completely. This should be enough, right? His point, it’s been proven… right?

But it hasn’t. There are still too many reasons, too many variables. He needs this probability plot to be a straight, positive line. Nothing else would satisfy him.

So he says it. He goes ahead and says it.

“Yes,” he admits. Gotak finds his hand under the table, grips it hard, a steady shelter as the world caves in. There’s no going back, not now. “Really.”

Chapter Text

Gotak is surprisingly capable of cruelty.

Most people don’t expect it from him, which is strange considering he’s never tried to hide it. He’s got a mouth on him, he’ll admit it. And people aren’t that hard to read; at least, not the ugly parts, those thick, gnarled roots sucking from soil, feeding the nasty pieces of a person’s soul. It’s easy, clawing a hand through dirt, uprooting some deep, dark secret, feeling it pressed against his palm. He brings it out of people, this ugliness. They take a swing, shove him down, shatter bone under the flat of their foot, pressing the ball of it in each cracked knee. This ugliness has marred his skin, a manifested reminder, one he can’t hide from.

So he knows where to dig, knows what to tug, knows who deserves this kind of uprooting, this dastardly display of cruelty.

And it isn’t Baku. And it isn’t Suho.

It hits him, suddenly, just how cruel this is, holding Sieun’s hand under the table, admitting something that isn’t even true, not really. It hurts, watching Baku’s face fall, grasping desperately for something to hold onto. He’s practically begging Gotak to take it back, to just laugh and point and fucking take it back. And he almost does. Gotak can’t help but willingly want to change every part of himself for Baku. He’d shed his skin, grow those wings, a desperate kind of forced metamorphosis. So he wants to take it back. He wants to so fucking bad.

Baku doesn’t deserve this. Not at all.

But damnit, they need this.

They’ve been dancing around each other for years, relying on a steady routine, one carefully crafted since high school; no, since middle school; no, since elementary school, days spent sitting on jungle gym rooftops, knees scraped and bleeding, passing a popsicle back and forth under hot, summer sun. They grew up, and things were meant to change, and yet here they are stuck in their cocoons, dancing that same dance.

Just one more, he thinks, holding the hand of someone else. Then it stops.

Sieun’s admission is met with silence, the kind that comes alive, opening its maw and engulfing everything, letting the possibility of a bite, of being devoured, linger. Their shock is almost palpable, their uncertainty a slap in the face. He’s only a little surprised; he didn’t think they’d be this obvious.

Juntae--beautiful, wonderful Juntae--has the decency to smile, or at least pretend to. 

“Congratulations,” he says, and the ridiculousness of the situation makes Gotak laugh. “What! I’m happy for you guys!”

“I know, I know,” Gotak snorts, trying his hardest to avoid the suffocation, how it settles like a hand on his throat. “It’s just, it sounds so formal.”

“Okay, it’s only because I didn’t expect it,” Juntae says. Damnit, he never holds back, does he? “I mean--it’s just crazy! When did this…?” He can’t seem to bring himself to ask, glancing slightly to his right, watching the way Baku’s fists clutch the fabric of his pants, how Suho’s jaw is locked, simmering with silent anger. Gotak doesn’t blame him for being skeptical.

He turns to Sieun, eyes locking. It’s funny how much he says with a look and how little he says with his words.

It’s the end of the world.

Stick to the plan.

Gotak recovers quickly, grabbing a piece of Sieun’s food and taking a bite. Suho shifts slightly, his gaze burning a hole in the side of Gotak’s head. “To be fair, it kind of came out of nowhere,” he says, shrugging. “He’s been helping me out since we’re both going into pre-med, and I guess his face buried in a textbook got my little heart pumping--”

“You’re being stupid,” Sieun says.

Gotak smirks. “Okay, fine, you’re the one who confessed first, so why don’t you--”

Suho snorts loud enough to draw attention. He’s leaning back in his seat, tongue pressed against his cheek, hiding his scowl behind a humorless grin. Gotak bites back a laugh, his teeth digging into his bottom lip. Now this… this he can work with, can hold on to. He’s allowed to have fun with this, allowed to push a few buttons. It’s the only way any of them would get off their ass and actually do something. So Gotak grips this root, feels it dip into his palm, curling in his fingers like the hand he holds.

“He doesn’t believe me,” Gotak says, knocking Sieun gently with his shoulder.

Sieun seems a little disoriented, looking between Gotak and Suho like he’s compiling data, calibrating his next move.

Suho makes it for him. “I just don’t see it,” he says. It’s a weak attempt, almost like punching a brick wall. Honestly, Gotak expected a heavier hit. Suho must really be spiraling.

He’s ready to rebuttal, but surprisingly Sieun beats him to it.

“I didn’t either,” Sieun replies. He’s looking Suho dead in the eye, all his earlier uncertainty forgotten. It seems to shake Suho, if only a little. “I’ve never concerned myself with this before, so it came as a surprise. But just because it’s unexpected doesn’t mean I shouldn’t embrace it. You taught me that, Suho.”

Ouch. He sees Suho flinch, how he takes it like a slap in the face. He’s not surprised--Sieun’s always known exactly what to say and when to say it, especially when it comes to Suho, which holy shit. The fact that he’s got this freaky people radar and doesn’t know Suho’s got it fucking bad is still unbelievable. Sieun’s feelings for Suho have always been something of a mystery. Like the guy’s hard to read, but the way he acts is so manufactured, almost like some kind of computer code. When a guy’s that predictable, it’s easy to spot when he goes off script. And it happens with Suho a lot. The fact Sieun even agreed to this means he’s at least a little bit curious… right?

God, this guy keeps him on his toes. Usually it’d piss him off, but he can’t help but find it a little funny, especially when Suho looks like that.

For a moment, Gotak forgets the root pulled from sour soil, forgets that it beat, beat, beats in his hand like a heart. He turns to Baku, expecting one of those stupid, lopsided grins, but what Gotak finds instead is a half-hearted one, a pale version of himself. For the first time in forever, they’re speaking an entirely different language, one with no direct translation. Baku has no idea what Gotak sees, what he knows, what he’s trying to say. A part of Gotak hates it, feels the bile gather at the back of his throat at the thought of it.

But another part revels in it, finds satisfaction in his confusion. Baku’s on the other side of it now. He can flirt all he wants, but Gotak can’t have a little fun of his own. Screw that! He can’t--no, he won’t--let Baku get away with taking every part of him and giving nothing of his own.

Gotak, he’s allowed to be cruel, he’s allowed to have fun with this.

He deserves this…

Right?

“Yah!” Baku shouts, slapping a hand on Suho’s shoulder. He’s clearly trying to stay lighthearted, but the way he clutches Suho’s shirt suggests otherwise. “Stop giving them a hard time!”

Suho isn’t amused, unwilling to hide his distaste. He shrugs off Baku’s hand, scoffing. “You were laughing at it earlier,” he says.

“Well, we all didn’t see it coming,” Baku shrugs. He’s doing a better job at burying his confusion than Suho, but it’s hard to miss the giant hole he’s dug in the ground between the three of them. “But if they’re happy then I’m happy!”

He turns to Gotak, smiling in a way he shouldn’t be, and hesitates, almost like he doesn’t want to say it, like he doesn’t want to know. He does anyway.

“You are happy, right?”

Gotak smiles.

“Yeah. We are.”

Dinner is an awkward affair--Baku’s a little too loud, overcompensating for Suho, who refuses to speak. It’s strange, Gotak shouldn’t like it this much, this disruption. Something is blatantly wrong, the foundations of their friendship are crumbling under the weight of it, and yet Gotak can’t help his satisfaction. It feels fucking good, facing the music. It means they aren’t just standing still, not anymore.

He sees it in Sieun, too, the way he watches Suho pout, his pleasure practically palpable. Whatever he’s trying to find is staring him right in the face. Now, it’s a matter of personal perception.

They’re sick for this--treating Baku like a game, treating Suho like an experiment, both something to be played, something to be tested. Gotak knows it. Sieun too. But there’s power to be found in disorder, and Gotak’s sick and tired of never having it.

They leave together, Gotak’s arm thrown around Sieun’s shoulder since Juntae comes with. They drop Sieun off, and Gotak hovers by the door for a second longer, leaning close enough to feel Sieun’s breath on his cheek.

“You did good,” he whispers, grinning. “Text me later. I don’t think Suho’s completely convinced.”

Sieun nods, his gazing flicking to Juntae for just a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he puts his hand on Gotak’s jaw, his fingers pressing into his skin, as he leans in and lightly kisses his cheek. It’s carefully crafted, perfectly planted, the kind of goodnight you expect from someone you’re supposed to be in love with. But it isn’t Baku. It falls a little flat.

Still, Gotak smiles, lightly pinching Sieun’s cheeks.

The sky is falling.

Stick to the plan.

Baku gets home later than usual--Gotak hears him stumbling through the door, his shoulder slamming into Gotak’s wall. He waits patiently at his desk, listening to Baku curse from the kitchen, his head probably three inches deep in the fridge. From the way he’s moving, Gotak can tell he’s been drinking.

It doesn’t take long for his door to open, Baku never bothering to knock. He falls face-first on Gotak’s bed, groaning into his pillow. Smiling, Gotak rolls his chair closer to the bedside, and pokes at Baku’s side with his socked foot.

“Too much fun with Suho?” Gotak teases. He has a sneaking suspicion there was no fun to be had, that this kind of drunken stupor is rooted in something far more miserable.

“Shut up,” Baku says, voice only slightly muffled by the pillow. It’s the only answer he’s getting.

“Stop making your mess my problem,” he says, shoving him harder with his foot. “Come on, get up.”

“You’re my best friend,” he says, turning his head to the side. “It’s my provocative.”

Gotak scoffs. “It’s prerogative, idiot.”

“Whatever,” he whines. “Same thing.”

They sit in silence for a moment, the only sound the whir of Gotak’s ceiling fan. He takes the time to really look at Baku--his clothes pressed against his body; his hair, red and faded, brushing against his forehead; his lips left slightly agape, his breath brushing Gotak’s arm. It stretches towards Baku, almost like it wants to touch the folds of his face, feel hands in his hair, press fingers to his mouth. But it hesitates, stopping just shy of sin personified, this saccharine fruit. He can’t have this. Not right now. Not quite yet.

Instead, he smacks the back of Baku’s head, watching him recoil into the mattress.

“Fuck this,” he curses, rolling on his back. “I’ll kill you with a gun.”

“I’d just dodge,” Gotak says, shoving his feet on Baku’s stomach. “You’re not sleeping here, by the way.”

Baku sticks out his tongue. “You hate me.”

Gotak shrugs. “You’ve got your own bed.”

“Yeah, but I’ve also got ants, Gogo. Ants.”

“You eat food in your fucking bed, what did you expect?”

“Yah, I wash my shit!”

“Clearly not enough.”

“I don’t smell!”

“Waffles and pancakes.”

Baku flips him off, but still doesn’t move. A part of Gotak doesn’t want him too, and usually he allows himself a little indulgence. But things are different now. He has to take a few steps back before running full speed. It’s a necessary sacrifice for the greater good. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

“Seriously, you’ve gotta get up,” Gotak says.

Baku raises a brow, his hand settling on his calf. “You’re the one holding me down.” It sounds like a dare, a lingering sense of suspense. It’s clearly a trap, one Baku’s certainly been laying since before he even opened the door. Gotak locks his jaw, looking up at his ceiling in some last ditch effort to keep himself from saying something stupid. God, the nerve of this guy.

Luckily, he’s been dealing with Baku’s dumbass tricks since before he hit his growth spurt. He easily deflects, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him off the bed. Baku slams against the ground, landing on his arm as he rolls back onto his stomach, groaning and moaning. Gotak gets up and takes Baku’s place on the bed, shoving his shoulder slightly with his foot.

“What the hell, Gogo!” he says, sitting up slowly and rubbing at his arm.

Gotak shrugs. “You were pissing me off.”

“Yeah, well, what if you broke my arm, huh?” He watches Baku’s arm fall limp, and he flaps it around, pretending to wince at the pain. “Look at what you did, Gogo. Now I can’t work or play ball or do anything because my arm is broken. Don’t you feel bad?”

Gotak levels him with a glare. “Really. You want to play this game with me?”

Baku looks suddenly at his knee, mouth open like a fish, finally at a loss for words.

“Didn’t think so.”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, standing up. He takes up half the room trying to stretch, yawning loud enough to wake the neighbors, and he’s so obnoxious Gotak almost misses the way his shirt rides up, the way his skin looks under warm lamplight. He lets his eyes linger, tracing the lines of his stomach, biting the inside of his cheek to hold back a grin. Damn, he looks good, even like this.

Gotak’s phone buzzes on his nightstand, and it doesn’t take a genius to know who it is. If Baku’s home, so is Suho.

“Go, get some sleep,” Gotak says, nodding to the door.

“Kicking me out already?” Baku teases. Fuck, he’s really pushing his luck. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s just Baku.

“I can’t sleep when you’re pissing me off.”

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

Fuck this dude, seriously.

Gotak scoffs, hoping he isn’t blushing despite the heat in his cheeks. “Watch out, that ego’s about the size of your head.”

“Uh huh,” he says, grinning wildly as he backs up towards the door. “Night, Gogo.”

This idiot. “Night, Baku.”

He turns the knob, the door creaking slightly as he pulls it open. It looks like he’s leaving, but he lingers for a moment, holding on to the door frame, lost in careful consideration. Gotak swallows, waiting in anticipation, suddenly preparing for whatever could possibly come out of that stupid, stupid mouth. He thought he was getting away with it, that Baku was gonna just let it happen. Now he’s clearly wrong. The worst part is, Gotak wants him to say it, to stop fucking ignoring it. Disruption, disorder, the end of the world as they know it. He wants that, needs that.

But it doesn’t come. Not in the way he expects.

“Hey,” Baku starts, biting his lip. “Are we good?”

Gotak blinks, thoroughly thrown off. “Yeah,” he says. Maybe he’s lying, maybe he’s not. He’s unsure. “We’re good.”

Baku nods, smiling slightly. It’s half-hearted, and it’s lacking something what fundamentally makes Baku, Baku. “Okay, and you’re happy? With… with him?”

There it is. The end of the world.

“Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

Baku nods again, tapping his fingers on the frame. “Good. That’s good.”

It’s an odd, unsatisfying ending to whatever just happened. He’s haunted by those words left unsaid, the kind of dread that comes with leaving things unfinished. At the click of the closed door, Gotak falls back on his bed, draping an arm over his face as he sighs, defeated.

Damnit, it’s not what he wants, it’s not what he needs. The world is fucking ending, the sky is fucking falling, and Baku’s trying to fix it with duct tape and dried out glue sticks. He wants the anger, the frustration, the breaking point. He wants, he wants, he wants.

Whatever, it’s fine. This kind of stuff takes time, takes strategy. They’ve just gotta keep playing.

Gotak grabs his phone off his nightstand, squinting at his screen.

hubby 🙈

(11:52) Suho’s home.

Me

Baku’s back too (11:52)

drunk as hell (11:52)

hubby 🙈

(11:53) Suho as well.

Me

did he do anything weird??? (11:53)

he didn’t rlly take the dating thing well lol (11:53)

hubby 🙈

(11:55) Neither did Baku, apparently.

Me

you haven’t answered my question (11:55)

hubby 🙈

(11:56) He’s usually pretty clingy when he’s drunk.

(11:57) Tonight he was distant. Also annoying.

Me

youve got to be a bit more specific (11:57)

his ass is always annoying (11:57)

hubby 🙈

(11:58) He was upset about something.

Me

“something” bruh don’t play these games (11:58)

hubby 🙈

(11:58) I don’t know. He wasn’t getting angry.

Me

bc you’re not the one he wants to punch in the

face (11:59)

hubby 🙈

(12:01) Whatever.

(12:01) What about Baku?

Me

pissing me off (12:02)

being a bastard (12:02)

hubby 🙈

(12:03) So nothing’s changed?

Me

Idk (12:03)

he’s clearly bothered by it but he’s playing it

off to try and be a good friend (12:04)

the idiot (12:04)

can’t believe i want suho to actually punch me

at least that means we’re getting somewhere (12:04)

hubby 🙈

(12:05) You don’t want that.

Me

wth i could take him (12:05)

hubby 🙈

(12:06) Uh huh.

Me

whatever bro (12:06)

abt to go to sleep lab is gonna kick my ass tmrw (12:06)

before i do tho is everything good with you? (12:08)

hubby 🙈

(12:11) Yeah.

(12:11) Suho kept asking that.

Me

what? (12:11)

hubby 🙈

(12:12) If I’m okay.

(12:12) If I’m happy with you.

Me

Oh (12:14)

baku did too (12:14)

hubby 🙈

(12:15) They must have talked about it.

Me

yeah probably (12:15)

hubby 🙈

(12:20) It’s weird.

(12:20) It shouldn’t be.

Me

you know what i’m gonna say (12:21)

hubby 🙈

(12:24) I’m still not sure.

Me

Whatever (12:25)

i’m walking you to class right? (12:25)

after lab (12:25)

hubby 🙈

(12:28) Yeah.

(12:30) Goodnight, Gotak.

Me

gn sieun (12:31)

Nothing beats a nice pick-up game.

Gotak’s never been one for formalities, for calculation, for stability. Basketball’s fun with the team, but honestly it’s best played late in the evening, the sun kissing the horizon as the moon settles in the sky. It’s darker, so your vision’s shot and the nameless faces you stumble on straight out of class sort of start blurring together. It’s surreal, playing this kind of game with people who only exist on this cracked concrete court. And yet, you give them little pieces of yourself, and they back to you--the sweat from your palm, the blood from your knee, the warmth from your body. Your movement. Your freedom. Your control.

He feels it now, the nipping of night against the tips of his ears, the sweat dripping down his face despite it, how it pit-pats against concrete, mingling with the sound of the ball beating, beating, beating like a heart, this court its ribcage, this moment its body. Baku’s the only face he knows in this sea of people, this amorphous mass of bodies. And Gotak sees every part of him, those eyes across the court; and feels every part of him, those arms around his body; and hears every part of him, those little noises--the shifting of feet, the sound of his breathing, his pounding pulse pumping blood in his body, reaching every inch of him. Gotak sees it, feels it, hears it in Baku and in him. The eyes, the arms, the noise--it’s a pulse. Blood pumping. Every inch.

They rarely play like this, Gotak on one team, Baku on the other. They always worked well on the court, and they knew each other too well not to. They know how to make it a game worth playing even when they lose. But it’s hard to stay in sync, to emulate the same back and forth, when you can’t quite look each other in the eye.

It’s almost cathartic, every intercepted pass, every fake out, and every block. It’s the sweat, the bruise, the throbbing of his knee, body screaming. It’s the same song and dance, one he may regret late at night, digging his nails into thick skin. But for now it keeps him moving, gives him something to overcome.

Baku doesn’t like it. He’s always been overly cautious, and it’s the only thing Gotak really gives him grace for. He was there through all of it, replanting Gotak’s ugly, gnarled roots. But now, it feels suffocating. Baku… he’s not getting pissed, he’s not being rough, he’s not treating him like a real, human person. He wants to bruise, he wants to bleed, wants to feel like it matters, like it’s real. Punch, kick, scream--shove him to the ground, put his hands on his neck, kiss his dumb, stupid mouth. Just do something.

No more watching, no more dancing, no more stopping.

Give me everything.

That’s all he wants.

Everything.

But it always ends with nothing. Gotak wins, but it doesn’t matter. Not when Baku’s smiling, clapping hands with some guy they never learned the name of, sweat dripping from his hair under warm lamplight. Not when he throws an arm around Gotak’s shoulder, laughing like he didn’t just lose, like Gotak didn’t just win. Because it doesn’t matter. Or he’s just not letting it matter.

They stumble to a park bench, falling onto each other from exhaustion. Gotak feels Baku’s head on his shoulder, feels his arm in his lap, feels their knees pressed against one another. It feels impossible.

“You don’t play like that at practice,” Baku says, staring at the moon. He’s smiling slightly, hoping to sound lighthearted. It falls a little flat.

“I do, dumbass,” he says.

“Not yesterday.”

Ah.

“Off day,” Gotak says, shrugging. “I could say the same to you.”

Baku snorts, fingers tracing the lines of Gotak’s knee. The touch is featherlight but hot, a steady, all-consuming warmth. “Missed a couple shots, fucked up a few passes--”

“Fell on your ass.”

“Because you fucking tripped me!” Baku smacks him lightly in the chest, forcing a laugh out of Gotak as he full-body flinches.

Yes, he thinks, pinching Baku’s ear, dragging his head closer to his stomach. Keep doing that.

“Ow, ow, ow! White flag, white flag!” Baku throws his arms up in surrender, face pinched in pain. Gotak grins, letting go and flicking him on the forehead.

“I didn’t trip you, idiot, we just had--”

“An off day,” Baku says, slightly out of breath. “Yeah, I get it.”

And, for a moment, Baku reaches for Gotak’s knee again, ready to take its rightful place on his skin. But he hesitates, draws back, letting it fall limp on his lap. It’s far too cold.

“We’ll be better by the game,” Gotak assures. It sounds like a lie. A false promise, maybe.

Baku lets it linger, his eyes back on the moon nestled in the night sky. He’s taking his time, letting the sound of their breathing mingle with the croaking of bugs, the groaning of asphalt under car tire, the stomping of feet against pavement. It’s the kind of symphony that follows someone deep in thought.

When he speaks, he strikes.

“He’ll be there, right?”

Gotak blinks, thrown off. “Who?”

“Sieun,” he replies. “He’s coming for you, right?”

Gotak snorts. “Barely.”

“Completely,” Baku refutes. “Sieun doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to.”

“No, I guess he doesn’t.”

Baku laughs, though it lacks any real humor. “Man, if I knew this was all it took to get him at a game, I’d have asked him out ages ago.”

Gotak cracks, doubling over with laughter, the palm of his hand clutching his knee, fingers digging into skin, bones burning with frostbitten blood, muscle throbbing, the kind of pain that feels orchestrated. It’s ridiculous, everything about this situation is fucking ridiculous. And it’s not funny--no, it’s really not--but he can’t hit Baku like he wants to, can’t kiss Baku like he wants to, can’t do much of anything when Baku looks at him like that, stuck in his own head when he’s so used to just doing. Never thinking, just doing. But he’s holding himself back, and Gotak can’t for the life of him figure out why.

“Yah, stop making fun of me,” he grumbles, pouting. He’s throwing Gotak a line, his intention unclear though unimportant. Gotak takes it anyway.

“You just say shit,” he says, struggling to compose himself. He shoves Baku slightly with his shoulder, letting the remnants of his laughter curl into a smile. “Can’t help it.”

They’re far too close--elbows knocking, knees kissing, breath mingling. It’s nothing new. Pick up games always lead to nights like these, falling on top of each other, confessing through words left unsaid. It’s almost sacred, the way they speak in silence, in the space between their bodies, in the way they work on the court, the flow of a game, this inherent kind of communication that comes with confidence in themselves and with each other.

But it’s not the same. They were face to face on that court, not side-by-side. Even now, leaning back on this park bench, their heads turn, eyes tracing the lines of their face, searching for something, anything, that’d make sense. Whether this shift is good or bad means nothing; the simple fact that it happened is proof of something real. It’s one step closer to the sun shining a light on whatever’s buried between them.

“No more off days,” Baku says. It’s another one of those promises they won’t end up keeping.

Gotak smiles. “We’ll be better.”

For a moment, this concrete court shifts, torn apart by weeds peeking through cracks along the 3-point line. Newly planted roots push the slab up an inch, maybe less, but it’s enough of a disturbance to catch the toe of a shoe. Someone trips, someone falls, someone spills blood on the court, pressing their palm over the scrape on their knee as it pools down their leg, soaking those weeds in crimson color. It sparks a new kind of photosynthesis. The result? A new kind of respiration.

He’s not sure what that means yet, but he’s willing to wait. His skin broke, he’s already bleeding. Soon he’ll know what to make of it.

“There’s no way that’s right,” Gotak says, frowning. He’s sitting on a desk, leaning back so the bulk of his weight rests on his arms. Sieun looks from the whiteboard back to Gotak, face completely deadpan.

“It’s in the textbook,” he says.

“No, no, I swear frameshift mutations don’t work like that--”

“Chapter seven, subsection two, page 143,” Sieun interjects, snapping the cap back on his marker. Gotak locks his jaw, reluctantly pulling his textbook by his hip and flipping through the pages. He finds the page quickly, skimming through massive chunks of academic word vomit and cursing when he finds the answer.

“Do you have this shit memorized?” Gotak asks, shoving his textbook across the table.

“No, I just read the required material.”

Gotak scoffs, falling on his back. He throws an arm over his eyes to block the clinical white light blinding him from the ceiling, already regretting every decision he’s made in the last 24 hours (give or take two or three years.)

Sieun’s somehow trapped them in a study room, holding Gotak hostage for “the sake of his grade,” which is fucking insulting considering he’s got a B in the class.

(“It’s an 81,” Sieun said, staring at Gotak’s computer with his brows pinched together.

“Yeah, so what?” he replied, leaning back in his desk chair.

“That’s hardly a B,” Sieun said.

Fuck, that really pissed him off. “What the hell are you talking about? A B is a B!”)

Now he’s got Gotak hunkered down in the library’s basement studying shit they haven’t really even covered yet in class. Who the fuck reads ahead in the textbook? And why is Sieun even in this class; he’s more competent than their snot-nosed TA.

“Sit up,” Sieun says from somewhere near the whiteboard, “we’re not even halfway done with the material.”

“What time is it?” Gotak grumbles, unmoving.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sieun replies. The sound of his marker on the board is enough to make Gotak blow his brains out.

He blindly reaches for his phone, tries to turn it on, finds it dead, and tosses it back on the desk. It’s been like that for an hour at least, and Sieun refuses to lend him a charger. Apparently he’s got enough distractions. Whatever that means.

“I have a game tomorrow,” he says. It’s the fourth reminder of the night, one Sieun usually ignores. This time, though, the writing suddenly stops, and Gotak hears him sigh, exasperated.

“Why would you prioritize a recreational sport over an exam worth 25% of your final grade?” he asks, clearly dismissive.

It’s enough for Gotak to sit up, huffing out a humorless laugh. “The exam is next week, you bastard.”

Sieun seems unperturbed. “You failed the first one.”

“A 79 is not a failing grade.”

“It’s too close to the average,” Sieun says. “At best it makes you ordinary.”

Gotak laughs again, getting worked up. “You want me to leave? ‘Cause I’ll leave.”

“No you won’t,” he says, his tone like a knife through the neck--indisputable and implacable.

Gotak’s jaw locks. “No, I guess I won’t.”

It only sucks a little bit, mostly because Sieun expects a level of understanding Gotak’s never been privy to. He’s not stupid, but he’s not the most dedicated student. There are about twenty different things he would rather do right now then study for an exam they haven’t fully covered yet in class. But Sieun, surprisingly, adjusts well to his restlessness. He lets Gotak map out his line of thinking on the whiteboard, erasing and adding information as they go. It’s different from what he’s used to--Sieun’s always been particular about his work, and the few times he agreed to study with them typically ended with some sort of lecture. Now, though, he’s far more lax, which throws Gotak off.

“A year ago this marker would be up your ass,” Gotak says. “What gives?”

Sieun shrugs. “Suho’s the same as you,” is all he says. It’s not much, but Gotak gets it anyway. He’d thank the guy for chilling him out, but Gotak’s got a feeling he’s not Suho’s favorite person right now. Just a hunch.

With his phone dead and Sieun’s nowhere to be found, Gotak’s at a loss for time. It’s felt like ages, and every time he peeks at the library floor, more and more people are leaving. It’s basically a wasteland, the only stragglers are a girl living off three empty coffee cups and a guy asleep in the corner.

At one point, they start fighting over something stupid--who knew genetics could get this heated--and Sieun ends up body-blocking the door. Gotak, angry and exhausted, puts as much space between him and Sieun as possible (and with the size of the room, that doesn’t mean much) and sits on the floor, back pressed against the wall. He feels his knee flaring up from frustration, his brace trying its best to placate the pain. He’s been wearing it too long, but the thought of taking it off only succeeds in pissing him off even more.

He slowly straightens his leg, grimacing at the pulsating pain. He tries to calm his heartrate, taking slow, even breaths. He hates this part of it, the restraint, the inability to feel without feeling it. It’s been years, and he’s still stuck like this. Predictable.

Sieun sort of stares at him from across the room, his uncertainty refreshing.

Gotak sighs a little, letting his head rest against the wall. “You don’t have to look at me like that,” he says. “I’m fine.”

Sieun doesn’t seem so sure. “You should have told me.”

Gotak scoffs. “You’re the one who pissed me off.”

Sieun blinks, unsure. “I didn’t mean to push you.”

Gotak shrugs, anger already subsiding with the pain. He closes his eyes, letting the silence settle for a moment before Sieun speaks.

“I should have known,” he says, more to himself than Gotak.

“How could you?” he says, squinting up at Sieun.

He frowns, slightly. “Suho.”

Ah.

Another silent second. Maybe five. Maybe ten. Gotak’s found time doesn’t exist in places like this, tucked away in a library study room.

Gotak motions to the empty spot next to him on the floor, grinning. “Don’t just stand there, sit down.”

Sieun seems to deliberate his invitation for all but ten seconds before stepping forward and sitting beside Gotak. They don’t quite touch, which is okay. There’s no real reason to. They’re fine just the way they are.

“Thank you,” Gotak says suddenly. They don’t look at each other. It’s not necessary. “For today.”

“You don’t have to,” he replies.

“No, I was being an ass,” he insists. “You’re just trying to help.”

Sieun doesn’t reply, which isn’t unusual most of the time. Now, though, it’s different, almost like there’s something left unsaid.

It comes to him suddenly, what Sieun’s saying in silence. Gotak turns to him, watching the way he stares at the board. It almost seems too easy, but its evidence is clear, something Gotak should have picked up on the minute the door locked.

“You don’t want to go home.”

Sieun pauses, eyes slowly slipping back to Gotak. “It’s not the same.”

The confirmation leaves him a little breathless. Because it’s his fault. He knows it’s his fault. And Gotak… fuck, he’s supposed to feel bad about this, right? Guilt should eat him alive. And yet, he feels completely and utterly vindicated. God, he’s going to Hell. 

To make up for it, he uses the chair to push himself up, grabbing his textbook, and sitting back down. He puts the book between them, propping one side on his thigh and the other on Sieun’s. He blinks at the thick chapter title, thrown off.

“The library closes at two,” he says. “Until then, teach me.”

It’s always nice seeing Sieun smile. He doesn’t do it with his whole face--no, it only manifests in the small curve of his lips, the slight shift in his eyes. It’s almost contagious, and Gotak can’t help but smile too, leaning forward as Sieun guides him through the chapter.

They stay like that, side-by-side, sitting on the study room floor, until an employee knocks on the glass. They take the same bus home, riding in relative silence and parting at their stop. Gotak reminds him of the game just to piss him off and walks the two blocks back to his apartment, his phone still dead in his pocket.

The apartment is dark, the only noise coming from the couch. He recognizes Baku’s soft snores, smiling at the way they linger in the living room. He glances over the back of the couch, finding Baku sleeping on his stomach, using his hoodie as a makeshift pillow. It’s late, too late to wake him without disturbing the neighbors, so he grabs a blanket from his room and throws it over him. He presses a hand lightly on his back, holds it there for twenty, maybe thirty seconds before standing and walking away.

Gotak can’t stop smiling.

Pre-game practice goes as well as he expected, which is to say unusually boring. Gotak’s always liked every aspect of the game, the camaraderie especially. It’s different from taekwondo--there, you’re the only person capable of winning. Here, you’re not alone on the court. Today, though, Gotak can’t help but feel like he is. Baku’s not trusting him with the ball, and when he does pass, it's sloppy, uncoordinated, reluctant. There’s not enough time to really call him out, not without sounding like an ass, which he’s usually fine with but today just seems… off.

In the minutes leading up to tip-off, Gotak spots their friends near the front row. He smiles when he sees Sieun in an aisle seat, Suho leaning in close, smirking slightly. He jogs over, taking the stairs two at a time, and waves to Juntae. Sieun looks up at him, clearly annoyed, and Suho’s not even hiding his distaste, smile fading almost immediately. It’s alright, the size of Gotak’s grin is enough for the both of them.

“You guys look good out there!” Juntae shouts, leaning forward in his seat.

Gotak lets out a short laugh. “Yeah, if Baku starts passing the fucking ball, we’d be even better.”

Juntae frowns. “He’s not passing?”

“Not to me,” Gotak replies. “Not the way he should.”

“Maybe you pissed him off,” Suho says, only a little smug. “You’ve got a knack for it.”

Gotak raises a brow. “Doesn’t matter what I did, he’s got to get over it.”

“He will,” Sieun says, startling him.

He recovers easily enough, squatting down and setting his hand by Sieun’s thigh. Suho eyes it warily, jaw locked. It’s almost thrilling, this game of back and forth.

“Oh, yeah?” Gotak says, smirking as he turns his head to the side. “I’m not so sure. Maybe a good luck kiss will sway the odds in my favor.”

Sieun is clearly unamused. “You’re toeing the line.”

“Do you want us to lose?” he teases.

“I really don’t care.”

“Yah!” he shouts, ready to curse this asshole out. Instead, Sieun rolls his eyes and leans in, planting a kiss on his cheek. It’s nothing much, really--it doesn’t make his heart flutter, his stomach drop, his cheeks grow warm with pleasure. But it gets the job done. He sees it in Suho, how his face falls, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. He feels Baku’s eyes on him from across the court, and a part of him knows his luck isn’t gonna change. It’s fine, though. For now, this moment is enough.

“See how easy that was?” he says.

“You’re an idiot,” Sieun replies, keeping his composure. Damn, he’s getting really good at this.

“Kiss me again, I don’t think I got the message.”

That one actually gets him to smile. “Go play your game.”

“Sure thing,” he says, holding a hand to his cheek “Wouldn’t want to waste this.”

He stands and rushes back to Baku, who’s trying his best to pretend to be hyped, throwing an arm around Gotak’s shoulder, smiling that big, goofy grin. Gotak doesn’t have time to press his finger in this bruise, not with a game like this.

“Are you feeling alright?” Baku asks, gaze drifting to Gotak’s knee.

Gotak rolls his eyes. “I’m fine, you big baby.”

Baku throws his arms up in surrender. “I’m just a friend who cares.”

“Yeah, too much,” Gotak adds, batting Baku’s hand away before it could fuck up his hair.

They huddle up, Baku giving some dumbass speech that’s cut off by the ref’s whistle. They all clap him on the back, Gotak’s smack the final, resounding “good luck” for the night as the starting line-up takes their places on the court. Gotak looks over at Sieun one last time and waves. Surprisingly (and reluctantly), Sieun waves back.

The game starts off in their favor, Gotak scoring a few shots from the three-point-line and Baku slamming in a few dunks just to piss off an old friend of theirs on the other team. Gotak revels in the steady flow of the game, smiling at the sweat dripping down his neck, the burning in his thighs, the feeling of the ball against his palm. It’s not the same as taekwondo--nothing will ever amount to that feeling--but it’s enough to satisfy this craving, this need to move and move and move. He doesn’t need to play on the national team, doesn’t need to play in college, doesn’t need to play with faces he knows, none of that is necessary for this game to matter. He’s spent too long lamenting over what he can’t do. Now, he’s got to give everything to what he can do.

That’s why it’s so frustrating when, halfway through the second quarter, Gotak realizes Baku hasn’t passed him the ball once during the entire game. It’s always Gotak assisting his shots, Gotak watching his back, Gotak doing everything in his power to get their captain this win. But Baku? He’s still clinging to this dumbass tantrum.

And he gets it--Gotak’s publicly dating Sieun, flaunting his newfound relationship, whatever. Usually he’d be fucking thrilled. But he’s already over this petty bullshit. Suho's ready to punch Gotak square in the face, but Baku can’t even bother to yell, to kick, to scream. Yeah, they’re out of sync and yeah they can’t communicate to save their life, but he isn’t even trying. Gotak’s bulldozing their entire friendship--past, present, future--and Baku’s just letting it happen.

It comes to a head after halftime, Gotak’s dismissive and angry, forced to apply pain relief cream on his knee as it burns like frostbite. Baku tries to help, but Gotak waves him off, far too upset to deal with him. He gets a few worried glances from his friends in the crowd, Sieun’s brows furrowed as he asks silent questions from across the court. It satiates his anger for all by five minutes, roaring back to life after Baku’s pass to a teammate is intercepted and the other team scores a three-pointer, pulling far into the lead. God, what was Baku thinking passing to him with that many guys around? Gotak was wide fucking open, Baku knew that. So why?

His feet are moving and suddenly he’s shoving Baku back, watching him stumble, confused. It only succeeds in pissing him off more.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouts, seething. A ref jogs over, but they both ignore him.

“Gogo, what--”

“None of that,” he scoffs. “I’m not Gogo right now, just the guy who was wide-fucking-open about thirty seconds ago, just the guy you haven’t passed to all game, just the guy who is tired of your bullshit!”

Baku doesn’t seem to get it. “What the hell are you talking about? I’ve been passing--”

“No you haven’t!” he shouts, laughing incredulously. “Not once! Look, whatever you’re pissed at doesn’t matter, not right now, not when we’re on the court, okay?”

“What--”

“Okay?” he repeats.

Baku sighs, clearly frustrated. Good. That’s good. “Fine.”

Perfect. “Fine.”

They end up winning, but only barely. It’s bittersweet--he can’t celebrate the way he wants to, not with Baku’s half-assed passes, not with Baku’s half-assed smile, not with Baku’s half-assed “good game” after Gotak took the winning shot. A part of him wishes he didn’t care so much. It’s just a stupid rec sport; it’s not even a college league. But basketball’s the first sport he’s been able to play since he stopped… since he broke… since everything. Baku knows that, he gets that.

At least he did.

His friends rush onto the court after the final buzzer, Suho patting Baku on the back, Juntae singing their praises. Gotak attempts to swing his arm around Sieun’s shoulders at one point, but he bats him away, crinkling his nose.

“You smell,” he says, which makes Gotak laugh for the first time all game.

“Aw, come on, you can handle it,” he says. Sieun eventually relents, and Gotak pulls him close, urging his body to calm down. His knee throbs to the beat of his beating heart, and Baku’s eyes on his arm aren’t doing him any favors.

“What happened out there?” Sieun whispers.

Gotak leans down a bit to answer. “Nothing really.”

Sieun is not impressed. “I’m not stupid.”

Gotak grins. “Trust me, I know that.”

“I don’t have time for your games,” he says, leaning away.

“Oh, don’t get like that, I’m just playing,” he promises. He spots a teammate jogging over, so he quickly says, “Tell you later.” Sieun nods, satisfied.

Minjun, their best point-guard, flashes a full-set of teeth as he claps Baku on the shoulder. Baku reciprocates with equal vigor. If Gotak wasn’t pissed at him, he’d laugh.

“You were a beast out there,” Minjun says. He’s a few years older, recently graduating in the winter, but he still manages to talk like a high school first year. He turns to Gotak, who raises his brow in anticipation. “And great fucking comeback, dude. Seriously, nothing but net.”

Gotak nods, amused. “Hey, you had some good plays too,” he says, using his free hand to high five. “That fake out in the third quarter was beautiful.”

“Just a little something I came up with, nothing crazy,” he says, smug. How humble. “Look, I’m throwing a party at my place for everyone, even the losers, so swing by. If I don’t see you there--”

Gotak and Baku finish in unison: “You’ll kill yourself, we know.” 

“Bullet through the brain, you know the deal,” he says, giving Baku a final pat on the back. He starts walking backwards, shouting, “Bring your friends! Everyone’s welcome!”

Baku waves him off, grinning like a fool. “You guys down?”

“Always,” Suho says, like it’s obvious. Sieun glances at the way he leans against his cane, frowning slightly. Gotak’s the only one who really catches it.

“Eh, only for a bit,” Gotak says, shrugging. “It’s getting late.”

“It’s barely eight,” Suho says, scowling slightly.

Gotak shrugs. “The game went long and coach kept putting me in, plus my knee’s a little fucked, so.”

“We don’t even have to go,” Baku suggests. “Let’s just go back to the apartment and play that new game you got Juntae, you know the one with the horses--”

“We can still go, dumbass, just not for long,” he says, lightly smacking Baku’s shoulder. He turns to Sieun, grinning. “That sound good?”

Sieun thinks it over, though his decision manifests differently than expected. He answers with his mouth, just not with words. Sieun’s hand suddenly finds its way to Gotak's cheek, pulling him down and kissing his lips. It doesn’t last long, just a few seconds, leaving Gotak little time to really recover. He knows what the rules are, knows this was bound to happen, but he never thought Sieun would make the first move. Gotak’s had some experience--there were a couple girls in middle school he kinda dated, so nothing really crazy--but Sieun? Gotak seriously doubts it. First kisses don’t necessarily have to be sacred (he can’t even remember who his was with), but something like this should matter to Sieun, right? He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to date frivolously, so Gotak’s been hesitant to cross any kind of line Sieun may have, even if he himself isn’t aware of it. But this proves Sieun’s all in, that he’s just as dedicated to this fucked up back and forth, this life-or-death pick-up game, as him. The thought is more than reassuring.

It takes everything in Gotak’s power not to glance at Baku, but he feels three pairs of eyes on them, waiting and watching. He can’t back out now, not when Sieun’s putting all his cards on the table.

He grins, all smug. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, lucidly.

Sieun seems unaffected. “The game wasn’t completely boring.”

Gotak chuckles. “If that’s your way of congratulating me, I have some tips for next time.”

The look Sieun gives him makes him laugh even harder, and he leans in one last time to plant his own kiss on his forehead. Sieun shoves him away, cocking his head towards the locker room.

“You’re making me gross,” he says. “Go wash up. Both of you.” Gotak watches him glance at Suho, who’s standing next to Baku, arms crossed, eyes on the ceiling. He’s getting better at hiding his disdain, though he’s clearly uncomfortable, the only person rivaling his disfavor being Baku. He’s got that hurt puppy look again, one he tries to hide behind a wary smile, though it doesn’t work against someone like Gotak. They know each other too well.

A part of him hopes, maybe, that this will be the breaking point. Baku will corner him in the locker room, shove him against a wall, demanding a goddamn answer. But he keeps smiling, keeps laughing, keeps pretending something isn’t incredibly wrong about Yeon Sieun kissing Go Hyuntak.

He should have known this wouldn’t be easy. Nothing with Baku ever is.

Chapter Text

Sieun’s known Suho for two years, ten months, and fourteen days, and in those two years, ten months, and fourteen days, he’s found they both unconsciously stick to routines. Before the coma, they’d relive the same day, clinging to their own orbits until their eventual collision. Even then, the leftover chunks of planetary body fused, creating a new orbit, one manufactured specifically for their fragmented friendship. And even when those pieces of Suho drifted aimlessly, pulled from their orbit by unseen hands, Sieun kept spinning, kept going, never not waiting for Suho. And he came home, Sieun pulling him back into orbit, pushing each piece of each other against the jagged edges of rock until they just fit. They finally, finally fit. 

Suho is easy, then, to predict. Their routines are cosmically connected and therefore easy to map out. Suho prefers to work afternoon shifts, closing the store and heading home around the same time Sieun gets back from the library. He likes to make him dinner because Sieun often forgets, spending half an hour at the stove while Sieun did work at the kitchen counter. Then they’d watch some stupid reality TV program that Suho’s obsessed with, knees brushing, shoulders touching as they sit far too close on the couch. They take a day off on the weekend, dedicating it to each other, to their friends, to the simple act of living, of existing in one, singular orbit.

But Sieun doesn’t make it a habit to go to parties. Sure, he’s been dragged to a couple, mostly for Suho’s sake, but they were few and far between. Honestly, Sieun’s not sure why they even bother with these kinds of things. He doesn’t drink and neither does Suho, so they aren’t reaping the benefits of intoxication. And they typically don’t move around, sticking to one area, basking in each other’s company. Sometimes it’s the couch, other times the kitchen, Suho pushing Sieun up on the counter, one hand on his knee and the other playing with his fingers. And Sieun doesn’t dislike them, these parties, he just doesn’t think they’re doing it right.

But none of that happens tonight. Instead of pulling Sieun by the wrist to an open seat, Suho breaks off almost immediately, spotting a group of guys Sieun doesn’t recognize in the back corner of the living room. He can’t bring himself to follow. Suho’s intention is clear.

So Sieun finds himself with Gotak and Juntae on the living room couch, listening to them talk to each other, to other people, to Sieun who only really nods. It’s not a very loud party, the music softer than expected. It’s a nice rock sound, the kind that gets people talking, that makes everyone feel a little closer. There’s a lot of people everywhere--leaning on walls, lingering in hallways, sitting on things they probably shouldn’t--but it doesn’t feel suffocating. Sieun can still breathe. And sure, it still sort of reeks of alcohol and sweat, but Sieun finds that it’s all too human for it to really matter. It’s surprisingly comfortable. Surprisingly nice.

Or it would be.

It would be, if Suho wasn’t ten feet away, leaning against the kitchen counter, laughing at someone Sieun can’t quite see. Baku sits next to him, downing a few more shots than he should, voice loud and unmistakable. He glances at Gotak who glances at Baku, their gazes never quite catching.

Suho doesn’t bother looking.

At some point, Suho’s passed a shot, which he takes, tilting his head back, exposing the line of his throat as it bobs, soju dripping down the side of his mouth and falling to his chin. Sieun watches him do it again, frowning at the face he makes. 

Suho doesn’t drink, not since the accident. But he’s drinking now. Sieun hates that he doesn’t know why.

“Sieunnie,” Juntae calls, drawing his attention, though Sieun lingers on Suho for just a moment. Juntae’s smiling sheepishly, but he seems concerned. “Are you alright?”

Sieun’s not sure how to answer that question with anything other than a nod. Juntae drops it, but it’s clear he’s unconvinced. 

At some point, Suho lightly slaps Baku’s knee and starts for the living room. For a split second, Sieun thinks he’s heading towards the couch. He even scooches a little closer to Gotak, making room for Suho on his left. Instead, he keeps to the far wall, grabbing the stair railing, and heading up. He doesn’t look at Sieun. Not once.

Gotak nudges Sieun lightly, snapping his eyes away from Suho’s retreating figure. He asks a silent question, one Sieun doesn’t answer. At least, he tries not to. Gotak seems to find one anyway.

“You should go talk to him,” Gotak says, leaning in slightly so Sieun can hear over the music.

“He doesn’t want to talk,” Sieun replies, curtly.

“So what? That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t,” Gotak says, shrugging. “Go, get answers. Isn’t that what we’re here for?”

He’s right. Sieun hates that he’s right. Fuck, when did Go Hyuntak start making so much sense?

Sieun’s off the couch faster than he should be, ignoring Juntae’s curiosity in favor of finding Suho. The stairs lead him to a hallway, and he spots Suho at the end of it, stepping into what looks like a bathroom just as another guy leaves it. Sieun waits for him to shuffle past, stumbling down the stairs, leaving Sieun alone with a closed door.

Sieun doesn’t give it much thought--he just opens it knowing it wouldn’t be locked. It never is.

And he finds Suho there, buckle undone, fly open, staring at Sieun with half a curse on his lips, eyes wide and so fucking confused. Sieun, unfazed, steps inside. He closes the door. He locks it.

“You need to stop leaving things unlocked,” Sieun says.

Suho scrambles. “What the hell, Sieun?” Suho says face flushed as he buckles back up. “Fix your fucking timing.”

Huh. That’s interesting. Suho’s never this flustered. Sieun expected a little teasing, maybe a smirk or two as he pushed against the bathroom sink. But right now, he seems genuinely thrown off and probably a little angry.

Sieun shrugs, unperturbed. “We haven’t talked all night.”

“And you couldn’t wait two minutes for me to take a piss?” Suho asked.

“No.”

Suho laughs, though it lacks any real humor, his tongue stuck in the side of his cheek. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sieun does it for him.

“How’s the party, Suho?” It’s a loaded question, and Suho startles under the weight of it.

“I don’t know, Sieun,” he replies, his grin more like a sneer. “We’re at the same one. What do you think?”

“I asked you.”

“Seriously, Sieun, does it really ma--”

“Just answer the question,” Sieun interrupts. “It’s not that hard.”

Suho’s jaw locks. The question lingers, clinging to the bathroom mirror, the locked door, the five feet of space between Sieun and Suho. He finds, for a moment, that they’re too far apart. He wishes Suho would move just a little bit closer. Just closer.

Suho cracks. “It’s fine,” he says.

“Just fine?”

Suho scoffs. “Fucking fantastic, boring as shit, just fine--I don’t know, it’s a party.”

Under the bathroom light, Suho’s cheeks burn a bright red. The color kisses his moles, seeping into skin, emboldened by his dark jacket. It’s hard to miss. No, it’s hard to ignore.

Sieun can’t help it. He says it.

“You’re drinking again.”

Suho doesn’t even flinch. “It’s nothing new.”

“Really?” Sieun deadpans. “Nothing new?”

“Come on, you know I drank before the--” he stops himself, gaze suddenly far, far away.

“Yeah, that was before.”

“And what? I’m different now?”

“Yes.”

Suho does that thing again where he laughs, all cold. It almost makes Sieun flinch. Almost. 

“There you go,” he says, with an air of inevitability. Sieun frowns unconsciously. “I mean, you always do this.”

He doesn’t sound particularly mad--it’s the kind of thing Suho does when he tries to act unbothered. It’d work on anyone other than Sieun, but he’s been reading Suho for far too long, this book littered with scribbled sentences pressed against margins and tabs sticking to printed paper. Except, Sieun’s found a few pages missing, torn out by familiar, calloused hands. They handed him this book, this embodiment of Suho, two years, ten months, and fourteen days ago. It’s strange, knowing there’s parts of himself Suho keeps crumbled in jean pockets. Or maybe torn to shreds. Or maybe all burned up.

Honestly, it pisses him off. Because Sieun’s given Suho everything. He let the soft pads of Suho’s fingers brush against his thin slip of paper, let him deconstruct every word, sanctify every page, until Sieun’s life somehow felt sacred. Suho took what Sieun wrote and made something new with it, molding it into something beautiful. He’s the extra set of eyes, the second opinion, the red pen embedded between black blocks of text, something seemingly permanent suddenly shifting into something else entirely.

And what does Sieun get? The jagged edges of torn paper sticking to smeared, faded ink.

But this is new. It’s fresh, staining his fingers, the pads of which press into page, stamping the print of it on paper. He’s a little scared to draw back, to see if it sticks. If it even matters.

So he keeps pushing.

“I always do what, Suho?” he says, leaning his back against the door. It’s a dare, probably. No, definitely--it almost always is. And, well, Suho’s never turned one down before. Why stop now?

“You know,” Suho says, waving his hand, “barge in.”

Sieun raises a brow, thrown off. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think?”

Fuck this. Seriously fuck this.

“I don’t know,” he replies, fists clenching, arms folding against his chest. “That’s what I’m trying to say. I don’t know.”

Suho falters, but for only a moment. “Then figure it out. I can’t always tell you.”

“You should,” he whispers. Maybe to himself. Maybe to Suho. Maybe to no one. They hear it anyway.

Suho sighs, nails practically digging into his cane as he leans his hip against the bathroom sink. His head tilts slightly to the side, a few stands of dark hair brushing the flush of his cheeks. “It’s a good party, Sieun-ah.” He sounds exasperated, like he’s at his limit.

Sieun swallows, the door knob digging in his back. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Sieun nods, pressing the knob deeper before pushing off. The steel is cool to the touch, and he hesitates before unlocking it, before twisting it, before pulling it open.

“Sorry,” he says, looking Suho in the eye. “For barging in.”

Suho sighs again, but doesn’t turn away. “Just knock next time.”

Sieun steps out, lingering outside the doorway. “And don’t forget to lock it,” Sieun says. “The door.”

“I will.”

The door shuts.

Sieun hears it all--the beat of the music, pulsing against the backdrop of voices from downstairs, which mingle with the shuffling of feet, the clinking of glasses, and warm laughter. Sieun lingers in that hallway for five, ten, fifteen, twenty seconds.

There’s no click.

He walks away.

In the five minutes Sieun spent upstairs, Gotak and Juntae left their spot on the couch. Sieun glances around the room, finding no familiar faces, and sighs. He checks a few others, including the kitchen, all filled with people he’s never bothered to remember even though a few call out to him, patting his back, shooting him a smile. He figures they might be outside, so he steps out on the back porch, one that sits a few feet off solid ground. There’s a crowd gathered around a fire pit in the backyard, so Sieun moves towards the porch stairs, only to be pulled abruptly aside by a steady, strong set of hands.

“Yah, Yeon Sieun!” Baku shouts, a drink in hand. His cheeks are warm and red under flickering firelight, and he leans against both Sieun and the porch railing for support. “Where’ve you been?”

Sieun squirms under the weight of Baku’s arm, which has crawled across his upper back and rests on his other shoulder. “In the living room. You saw us.”

“What? No way!”

“You kept looking over,” Sieun says, bluntly.

Baku waves his other hand dismissively, almost spilling his drink all over Sieun’s shirt. “Just making sure you guys were having a good time.”

Someone comes through the back door, ruffling Baku’s hair, exchanging a few words Sieun doesn’t bother retaining. He tries to pull away, but Baku’s got a good grip on his shoulder, keeping him trapped in his loaded embrace.

The conversation is brief, and Baku is quick to turn back to Sieun, taking a long sip of whatever sits in his cup, one that stains a faint red ring around his lips. He sets the cup down on the porch railing and points a finger at Sieun’s chest.

“You--You’re a good guy, princess,” Baku says, nodding. “Yeah, you’re good.”

Sieun’s brow furrows. “Okay?”

“No, no, no, no,” Baku says, slurring slightly. “You don’t get it. You’re good.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“You’re good,” he repeats. “Gogo… he needs good.”

Oh.

“And you’re… you’ve always been good, and he really needs good, so you guys--” he hesitates, frowning unconsciously, before spitting it out-- “you guys are good.”

Sieun isn’t heartless. Critical? Sure. Calculated? Definitely. But heartless? Not really. Maybe before Suho when nothing and no one really mattered, but Suho never liked when Sieun said stuff like that.

(“I don’t like it,” Sieun used to say. “All that feeling.”

And Suho would scoff, shoving Sieun slightly with his shoulder. “Doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.”)

So he feels for Baku, he really does. He lets the guilt stick between teeth, lets his tongue push it to the back of his throat, lets it settle at the bottom of his stomach. And a selfish part revels in the reminder that he’s capable of compassion, of empathy, of feeling for people other than himself.

(“You bear the weight, Sieun-ah.”

“Of what?”

“Of everyone.”

“I don’t feel it.”

“No. You’ve learned to live with it.”)

And another part hates himself. He hates himself for all of it. He’s undeserving of this kind of human experience. It’s so much easier to study it, collect it all like data, every person simply a statistic, something explainable by observation, by experimentation. Living it is a luxury, something Sieun’s never earned.

(“You’ve got too much of it. That’s why you think you can’t feel it. You’ve got too much of it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I do.”

“And you know me best?”

“And I know you best.”)

And it’s fucking ridiculous--all of it completely absurd. Henry Fielding finds the true ridiculous in affectation, a collection of hypocrisy and vanity, which he litters in his novels, creating a spectacle of his own creations. Yeon Sieun then becomes Joseph Andrews or Abraham Adams or any kind of character created for the sole purpose of consistent, persistent ridicule. Sieun’s fake dating a man who’s been in love since he was four feet tall all because his best friend, recently woken from a nearly years long coma, could possibly be in love with him, but he just left him holding his piss in the upstairs bathroom while his fake boyfriend’s soulmate drunkenly gives his blessing with that dumb, sticky, red-fucking-ring around his lips. And he’s still going. He never really stopped.

“You’re good and Gogo’s good and I’m just… I’m just bad. I’m a bad person, princess. I was never good like you, never good like Gogo--” For the first time in Sieun’s life, he feels the sudden need to take a shot everytime he hears that dumbass word. He almost laughs at it, the idea that he could be “good.” That Baku could be “bad.” But Sieun understands--he knows what kind of sour soil this self-loathing stems from. Sieun and Baku have always been scarily similar.

“No,” Sieun says, grabbing Baku’s hand, which found its way to Sieun’s chest.

Baku frowns, brows pinched. “What? What’d you say?”

“I said ‘no,’” Sieun repeats.

“Princess, you don’t get it--”

“Trust me,” Sieun interrupts, holding his gaze. The music blows by, suddenly quiet. No, suddenly distant. “I do.”

It’s not much, and Sieun’s not entirely sure what’s happening, the music barrelling back between them, pushing them apart. Baku drops his arm and clings to the railing, staring at the contents of his cup like they have all the answers.

“Sorry,” Baku mutters, almost like he didn’t mean to say it. 

“Don’t be,” Sieun says. “You’re good.”

Baku pulls away after that, his pensive expression replaced with a half-hearted grin as they lead him down the porch stairs. Sieun takes a second before following, the heat slowly licking at his jaw, the light dancing off hidden faces and unnamed bodies. He spots Juntae and Gotak, who wave him over to a collection of assorted furniture sitting lazily by the bonfire--lawn chairs, loveseats, even an old, peeling, leather couch. Juntae’s got a desk chair pulled next to Gotak’s dark brown recliner, and they’re sitting so close to the growing flame that Sieun starts to sweat.

“This feels like a fire hazard,” Sieun says.

Juntae laughs. “I think it’s nice!”

“Doesn’t make it any less dangerous.”

“Oh, come on, sit down,” Gotak says, motioning him over. He tries to scoot over, pressing his hip against the side of the chair, but there still isn’t enough room for Sieun to adequately sit. Now, a real boyfriend wouldn’t mind. The heat, the pressing of bodies and bone, none of it would matter. But it’s all a little… it’s all a little much. The porch, the bathroom, this party.

Kissing Gotak.

It wasn’t that long ago--maybe an hour or two at most. And yet Sieun regards it the same way he would a good grade. It’s something that should matter but really doesn’t. At least, not in the way it should.

And it wasn’t his first time. There was a boy in elementary school, one who liked to draw numbers in the dirt with his finger during recess. They were seven, sitting close to the fence, far from the other children. The boy was writing big numbers, up to the triple digits, and Sieun would add them together, soil sticking beneath his finger nail. And the boy would kiss him every time he got it right. On the hand, the nose, the cheek, the mouth. It was nice, maybe. Sieun can’t remember much--his face, his name, they elude him. He moved soon after.

And there was a girl in middle school who liked to think they dated. She sat with him, ate with him, walked with him after school. Sieun let her because it was easier than fighting it, so they coexisted. And it was fine. They were both top of the class, both kept to themselves, both never talked much, even to each other. But she kissed him one day, pulling him into an empty classroom, standing on her toes, kissing him with hands behind her back. It didn’t feel like anything. Not to him or her.

His kiss with Gotak, it felt like that--nothing more than the press of two lips. Skin touching skin. It wasn’t groundbreaking or revolutionary or any other synonym he could find in a thesaurus. It doesn’t mean much. It felt empty.

Sieun bites his lip, slightly chapped by the remnants of spring. He pulls the skin between teeth until the taste of blood settles on his tongue. A part of him wants to feel more, wonders why he can’t. The other understands why he doesn’t.

Someone throws a few large logs in the bonfire, the flame stretching higher and higher, the heat beat against his back. It pushes him forward, leading Sieun to the arm of the recliner. He slides on, leaning against the back of the chair, and propping his right leg next to Gotak, who wraps an arm around his calf. A compromise.

The cracking of fire mingles with the clicking and buzzing of bugs pinned against the backdrop of smooth electric guitar and conversation. Bathed in firelight, every face seems to blend together, creating an amorphous body of blood and bone dripping with fruit-flavored soju and cigarette smoke. Yet, among this sea of people sits Suho, clearly defined by the shape of his shoulders, the line of his jaw, the curl of his lips. He’s sitting on that old, leather couch, fire kissing his flushed cheeks, casting his body in a golden glow. Sieun swallows, biting his lip again, drawing even more blood, which floods his mouth, dancing with a pool of saliva. It makes him nauseous, tugging at something deep in his gut, so he turns away, back to Gotak, who’s just as entranced by Suho--no, it’s Baku standing behind the couch, his hands on either side of Suho’s shoulders, both of them laughing at another joke they can’t hear with a person who’s face they don’t know and god, Sieun really hates parties.

The fire rages.

He catches Suho’s eye in that moment, and it feels like a held out hand, the fingers of which brush against his arm, his chest, his neck, his jaw, his lips. But it doesn’t last. Suho pulls it back. He looks away.

The fire slowly starts to settle.

Sieun wakes up with his nose pressed against the 132nd page of his book, a bit of drool slightly smearing the ink of his pen in the margins. The paper sticks to cheek, slowly peeling off when he starts to sit up. He rubs his aching neck as the pain slithers down his back. It’s been a while since he’s done this. Usually Suho makes sure he’s in bed.

It’s almost eight, so Sieun stands, heading to the bathroom. He goes through the motions--doing his business, brushing his teeth, taking his vitamins, letting the warm water wash away the dirt from his skin. It’s the same every day. But his body aches.

He gets dressed with his back to the mirror and imagines a blooming bruise stretching the length of it, hugging his spine and painting it a deep, solemn purple. He throws on a sweater, but he’s sure it peeks through the yarn.

The apartment is silent, almost desolate, the only sign of life coming from the sun dancing between curtains. Usually it’s Suho pulling them back, letting the light cover the living room. But he’s not up yet, so Sieun does it for him. He leaves the kitchen lights off, staring at the stove and the open fridge. Usually it’s Suho cooking breakfast, watching Sieun eat his food over the kitchen counter. But he’s not up yet, so Sieun does it for him. He makes two plates of food, putting one in the fridge and the other on the counter. When he’s done, Sieun stares at his plate and the sink. Usually it’s Suho cleaning up, soaking the front of his shirt with soap suds and dirty sink water. But he’s not up yet, so Sieun does it for him. He stares at the plate sitting on the drying rack, stares at the stove, the fridge, the light in the living room. Suho isn’t up yet.

Sieun retreats to his room, not bothering to shut his door. He tries to sit at his desk but stops himself, letting his hand linger on the book’s hardcover. He taps his finger once, twice, a third time before tucking it in his elbow. He grabs a pen, a couple highlighters, and his sticky tabs before heading to the living room and settling on the couch.

He stays like that for maybe two hours, glancing between his book and Suho’s door. He loses himself somewhere in-between, blending his reality with Mrs. Dalloway’s.

“Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.”

He feels it, his creator’s precision, inside him--his bones carefully carved, meticulously clean, far too fine for his heavy body. This sack of meat stains its skeletal frame, too delicate to hold such a skin. For these bones, quintessentially beautiful and positively perfect, can only catch an eye. They don’t do much else. Not with how brittle the bone, cracking and twisting and grinding against each other, aching so deeply that no amount of clawing or cutting or digging would satisfy it.

Sieun is a creature of habit. It fills his hollowed bone with thick marrow, keeping him tied to what’s expected of him. But it’d be easy, breaking these brittle bones. He’d dig through the marrow with his finger, let it pool at his feet, drip down his wrist, sit on his tongue. He’d consume what’s left until it’s licked clean. Maybe then he’d stuff it with something stronger. Maybe then will this flesh fit fashioned to his frame. Maybe then he’d feel no ache.

“It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.”

And it was, for a while. Sixteen years he spent listless, drifting aimlessly in salted sea, letting the waves of which beat against his back, smack against his face, press against his lungs until he stopped breathing. Nothing really matters that far out, only two truths: the sea and the sky.

Meaning comes from matter--solid, liquid, gas; body, sea, sky. The cultivation of everything in this Universe relies on matter, on mattering, on things that matter. Without the atoms, nothing matters. And without matter, there is no meaning.

But what matters to Yeon Sieun? Not his father. Not his mother. Not himself. They aren’t bonded; they share nothing and take nothing. They aren’t protons pressed against neutrons, orbited by electrons, cosmically tied together. There’s none of that. They don’t matter.

Certainly not his grades. They’re an imagined, universally established abstraction that isn’t tangible. It is no solid, no liquid, no gas. There is no matter.

So nothing matters, not really. Therefore, there is no meaning, not really.

(Except for… maybe…)

“To love makes one solitary.”

Sieun tried it for maybe the first eight years of his life. But he found love so indescribably isolating that he couldn’t help falling out of it. It’s the kind of flame that only shows how dark it is. He saw himself, alone, with no one left willing to light their own match, shrouded in never-ending darkness. Best to put it out lest he choke on soot and smoke.

But lately, there’s something catching just ahead, a flicker he can’t quite place. And it’s warm, even from here, so fucking far away, and he doesn’t know when his feet started moving, but he’s running now, his flame flicking with the wind, catching on cloth, burning his skin a bright red, and--

“The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames.”

The smell of burning wood against the cackling fire, mingling with indistinct mumblings from passersby lingering by this open flame, this tantamount of undefined fury. Not rage, necessarily, but something raging, an uncontrollable consumption that covers Suho in flickering firelight, burning his body as it creeps closer to Sieun sitting on his own kind of kindling. They’re connected by a thin trail of gasoline, and there’s maybe three seconds before Sieun’s caught in it. This fury. This rage. This open flame.

“It is a thousand pities never to say what one feels.”

And there’s that ring again--that bright, red ring around lips. Sieun, you’re good. A joke. Sieun, you feel. A joke. Sieun, I know you best. A joke. It’s two truths and a fucking lie, but he can’t tell which is which.

There’s too much noise, the low bass beat bouncing off the living room walls, muffled by laughter and chatter, by flushing toilets and cackling firelight. Smoke slowly seeps inside, and he coughs, clutching his book, eyes flooding with unshed tears. And something’s rotting in the fridge; it’s acrid, pungent smell makes him want to puke, the bile pooling in his mouth, drowning his tastebuds in stomach acid. His thumb is caught on the edge of page 200, slicing his skin open, staining the paper in crimson color. But the pain is nothing compared to the beating of his back, aching against the featherlight sweater pressed against the plum-colored bruise. He can’t quite read what Woolf is saying, not when the printed ink practically pops off the page, jumping from the edge of the book to hardwood floor and slipping under Suho’s closed bedroom door. Fuck, what is wrong with him? He can’t keep up, not like this, his systems overloading with data, a spamming of botted stimuli, requesting the same input, asking the same question over and over and over.

He needs one more minute. Maybe two. Anything for a system reboot. Anything for numbness. Sieun… he’s a creature of habit. It’ll all feel the same, soon.

Except, Suho never really does, not really. He’s not the sort of person you get used to. And it’d be a shame if he were. There’s too much in that man for someone to get numb with him, too much left to dig for someone to grow terribly bored. He makes a person want to keep feeling. Overstimulation is a long-sought out pleasure under the right circumstances.

So Sieun lets the low bass of last night’s party beat against his skull, lets the smoke mingle with rotting meat, lets the vomit settle on his tongue, lets the bruise bloom on his back, lets Woolf’s words wander over to Suho’s open door--

Huh. When did that happen?

Suho stumbles slightly, leaning against his door frame. His sweat-slicked hair sticks to his forehead, and his skin’s a bit pale, almost sickly. He hasn’t seen Suho like this in a very long time--not since his recovery, when he felt more like a corpse than a living, breathing body.

They sort of stare at each other, Sieun’s eyes trailing Suho’s, for a moment or two. It’s uncertain, and for the first time in a long time, Sieun suspects Suho has not a clue what to think of him.

Suho takes a shaky step back, holds a hand to his mouth, and tears himself away, pitching towards the bathroom. Sieun hears him vomit violently, and he sighs, letting his lips slip into a small smile. He marks his page, setting the book down on the coffee table as he heads to the open bedroom door. He only hopes Suho didn’t miss.

Fortunately, Sieun finds him hugging the toilet bowl, knees digging into bathroom tile in desperate worship. Sieun lifts the seat up right before he pukes again, and he rubs at Suho’s back lightly with his palm. He eases him through it, not minding the pungency. When Suho spits up his third round of stomach acid, Sieun grabs the toilet paper roll off its hook, dabbing the puke off Suho’s chin and the side of his neck. He looks absolutely miserable, and Sieun ridiculously smiles.

“Three years is a long time without a drink, Suho-yah,” he says.

He groans, smacking Sieun lazily with the back of his hand. “Shut up,” he says before turning back to the bowl and puking again.

Sieun runs a hand through his hair.

It’ll be okay.

Sieun is suddenly startled from his book by a plate set against the mahogany table. Suho taps against the side of it, grinning slightly as he takes his seat across from Sieun. His other hand curls around his cup of hot chocolate, which he sips playfully while Sieun studies the slice of lemon cake in-between them.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Sieun says.

Suho shrugs. “You didn’t have to.”

There’s really no arguing with him. He’s got a weird thing with food--Suho’s always liked watching him eat. It’s unfortunately amusing, so Sieun tends to indulge him. Today is no different.

The cake itself is nothing special, the same kind of citrus sensation he’s used to, but it slides down his throat nicely and settles sweetly. Suho smiles at his satisfaction.

He moves to take another bite and finds no other fork on the plate. Sieun hesitates, frowning, before excusing himself and grabbing another one at the front counter. He hands it to Suho as he sits.

“You don’t want some?” Sieun asks, holding the fork between them.

Suho blinks. “The cake’s for you.”

Sieun rolls his eyes. “I won’t eat it all.”

Suho laughs, pressing his tongue to cheek. He grabs the fork and puts about a third of the slice in his mouth. “Happy now?” he says, mouth full of food.

Sieun stares, unimpressed.

It takes a while for Suho to swallow, and he starts tapping at Sieun’s book with his finger before he does. He opens his still-food-filled mouth, but Sieun beats him to it.

“It’s Mrs. Dalloway,” Sieun explains, turning the book around. “Virginia Woolf. And don’t talk when you’re eating, it’s gross.”

Suho holds up a thumbs up and a thumbs down. Sieun grabs his hand and moves it back up. Suho smiles, swallowing the rest of his food.

“It’s good, then?” he asks.

Sieun considers this. “It’s something worth reading.”

“Can I read it?” he asks. “After you? I like the little notes you leave.”

“Of course,” Sieun says. “I’m almost finished.”

They let the cafe music drift between them for a minute or two, but the elephant in the room is getting harder and harder to ignore, especially when it slips its trunk in the last bite of lemon cake.

Sieun sets his fork down on the empty plate, drawing Suho’s attention. They both stare at it instead of looking at each other.

“Thank you,” Suho says, suddenly. He starts tapping his fingers against the counter incessantly. “For yesterday.”

“You weren’t feeling well.”

“And you took--” he pauses, reconsidering. “You helped. I mean, you went all halmonei on me. It was a little funny.” He chuckles nervously.

“It was nothing,” Sieun insists, though he doesn’t know why. “Baku and Gotak get hangovers all the time.”

Suho’s fingers stop at the edge of the table, and he tenses slightly. Sieun blinks, thrown off.

“Ah, I see,” he says, darkly.

Sieun feels his throat burn, and he holds himself back from adjusting his collar, which presses too harshly against his neck. The atmosphere’s shifted, and Sieun silently scrambles. “It’s the least I could do after the party.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, apparently, for Suho’’s jaw locks, and he leans back in his chair, hands in his coat pockets. “The party?” he asks.

Sieun feels himself growing angry. “The bathroom, Suho-yah.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, blandly. “I mean, you were right. I puked up your win.”

“It wasn’t about that.”

“It wasn’t?”

“My point may have been more clear with more time,” he emphasized. “Except someone was evidently unwilling to give it.”

This made Suho pause, mulling it over. His shoulders drop after some deliberation, and Sieun finds himself able to breathe again.

“I’m sorry,” Suho says, only a little reluctant. “I didn’t mean to av--”

“It’s fine,” Sieun interjects. “You’re not obligated--”

“Yeah,” Suho tries again, “but I shouldn’t have just--”

“--to me anymore.” Suho stops, taken aback, and it hits Sieun suddenly just what he said. He moves to take it back, but he can’t bring himself to, not yet.

Surprisingly, Suho doesn’t get angry. No, he grows strictly serious, leaning forward, his hands brushing Sieun’s, coaxing them closer. His thumb plays with the back of his hand, his fingers pulling at Sieun’s until they can dance on his opened palm.

“I should be,” he says, staring at the circles he draws on Sieun’s palm. Then, he looks up, grabbing his gaze, and says, again, “I should be.”

Sieun feels unusually warm, fire raging in the creases of his palm, spreading quickly to his face, flush with that same undefined rage he saw at that bonfire. Suho’s arrogance knows no bounds, and Sieun can’t help but feel anger at his boldness. He wants to grab Suho by his hoodie and throw him on the ground. He wants to feel the rapid beating of his heart under the very palm he plays with. He wants to fucking punch him, maybe leave something ever-lasting on the face of such a prideful person whose self-assuredness only succeeds in pissing Sieun off. 

But he can’t bring himself to pull away.

It doesn’t make any sense, not really. Gotak calls, but he lets it ring, the sound bouncing between their bodies. Suho smirks when it ends, his touch teasing as he presses a nail in calloused skin.

“What does the brain matter compared with the heart?”

Sieun has no answer.