Chapter Text
The alarm wasn’t just an alarm. It was an act of personal, profound violence.
It was a 10:00 AM alarm, which, in Byun Baekhyun’s world, was functionally the same as 4:00 AM. It was set to the most obnoxious, screeching digital file he could find—something that sounded like a seagull being fed through a woodchipper—on the principle that if he was going to be forced into consciousness, it should at least be an honest representation of the pain it was causing him.
He slammed his hand on the phone, missing it twice before connecting with a dull, unsatisfying thwack.
Silence. Blessed, beautiful silence.
He was instantly, mercifully, asleep again.
A pillow connected with his face. Hard.
“Get up, you degenerate,” a voice called from across the room. “You’re going to be late. Again.”
Baekhyun groaned, pulling the pillow over his head. It smelled like stale beer and, faintly, like the sausage pizza he’d consumed at 3:17 AM. “It’s a victimless crime, Jongin. Let me die.”
“It’s not victimless. I’m the victim. Your alarm has been going off every nine minutes for the last hour. I have to listen to that digital seagull murder. It’s haunting me.”
Baekhyun cracked one eye open. The room was aggressively bright, the late morning sun mocking him by existing. His side of the dorm room looked like a recording studio had thrown up on a laundromat. Vinyls were stacked in precarious towers, empty mugs littered his desk, and a formidable mountain of clothes obscured what he vaguely remembered was a chair.
Across the room, Kim Jongin’s side was immaculate. His bed was made. His textbooks were stacked at perfect right angles. He was already dressed in offensively clean jeans and a black sweater, pulling on a pair of boots.
“What time is it?” Baekhyun mumbled, his tongue thick with a radio-hangover. It was a specific kind of exhaustion, born not from alcohol—though that was certainly a contributing factor—but from the adrenaline crash that came after three straight hours of screaming into a microphone.
“It’s 10:48. Taeyeon’s class starts in twelve minutes.”
Baekhyun didn't just sit up; he materialized into a vertical position, propelled by a jolt of pure, undiluted panic.
“Shit. Shit. Twelve minutes?”
“Twelve minutes, and you’re on the other side of campus. And you smell like a brewery floor.”
“Why didn’t you wake me up?!” Baekhyun yelled, scrambling out of his duvet, which was twisted around his legs like an anaconda. He was wearing mismatched socks and a pair of boxers.
“I tried!” Jongin retorted, grabbing his bag. “At 9:30. And at 10:00. And at 10:30. At 10:40, I considered waterboarding, but Kyungsoo says I need to respect your autonomy, even if it’s self-destructive.”
“Kyungsoo’s a bad influence,” Baekhyun grumbled, snagging the nearest pair of jeans off the mountain. He gave them a cursory sniff. They weren’t good, but they weren't actively hostile. He pulled them on, hopping on one foot as he searched for a shirt.
“He’s the only reason you’re still registered for this semester. He remotely paid your tuition bill, remember?”
“Details, details.” Baekhyun found a wrinkled black t-shirt and yanked it over his head. He ran his hands through his hair, a messy, faded-blond nest that defied all attempts at taming. He glanced in the cracked mirror over his desk. His eyes were bloodshot, underscored by dark circles that were less "tired student" and more "Byronic hero dying of consumption."
He loved it.
“Did you, uh, happen to catch the show last night?” Baekhyun asked, shoving his feet into a pair of worn-out sneakers, not bothering with the laces.
Jongin paused at the door, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Oh, I caught it. The segment on ‘Accidental Confessions in the Library Stacks’? Genius.”
Baekhyun beamed, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten. “Right? And the call-in from ‘Insomniac-in-Accounting’ about his professor’s terrible toupee? That’s real journalism, Kim.”
“I’m sure Park Chanyeol would agree.”
The name hit Baekhyun like a spray bottle of ice water. His good mood vanished, replaced by a familiar, acidic irritation.
“Ugh. Don’t summon him. Don’t even speak his name before noon. It’s bad luck.”
“He’s just a guy, Baek. A very tall, very successful, very popular guy who probably showers twice a day.”
“He’s a menace,” Baekhyun snapped, grabbing his laptop and shoving it into a thin canvas bag. “He’s a corporate shill in a university student’s body. He’s the human equivalent of a stock photo of a smiling person holding a salad. He’s fake.”
Jongin just sighed, fondness and exasperation warring on his face. “Whatever you say. Just hurry up. I’ll see you there, probably halfway through the lecture. Try not to trip on the main quad.”
Jongin left, the door clicking shut with an air of finality.
“10:51,” Baekhyun muttered, grabbing his keys and a half-empty bottle of water. He chugged the warm, flat water and winced.
He slammed his door open and sprinted into the hallway, a chaotic blur of black cotton and bad decisions.
The run across campus was Baekhyun's least favorite daily ritual. It was here, in the harsh, unforgiving sunlight, that he was forced to interact with the world he so actively avoided. The campus was beautiful, all old brick buildings and manicured lawns, populated by students who looked bright-eyed and disgustingly well-rested. They were talking about midterms, about football games, about their internships at prestigious firms.
Baekhyun felt like a vampire who had overslept.
This was Park Chanyeol’s world. This was the daylight kingdom.
Baekhyun’s world didn’t start until 11:59 PM.
His show, After Party, was his pride, his joy, and his entire identity. It was the 12:00 AM to 3:00 AM slot on the university’s FM station, a graveyard shift he had personally resurrected and turned into a cult phenomenon. The station, funded by the communications department, had two main factions: the daytime programming and the night crew.
The daytime was Chanyeol. His show, Daytime Gossip (a laughably wholesome title), was exactly what it sounded like. Interviews with popular professors, announcements about campus charity drives, profiles on the star quarterback. It was professional. It was bubbly. It was, as the prompt for it demanded, "journalistic." Baekhyun had heard it once, by accident, and had almost driven his car off the road. Chanyeol’s voice—that deep, smooth, infuriatingly perfect baritone—was like an auditory anesthetic. It was a voice designed to sell luxury cars and life insurance. A voice that had never, not once, said a four-letter word in its life.
Then, there was After Party.
Baekhyun’s show was the university’s id. It was a three-hour explosion of chaotic energy, loud and obscure indie-punk, and brutally honest advice. Listeners called in anonymously, their voices distorted, to confess their secrets. “I’m failing chemistry and I’m in love with my TA.” “I think my roommate is stealing my socks.” “I’m terrified I picked the wrong major and I’ve wasted my parents’ money.”
Baekhyun, as the host, was a sarcastic, egotistical gremlin-king. He chain-drank energy drinks, played music way too loud, and gave advice that was equal parts terrible and profound.
“So you’re in love with your TA? Get in line. But also, you’re not failing chemistry, chemistry is failing YOU. It’s a boring science. Drop it and become a philosophy major. Be poor, but interesting.”
It was a performance, of course. The sarcasm was a shield, the ego a fortress built to hide the sprawling, messy insecurity that he was just a kid from a small town who felt hopelessly out of his depth. But the energy was real. The honesty was real. He was providing a service for the other weirdos, the insomniacs, the kids who, like him, felt the crushing pressure of the university’s daytime perfection.
He hated Chanyeol because Chanyeol was that perfection. He was the effortless golden boy, the department favorite, the one who always had the right answer, the polished script, the perfect hair. He was the antithesis of everything After Party stood for. Their rivalry was unspoken but deeply felt, at least by Baekhyun. It was Chaos vs. Order. Anarchy vs. The Establishment.
Real vs. Fake.
He skidded around the corner of the Communications building, yanking on the heavy oak door, and burst into the lecture hall at 10:59 AM.
On the dot. But not really.
The hall was silent.
Professor Kim Taeyeon was standing at the front of the room, mid-sentence. She was a small woman with an impossibly calm demeanor, a former network producer who had traded the fast lane for academia, and she commanded more respect than any other professor in the department. She didn't yell. She didn't scold. She just... stopped.
One hundred pairs of eyes swiveled to Baekhyun, who was currently panting in the doorway, his bag hanging off one shoulder.
Taeyeon’s gaze, cool and appraising, landed on him. She didn’t tap her watch. She didn’t sigh. She just waited, letting the full, agonizing weight of his tardiness settle over the room. It was a thousand times more effective than any detention.
“Mr. Byun,” she said, her voice quiet but carrying perfectly to the back row. “How kind of you to join us. I trust the party was a success?”
A few students snickered. Baekhyun’s face burned. He hated that she knew about his show. He also craved her approval more than he’d ever admit.
“It was, Professor,” he managed, trying for casual and landing somewhere near 'flustered child.'
“Wonderful. Perhaps you can channel that energy into arriving on time for your 11:00 AM class. Which, I’ll remind you, is this one.”
He ducked his head. “Yes, Professor. Sorry, Professor.”
He scuttled up the aisle, collapsing into the empty seat beside Jongin, who shot him a look that said, "I told you so."
“As I was saying,” Taeyeon continued, turning back to the room as if the interruption had never happened, “your grade for this class, 'Live Media Production,' is not based on exams. It is based on one, single, semester-long project. This entire class will be responsible for producing the university's annual live-broadcast charity fundraiser for the Children's Fund.
“It will be held in the main atrium six weeks from today. You will be broken into pairs, and each pair will be assigned a core component.”
A nervous murmur rippled through the room. Baekhyun’s blood ran cold. Sixty percent? A group project? He was doomed. He was a lone wolf, a solo act. He didn't do group projects.
“Some of you will handle logistics and vendor management,” Taeyeon said, her voice cutting through the chatter. “Some will run the digital promotion and social media. Others will produce the pre-recorded interview segments. And one pair..."
She paused, letting the words hang. Her eyes scanned the room, and for a second, Baekhyun felt like he was in a predator's sights.
"...one pair will be the public face of the event. You will be the live hosts for the entire six-hour broadcast.”
Ooh, a new murmur went through the room. That was the 'A' grade. That was the high-risk, high-reward assignment. That was the job everyone—and no one—wanted.
“Quiet,” Taeyeon called out. The room silenced.
“Did you think I would let you choose?” she asked, a hint of steel in her voice. “That is not how the industry works. You do not get to choose your co-anchor. You do not get to choose your producer. You are assigned, and you make it work. The pairs—and your assigned roles—have already been selected. By me. I have assigned you based on what I believe will create the most... effective product. Or, at the very least, the most instructive experience.”
She picked up a tablet from her lectern. “When I call your names, please find your partner. You have the rest of the class to begin your initial concept planning.”
Please God, not a morning person, Baekhyun prayed, squeezing his eyes shut. Don’t give me a Type-A. Don’t give me a "let's start a Google Doc" person. Give me someone as lazy as I am. Give me someone I can bully into doing all the work.
“Son Seungwan and Bae Joohyun... you’ll be handling talent logistics.”
“Kim Seokjin and Jung Hoseok... you’re on social media promotion.”
“Kim Jongin…”
Baekhyun watched as Jongin visibly perked up.
“...and Do Kyungsoo. You two are producing the pre-recorded segments.”
Jongin beamed, grabbing his bag. Kyungsoo didn't even look up, but a tiny smile touched his lips. Traitor.
Baekhyun was left alone in his row.
Taeyeon kept reading. The names blurred. He didn't know half these people. They were all daytime kids, the ones who showed up to class with highlighter-coded notes. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back. There were only a few names left.
He scanned the room. His eyes snagged, against his will, on the front row.
There he was.
Park Chanyeol.
He was sitting with perfect posture, of course. His notes were taken in a crisp, clean Muji notebook. His hair, dark and artfully wavy, looked like it had been styled by professionals, not slept on. He was wearing a university-crested polo shirt. A polo shirt.
Baekhyun felt a wave of profound, almost spiritual disgust.
Anyone but him. Literally anyone. Give me the mouth-breather in the back row. Give me the girl who won't stop live-tweeting the lecture. Anyone but Park Chanyeol.
“And finally,” Professor Taeyeon said, looking up from her tablet. Her eyes seemed to find Baekhyun’s in the crowd. He was sure he was imagining it. “For the coveted role of live hosts... the pair that I believe will produce the most... interesting results.”
Baekhyun’s heart didn’t just stop. It seized, died, and fell into his stomach. That was the exact same intonation she’d used in his freshman year when she paired the university’s biggest socialist with the president of the Young Republicans club for a debate.
No. No. No. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. She knows our shows. She knows we’re...
Oil and water.
Fire and ice.
A dumpster fire and a botanical garden.
Professor Taeyeon took a small, deliberate breath.
“Byun Baekhyun…”
He stopped breathing. The entire room felt like it had been vacuum-sealed. He could hear the hum of the projector.
"...and Park Chanyeol."
It wasn't loud. There wasn't a gasp. It was a quiet, insidious ripple of “Ooooooh.” The sound of a hundred people realizing they were about to witness a train wreck in slow motion.
Jongin, halfway across the room, turned to look at Baekhyun with an expression of such profound, comical pity that it would have been funny on any other day.
Today, it was just salt in the wound.
Baekhyun couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He just stared.
Slowly, as if controlled by some invisible, malevolent pulley system, he forced his head to turn toward the front row.
Park Chanyeol had turned around in his seat.
He wasn't smiling. He wasn't scowling. His face was a mask of perfect, professional, infuriating neutrality. He looked at Baekhyun—at his wrinkled t-shirt, his sleep-ravaged hair, his aura of general disaster—and he gave a single, small, polite nod.
It was the nod of a man accepting a package he hadn't ordered.
The bell rang, a deafening, shrill sound that signaled the end of the class and the beginning of Baekhyun's personal hell.
“Find your partners! I want a one-page preliminary concept memo by Monday!” Taeyeon called out over the scrape of chairs and the chatter of students.
The room emptied out around Baekhyun. Jongin gave him one last "good luck, you're dead" look before disappearing with Kyungsoo.
Baekhyun remained frozen in his seat.
The semester was over. His 60% was gone. His life was a joke, and Professor Taeyeon had just delivered the punchline.
He was partnered with Park Chanyeol.