Chapter Text
Martin heard the name Kim Juhoon before he ever saw the boy himself.
That was how CORTIS High worked — stories traveled faster than people.
Once a rumor stuck to someone, it followed them like a shadow.
Juhoon's off his meds again.
He punched a teacher last semester.
He used to be top of his class, before he... you know.
Half-whispers, half-theatrics, none of it reliable.
Martin had learned to ignore hallway talk, but even he noticed something different about the way people said Juhoon.
Like the name tasted heavier on their tongues.
He didn't see the boy in question until the first Tuesday of spring semester.
Juhoon was leaning against the back wall of the courtyard, one leg pulled up, the other stretched out.
A cigarette was tucked behind his ear but unlit — more accessory than threat.
His uniform jacket hung off one shoulder like he'd worn it the wrong way on purpose.
Students walked around him, not out of fear exactly, but out of uncertainty.
Like they didn't know the rules with him.
Like one wrong move might set something off.
But when a breeze swept through and pushed his hair across his eyes, Martin noticed something small, something not in any rumor:
Juhoon didn't look angry.
He just looked... tired.
Not the "I stayed up too late" kind.
The deeper kind. The kind that sinks into bones.
~~
Homeroom was loud in that fake, early-morning way — chairs scraping, forced laughter, too much talking for 8 a.m.
Martin dropped into his seat as his friend, Taejun, leaned over dramatically.
"Bro, you're about to witness history," he whispered. "Juhoon's joining our class."
Martin flipped open his notebook. "The guy everyone keeps talking about?"
"Yeah. He's like... chaos personified. Comes and goes whenever he wants. Teachers gave up months ago."
Martin just hummed, noncommittal.
People always loved creating characters out of other people's lives.
When the door slid open, the chatter sputtered out.
Juhoon stepped inside.
Hands in pockets. Eyes somewhere past the back wall. Body language set to "don't bother."
He wasn't intimidating.
He wasn't dramatic.
He was just... closed off.
The teacher smoothed her skirt and tried for authority.
"Class, this is Kim Juhoon. He'll be with us from now on."
People murmured — not quietly enough.
Juhoon ignored it all, taking the empty seat by the window.
He slid his backpack down and immediately focused on something inside it, tapping a pen against his thigh in a steady, too-quick rhythm.
Martin watched him for an extra second.
Ink-stained fingertips.
Torn bag strap.
A restless knee bouncing like it was wired to something unseen.
He didn't look like a delinquent.
He looked like someone trying very hard to stay in his own head.
~~
By lunch, the entire school had decided they were experts on him.
"He's bipolar."
"He got suspended twice."
"My cousin said he was hospitalized."
"I heard he almost burned down his house."
Martin poked at his sandwich, only half listening.
The rumors were getting more dramatic by the minute.
He glanced across the courtyard again.
Juhoon was sitting alone under the staircase, knees drawn close, hunched over a small notebook.
No lunch tray, no phone.
He scribbled as if the world around him didn't exist.
He looked... quiet.
Really quiet.
Not the kind you avoid — the kind you worry about if you look too long.
Martin didn't remember deciding to stand up.
His legs just moved.
When he walked toward the staircase, Juhoon noticed immediately.
His head snapped up, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"You lost?" he asked.
Blunt.
Flat.
Defensive.
Not rude — just used to being left alone.
Martin shook his head. "No. I didn't want to sit with them today."
Juhoon stared like he was analyzing the sentence for hidden meaning.
After a moment, he shrugged and nudged his notebook aside.
"...Sit, then."
Martin sat on the concrete beside him.
The silence that followed wasn't exactly comfortable, but it wasn't hostile either.
More like both of them were waiting to see who blinked first.
Juhoon didn't talk.
Martin didn't force it.
The quiet stretched.
When the bell finally rang, Juhoon stood abruptly, brushing off his uniform.
"If you keep sitting with me," he said without looking at Martin, "people are gonna talk."
"They already do," Martin replied simply.
Juhoon's mouth twitched — not a smile, not fully — more like his face didn't know what to do with the unexpected answer.
"You're weird," he muttered as he slung his bag over his shoulder.
"So are you," Martin said.
Juhoon paused.
Just for a second.
Then he walked away without arguing.
~~
That night, Martin lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the day's events.
Not obsessing — just... thinking.
He'd met the boy everyone called a mess.
A problem.
A warning.
But the boy he saw under the staircase didn't match the rumors.
He was tired.
Blunt.
Quiet in a way that didn't match the stories.
Someone holding himself together with frayed thread — not exploding, but unraveling slow.
And somewhere in that quiet, Martin found himself wondering who the real Juhoon was.
Not the rumored version.
The real one.
And why he suddenly cared so much about finding out.