Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It happened during the rainy spring semester at Tokyo University of the Arts (Geidai). The "Seoul-Tokyo Creative Exchange" wasn't just a study abroad trip—it was a prestigious, high-stakes scholarship that only selected the "top tier" of each department.

And here is how the selection went down in the halls of Ueno Park.

The Visuals: Jo and Fuma

In the Fine Arts wing, the atmosphere was suffocating. Only two spots were available.

Jo, the legendary sophomore, had submitted a massive, hyper-realistic canvas of a blurring subway train. It was technically perfect but emotionally cold—exactly what the committee loved and feared. When his name was posted on the board, he didn't even smile; he just put his headphones back in. He wanted a fresh start away from the messy trail of broken hearts he’d left in the sculpture department.

Fuma, the respected junior, was the obvious choice. Known as the "Guardian of the Studio," he was the most disciplined painter Geidai had seen in a decade. The professors chose him not just for his art, but to keep the younger students (especially the quiet but unpredictable Jo) in line.

The Rhythm: Yuma and Taki

Over at the Music Conservatory, the drum rooms were vibrating.

Yuma, the popular junior, had spent three days straight debating whether to audition with a jazz piece or a rock fusion set. He changed his mind four times in the waiting room. However, the moment he sat behind the kit, the indecision vanished. He played with a frantic, magnetic energy that left the judges breathless.

Taki, the freshman prodigy, was the "wild card." His sense of rhythm was natural and unteachable. The committee paired him with Yuma, hoping the older student's technical skill would rub off on Taki's raw talent.

The Lens: K, Harua, and Maki

The Film and New Media department was looking for a cohesive crew to document the exchange.

K was the undisputed star. As a Junior, he already had short films screened at local festivals. He was the natural leader—charismatic, tall, and effortlessly cool. He was the first one recruited; the school essentially built the team around him.

Harua, the cute freshman, was chosen for his "aesthetic eye." His photography was soft, ethereal, and trendy—the perfect contrast to K’s cinematic grit.

Maki, despite being a freshman, was a tech whiz. He could handle any camera rig or editing software thrown at him. Plus, his high energy balanced out Harua’s quiet nature.

-

A day before departure, the seven were called into a briefing room.

K, Fuma, and Jo sat on one side of the table. They were the "Older/Serious" group (though Jo was younger, his vibe was 25). Fuma, a junior painter with a calming presence, was currently trying to calm down K, a charismatic Film junior who was vibrating with excitement. Between them sat Jo. Even in a casual hoodie, Jo looked like he had stepped out of a high-fashion editorial. He stared blankly at his sketchbook, his "untouchable" aura acting like a physical barrier to anyone outside his circle.

On the right side of the aisle, the atmosphere was much louder. Yuma, Taki, Harua, and Maki sat on the other—a chaotic whirlwind of snacks, loud whispering, and Yuma trying to decide if he should introduce himself with a bow or a wave.

Yuma was leaning over his seat, talking a mile a minute to Taki and Maki. Harua was meticulously checking his camera lens, nodding along to Yuma’s chatter. Maki and Taki (the freshmen "babies" of the group) were already looking up the best fried chicken spots in Seoul.

"K-kun!" Taki called out, waving his arm frantically across the aisle.

K grinned, leaning past a stoic Jo. "Taki! Did you pack your winter coat? Seoul in March is no joke."

"He didn't," Yuma chimed in, flashing a bright, mischievous grin. "I told him he could just borrow mine, but then I realized I forgot to pack one too."

Jo’s eyes flickered toward Yuma for a brief second. Indecisive, Jo thought, noting how Yuma had three different jackets draped over his backpack. And loud.

"Wait," Yuma whispered to Harua, eyeing the silent Jo across the table. "Is that the guy from the painting department? The one everyone says is a robot?"

Jo looked up, his sharp gaze locking onto Yuma. Yuma immediately looked down at his lap, ears turning red.

"He's not a robot," K chuckled, leaning back. "He's just Jo. You’ll get used to him over the months. If we don't kill each other first."

-

The Dean of International Affairs stepped to the podium, tapping the microphone.

"You seven represent the pinnacle of Geidai’s freshman and sophomore classes," the Dean began. "This exchange with SNU isn't just about credits. It’s about collaboration. We expect the fine arts to bleed into film, and music to inspire new media."

He looked directly at the two groups.

"You are not just seven individual students. For the rest of the year, you are a single unit. Use each other. Lean on each other."

He handed out seven thick, navy blue folders.

The Briefing Notes:

Duration: 1 academic year (March 2025 – December 2025)

Location: Seoul National University Gwanak Campus, Seoul.

Mandate: Collaborative project.

"A collaborative project?" Taki whispered to Yuma. "All of us?"

The Dean looked over his glasses. "The 'Geidai Seven,' as the faculty is calling you. You leave in twenty-four hours."

As the briefing was dismissed, the groups merged in the aisle.

"I'm Fuma, junior year" the junior painter said, extending a hand to Yuma. "I've heard your drumming in the practice rooms. You’re incredibly technical."

"Oh! Thank you!" Yuma beamed, but then his face fell into a look of minor crisis. "Wait, was I too loud? Should I change my style for Korea? Maybe I should focus more on jazz while I'm there? Or maybe—"

"You're fine, Yuma-kun," Taki laughed, pulling his cousin K into a hug.

While the others traded social media handles, Jo stood by the exit, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder. He felt a presence beside him. It was Yuma, looking at him with wide, curious eyes.

"You're the 'Ice Prince' from the painting department, right? Jo?" Yuma asked, his voice friendly but tentative.

Jo looked down at him. The rumors about Jo were always the same: He’s too beautiful to be real, he doesn’t talk to anyone. But Jo’s gaze was sharper than people expected. He knew Yuma was the drummer everyone flirted with, the one who lived in the music wing but never seemed to leave with anyone.

"I'm just Jo," he said simply, his voice low and firm.

"I'm Yuma! I'm really indecisive about... well, everything," Yuma joked, waiting for a laugh or a smile.

Jo didn't smile. He just nodded. "I noticed. We leave at 08:00 tomorrow. Don't be late because you can't decide which shoes to wear."

Before Yuma could sputter an indignant, but accurate, response, Jo walked out the glass doors.

"Wow," Maki whispered, coming up beside Yuma. "He’s kind of scary."

Yuma watched Jo’s retreating figure, a strange spark of challenge in his eyes. "He's not scary. He's just... focused. I think."

-

The transition from Tokyo to Seoul was a blur of silver wings and overpriced airport coffee. As the seven students stepped into the arrivals hall of Incheon International Airport, the difference in temperature hit them immediately—a crisp, biting wind that made Yuma regret his decision to pack his heavy coat at the very bottom of his suitcase.

When they landed at Incheon Airport, they were met by two figures holding a sign that read "WELCOME GEIDAI 7" decorated with glitter and stickers.

"Annyeonghaseyo!" A bright, welcoming voice came from EJ who was waving enthusiastically, while Nicholas stood beside him, looking cool in a streetwear outfit but holding EJ’s heavy backpack without being asked.

EJ, is in Junior year of Broadcasting department, welcomed them with a gentle, eye-crinkling smile. Beside him stood Nicholas, a junior from the Dance department. Nicholas had his arms crossed, leaning against a pillar with a cool, sharp aura that screamed "performer," but the way he was leaning slightly into EJ’s space told a different story. They were the "Power Couple" of SNU, and they were assigned to be “Foster Parents” for the TUA students.

"I’m EJ, your student coordinator for the year," EJ introduced himself as the group huddled around. "And this is Nicholas. He’s here to make sure you don't get lost on the way to the dorms—and to make sure you actually eat something other than convenience store ramen."

"I'm the muscle," Nicholas added with a smirk, finally breaking his "cool" facade to give Taki a friendly high-five. "And the translator when EJ gets too polite to tell you that you're going the wrong way. Now let’s go home"

"They look... intense," Maki whispered, looking at the stylish Korean duo.

"They look like they know exactly where the best food is," Yuma said, his stomach growling.

-

As the group loaded their luggage onto the shuttle bus, the dynamics began to shift. EJ and Nicholas sat at the front, occasionally whispering to each other or sharing a pair of earbuds. The domestic comfort between them was obvious; they were the "IT-couple" of SNU, known for being inseparable despite their vastly different majors.

K and Fuma sit together discussing what topic is good to ask to EJ and Nicholas. K plans to discuss the differences between the underground dance scenes in Tokyo and Seoul with Nicholas. Fuma might ask EJ about the broadcasting equipment available at the SNU media center later. Taki, Maki, and Harua were pressed against the windows, pointing out every neon sign they recognized.

Jo sat by the window in the middle of the bus, his long legs cramped in the seat. He was staring at the Han River as they crossed the bridge, his expression unreadable.

"Hey," a voice interrupted his thoughts.

It was Yuma. He had sat down next to Jo because it was the only seat left, but he was currently struggling with a dilemma. He held two different colored transit cards in his hands—one pink, one blue.

"Jo, look. EJ gave us these, but I can't decide which one to keep," Yuma whispered, leaning in close. "The blue matches my backpack, but the pink is... well, it’s more 'Seoul,' don't you think? Which one should I take?"

Jo didn't even turn his head. "It’s a transit card, Yuma-san. It stays in your wallet. No one sees it."

"But I see it!" Yuma insisted, nudging Jo’s shoulder. "Come on, give me an opinion. Firm and quiet, right? That’s your field. Give me a firm choice."

Jo finally looked at him. Up close, Yuma’s energy was like a physical heat. It was distracting. Jo reached out, his fingers brushing Yuma’s palm as he snatched the blue card and shoved it into Yuma's hand.

"Blue. It matches your eyes when you're tired. Now let me sleep."

Yuma blinked, his heart doing a strange little stutter-step. My eyes? He looked down at the blue card, then back at Jo, who had already closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat.

-

The bus pulled up to the SNU dormitory complex. The dorm was a sleek, modern building on the SNU campus with a shared lounge and a kitchen that looked far too clean for seven art students. EJ and Nicholas stood at the entrance of the fourth-floor wing, holding a clipboard like they were about to announce the winners of a reality show.

"Okay, everyone! This is your home for the two semester," EJ announced. "Nicholas and I live in the building right next door, so if you have any emergencies—or if you just want to see a dance practice—you know where to find us. Also since this is a collaboration program, the university wants to mix departments. No staying in your comfort zones!"

Nicholas leaned against the doorframe, checking his watch. "We’ve paired you up based on... compatibility. Or at least, what we think will be 'interesting' for your art."

Room 401 : Fuma & K

Room 402 : Taki, Harua & Maki

Room 403 : Jo & Yuma

A heavy silence fell over Suite 403’s assignment. Jo didn't blink, but his grip on his portfolio case tightened. Yuma, on the other hand, let out a tiny, audible squeak.

"Jo and me?" Yuma looked at Jo, then at EJ, then back at Jo. "The painter and the drummer? The quiet and the loud? Is this... is this a social experiment?"

"It’s 'synergy,' Yuma," Nicholas said with a wink. 

Nicholas threw an arm around EJ’s shoulder, pulling him close. "Well that’s it! We'll give you an hour to unpack. We’re taking you to the best Galbi spot in the city tonight. No excuses."

As the group unloaded their bags, Jo walked past EJ and Nicholas. He saw the way Nicholas adjusted EJ’s scarf to keep him warm, a small, genuine gesture of affection. For a second, Jo’s "untouchable" mask slipped, a flicker of something like envy or curiosity crossing his face.

Yuma froze, his suitcase handle slipping from his hand. "Wait, I’m with... the painter? Jo? For real?"

Jo didn't say a word. He just picked up his minimalist black duffel bag and walked toward Room 403. He paused at the door, looking back at Yuma with an unreadable expression. "Are you coming?"

"Yes! Right! Coming!" Yuma scrambled after him, nearly tripping over his own feet.

-

The suite was clean, smelling of citrus and new furniture. As soon as the door clicked shut, the contrast was staggering. Jo immediately claimed the left side of the room. Within five minutes, he had set up a folding easel, lined up his brushes by size, and tucked his clothes away in perfect, monochromatic stacks.

Yuma, on the other hand, was a whirlwind. He exploded his suitcase onto the bed. He struggled with a suitcase that seemed to have a mind of its own. "I can't decide if I should unpack my shoes or my drums first!” and then the easily distracted Yuma chose to talk with Jo, “So! Jo-kun! We’re roommates! That’s crazy, right? I’ve seen your work at the Geidai gallery. That blue piece? Amazing. Do you always paint in silence? Because I usually practice my rudiments on a pad, but I can use headphones—"

"Yuma-san," Jo said, his voice firm but not unkind.

Yuma stopped mid-sentence, clutching a pair of drumsticks. "Yeah?"

"I like the window side. You take the wall side," Jo stated, pointing. "And don't touch my palette. Everything else is fine."

Jo turned back to his bag, but Yuma noticed something. For all of Jo’s "untouchable" aura, he had a small, worn-out plushie keychain hanging from his backpack—a contrast to his sharp image.

An hour has passed by, outside in the hallway, EJ and Nicholas were giggling suspiciously.

K walked by, carrying a crate of camera gear, and narrowed his eyes at the two guides. "Are you two plotting something? Because if you break my crew, I’m holding you responsible."

"We're just discussing about helping everyone to 'harmonize'," EJ said innocently. "By the way, tell the kids to get ready. It's time for their first real taste of Seoul."

-

The scent of sizzling galbi and the chaotic clatter of metal chopsticks filled the private room of a popular BBQ spot near Sinchon. EJ and Nicholas sat at the head of the long table, looking like the ultimate hosts, while the seven Japanese students huddled around the grills, still adjusting to the sheer scale of Korean side dishes.

"Alright, everyone! To break the ice," EJ announced, raising a pair of tongs like a conductor’s baton, "we’re doing the official SNU Welcome Intro. Name, nickname, hometown, major, interest... and then, a quick-fire round of 20 Questions to see know everyone better!"

The table went in a circle, the energy shifting with every speaker.

“I’m Koga Yudai. Just call me K. I’m from Shizuoka. I’m a Junior in Film. I used to run marathons and I love coffee.”

“I’m Murata Fuma. Fuma-kun, Fuu-kun or just Fuma is fine. I’m from Shizuoka. I’m a Junior in Fine Arts. I love cooking and organizing.”

“I’m Shigeta Harua. Harua or Rua is okay. I’m from Nagano, a freshman in New Media. I love nature photography.” Harua winked

“I’m Hirota Riki, I’m half German, half Japanese. You can call me Maki, since we have another Riki. I’m from Tokyo. Freshman in New Media like Harua. I love games.”

“Sooo I’m Riki no 2, Takayama Riki, but call me Taki. I’m from Kanagawa, a freshman in the Music department. NO JUDGING BUT I like collecting unique hats.”

“I’m Byun EuiJoo. You can call me EuiJoo, EJ, or maybe Juju. I’m from Seoul, Junior in Broadcasting, and I love finding “hidden gem” cafes”

“I’m Wang Yixiang from Taipei. You can call me Nicholas or Nico. I'm a Junior in the Dance Department. As you can see I love fashion, street dance,,, and Juju. Please refrain yourself from any cute-aggression to my man.”

Then, it was Yuma’s turn. He stood up, accidentally bumping the table and making the soybean paste stew wobble.

"I’m Nakakita Yuma! Everyone calls me Yuma, Yuu-kun too OK. I'm from Hyogo. I’m a Junior in Music—drums are my life, but I also love fashion... although I can never decide what to wear in the morning. I'm looking forward to making music with all of you!" He sat down, beaming, though his eyes darted nervously toward his roommate.

Jo didn't stand up. He just leaned back, his silhouette sharp against the restaurant's neon signs. "I'm Asakura Jo. Just Jo. From Kanagawa. Sophomore, Fine Arts. I like quiet spaces and sketching people when they aren't looking."

"Spooky," Maki whispered to Taki, who just nodded in awe.

"Okay!" EJ clapped his hands. "Now for the 'Getting to Know You' game. I'll pick two people, and the rest of us get to fire questions at them. You have to answer honestly."

Nicholas smirked, nudging EJ. "Let's start with the new roommates. Jo and Yuma."

The table went quiet. Jo raised an eyebrow. Yuma looked like he wanted to bolt for the exit.

"Question 1!" Taki chirped. "Yuma-kun, what’s your biggest fear?"

"Spiders. And... making the wrong choice at a restaurant," Yuma admitted.

"Question 5!" K directed this at Jo. "Jo, how many sketchbooks do you have?"

"Forty-two. All full," Jo replied simply.

The questions moved fast—favorite foods, sleep habits, music tastes—until they reached Question 19. Nicholas leaned in, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"Question 19 for Jo: We heard a rumor at Geidai that you're 'untouchable' because you're a heartbreaker. How many people have you actually dated this past year?"

The table fell into a sudden, heavy silence. Jo didn't blink. He took a sip of his tea and looked Nicholas dead in the eye. "Seven. But none of them lasted more than a month. I get bored easily."

Yuma’s grip tightened on his chopsticks. Seven? He couldn't even manage one.

"Last question!" EJ shouted, sensing the shift in mood. "Question 20 for Yuma: Since you seem like the 'approachable' one... how many boyfriends have you had?"

Yuma felt the heat climb up his neck. He looked at the grill, then at the expectant faces of his new friends, and finally at Jo, who was watching him with a strange, intense curiosity.

"Zero," Yuma mumbled.

"What?" Maki asked. "I couldn't hear you over the sizzling."

"ZERO!" Yuma said louder, his voice cracking slightly. "I've never... I've never actually dated anyone. I talk a lot, but I guess I'm too indecisive to actually choose someone."

The silence that followed was different from the first one. It wasn't just quiet; it was charged.

Jo tilted his head, his gaze lingering on Yuma’s reddened face. "Zero?" he repeated, his voice low enough that only Yuma could truly feel the vibration of it.

"Is that a problem?" Yuma snapped, his defensiveness kicking in to hide his embarrassment.

"No," Jo said, a ghost of a smirk appearing on his lips for the first time. "It’s just... unexpected. For someone who has so much to say."

Jo stood up, grabbing his jacket. "I'm going to find the restroom. Excuse me."

As he walked away, EJ leaned over to Nicholas and whispered, "The 'Bored Heartbreaker' and the 'Indecisive Virgin'... Nicholas, we’re geniuses. This is going to be the best documentary K ever films."

-

The walk back to the SNU International House was a study in contrasts. A biting Seoul wind whipped through the narrow streets of Gwanak-gu, forcing everyone to bury their faces in their scarves.

​Because EJ and Nicholas had "conveniently" darted ahead to show K and Fuma a 24-hour convenience store, and the freshmen trio (Taki, Harua, Maki) were busy racing each other, Jo and Yuma found themselves trailing ten paces behind the rest.

​The silence between them wasn't empty; it was heavy with the confession from the dinner table.

​Yuma huffed, his breath blooming in white clouds. He was shivering, his thin denim jacket proving no match for the Korean autumn. He kept stealing glances at Jo, who walked with his hands in his overcoat pockets, looking perfectly unbothered by the cold or the awkwardness.

​"Seven people?" Yuma blurted out, unable to keep his thoughts locked away any longer. "In one year? That’s… that’s one person every seven weeks. Do you even remember their names?"

​Jo stopped walking for a split second, then resumed his steady pace. "I remember their faces. That’s more important for a painter." He looked sideways at Yuma, noticing the way the shorter boy was trembling. "And you? Zero? How do you write songs about emotion if you’ve never stayed for the aftermath?"

​Yuma felt a sting that wasn't from the wind. "I feel things! I just… I overthink. I wonder if they like the 'drummer' version of me or the 'real' me. By the time I decide if I should ask them out, they've usually moved on to someone more… decisive."

​Jo slowed his pace to match Yuma’s shorter strides. Without saying a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a chemical hand-warmer he’d been cracking, and pressed it into Yuma’s frozen palm.

​"Don't overthink the heat," Jo muttered, his voice dropping an octave. "Just take it."

​Yuma’s fingers brushed Jo’s warm skin as he took the packet. The contact lasted only a second, but it felt like a static shock. Yuma went quiet—not because he had nothing to say, but because his brain had suddenly short-circuited.

​Further ahead, the rest of the crew was huddled together, looking back every few seconds like they were watching a slow-motion car crash.

​"Look at them," Maki whispered, nudging Harua. "It’s like a noir movie character walking next to a golden retriever."

​"Jo gave him his hand-warmer," Harua noted, adjusting his camera lens even though it was too dark to shoot. "That’s a big deal. Jo doesn't even share his pencils."

​K chuckled, shaking his head. "Jo is a predator in the dating world, and Yuma is… well, he’s a snack. I’m worried our drummer is going to get eaten alive before the first semester ends."

​Fuma, ever the protective senior, frowned. "Jo isn't malicious. He’s just detached. Maybe Yuma’s noise is exactly what he needs to wake up."

​EJ leaned into Nicholas, a triumphant grin on his face. "Did you see that? The tension? I told you, Nico. The 'Ice Prince' and the 'Rhythm King'. It’s the perfect composition."

​"I give it two weeks before they either have a massive fight or start 'studying' late in their room every night," Nicholas replied, his arm draped around EJ to keep him warm.

​As they reached the dorm entrance, Jo pushed the heavy glass door open and held it. He didn't look at Yuma as he passed, but he spoke just loud enough for him to hear.

​"By the way, Yuma-san."

​Yuma looked up, clutching the hand-warmer like a lifeline. "Yeah?"

​"Red is a good color on you. It hides how much you're blushing."

​Jo stepped into the elevator before Yuma could find a comeback. Yuma stood in the lobby, the cold wind still blowing behind him, but his face felt like it was sitting right next to the BBQ grill again.

-

The humidity in Room 403 was rising, the faint scent of Jo’s sandalwood soap beginning to drift under the bathroom door.

​Yuma was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring intensely at a loose thread on his duvet. He wasn't just sitting; he was spiraling. His brain, which usually ran at 120 BPM, was currently hitting a frantic double-time.

​“Red is a good color on you,” Jo had said.

​"When was I red?" Yuma muttered to himself, grabbing his phone to check his reflection in the dark screen. "Was it when I bump the table? No, that was ‘embarrassment’. Was it when I said 'zero'? That was ‘shame’. Or was it when he gave me the hand-warmer?"

​He started a mental list of the Possibilities of the Blush.

​Thermal Reaction. The contrast between the Seoul wind and the heated lobby. (Scientific, safe).

​Physical Exhaustion. Walking uphill to the dorms. (Plausible, but he’s a drummer; he has cardio).

​The 'Jo' Factor. The way Jo’s voice drops when he’s being serious. (Terrifying. Do not think about this).

​"How did he even notice?" Yuma groaned, burying his face in a pillow. "He barely looks at anyone. Does he have heat-vision? Is he a painting-themed cyborg?"

​He was so deep in his "Blush Analysis" that he didn't hear the click of the door or the hiss of the steam escaping the bathroom.

​"You're going to burn a hole in that pillow if you keep staring at it."

​Yuma bolted upright. "I wasn't staring, I was—"

​The words died in his throat. His vocal cords, his brain, and his central nervous system all suffered a simultaneous blackout.

​Jo was standing three feet away. He hadn't bothered with a robe. A single white towel was slung low around his hips, droplets of water still tracing the lean lines of his torso and the sharp definition of his collarbone. He was drying his damp hair with a smaller towel, looking as casual as if he were wearing a three-piece suit.

​"The shower is free," Jo said, tilting his head. "Are you okay? Your heart is beating loud enough for me to hear it from here."

​Yuma’s eyes darted from Jo’s damp hair to the floor, then—traitorously—to the line of Jo’s abs, before snapping back to the ceiling.

​"I—I—Towels! Clothes! Human decency!" Yuma stammered, his face turning a shade of crimson that made the BBQ meat from last night look pale.

​He didn't wait for a response. He grabbed his shower bag with the force of a whirlwind and lunged into the bathroom, slamming the door so hard the mirror rattled.

​Inside the bathroom, Yuma turned the shower on to the coldest setting possible. He pressed his forehead against the cool tiles.

​"I am a professional," he whispered to the showerhead. "I am an adult. I am a drummer. I am... a disaster." He stayed under the water for forty minutes, determined to stay there until Jo was fully clothed, possibly in a turtleneck and a parka.

​Outside, Jo stood by his easel, a faint, genuine smirk playing on his lips. He picked up a charcoal pencil and made a quick, jagged stroke on a fresh page of his sketchbook.

​He wasn't sure what it was yet. Usually, by this point with someone, he’d already be calculating how to end the "fling" before it got boring. But Yuma wasn't a fling. He was a roommate. He was a loud, indecisive, transparent mess of a person who reacted to Jo like a live wire.

​"Zero boyfriends," Jo murmured, looking at the closed bathroom door.

​He wasn't sure if he wanted to paint Yuma, tease him until he exploded, or actually find out why no one had managed to keep him yet. For the first time in a long time, the "Ice Prince" wasn't bored.

-

The morning sun filtered through the thin dorm curtains, casting a soft, golden rectangle across Yuma’s bed.

​Jo was already awake. He was a creature of habit—eyes open at 7:00 AM, sharp and alert. He sat on the edge of his bed, reaching for his water bottle, when his gaze drifted across the small gap between their frames.

​Yuma was a complete contrast to his daytime self. Without the constant movement and the frantic drumming of his fingers, he looked... peaceful. His hair was a bird’s nest of soft brown curls, and he was hugging his duvet like it was a giant marshmallow. His mouth was slightly open, and he made a tiny, whistling sound with every breath.

​Painfully cute, Jo thought, the observation hitting him with the force of a physical weight.

​Jo leaned forward just a fraction, his artist’s eye instinctively tracing the curve of Yuma’s cheek. He wondered if the skin there felt as soft as it looked. He felt that strange tug in his chest again—not the usual "this person is attractive" boredom, but a genuine, quiet curiosity. What would happen to that "approachable" energy if Yuma actually fell for someone?

​BRRRRRRR-RING! BRRRRRRR-RING!

​The alarm on Yuma’s phone, set to a high-tempo drum solo, shattered the silence.

​Jo pulled back instantly, grabbing a random book from his nightstand and pretending to be deeply engrossed in page forty-two.

​"Gah! No! Five more minutes!" Yuma groaned, flailing his arms and hitting his own head with his phone before finally silencing it. He sat up, squinting through bleary eyes. "Jo? You’re... you’re already up?"

​"Some of us don't sleep like the dead," Jo said, his voice perfectly flat, hiding the fact that his heart was racing. “beside it’s already 9 in the morning”

​The "peaceful" morning lasted exactly sixty seconds. Then, the reality of the 11:00 AM Korean Language Class hit.

​"Move, move, move!" Yuma scrambled out of bed. "I have to wash my hair! If I don't style it today, I’ll look like a poodle in the student ID photos!"

​"I just need to brush my teeth and wash my face," Jo said, stepping toward the bathroom. "It takes three minutes."

​"Three minutes is three minutes too long!" Yuma dodged under Jo’s arm, slipping into the tiny bathroom first.

​"Yuma—"

​"I’ll be fast! I promise!"

​Thirty minutes later.

​Jo leaned against the doorframe, checking his watch. "Yuma-san. It’s been thirty minutes."

​"I’m almost done! I just need to get the volume right on the left side!"

​Jo didn't wait. He pushed the door open. The room was a cloud of hairspray and steam. Yuma leaned in so close to the mirror his nose was almost touching it, wielding a hairbrush like a weapon.

​"Hey! Privacy!" Yuma squeaked, trying to block Jo’s view of his messy products.

​"We’re both guys, and we’re going to be late," Jo said calmly. He stepped up to the sink, reaching around Yuma to grab his toothbrush.

​Because the bathroom was designed for one person, Jo’s chest was practically pressed against Yuma’s shoulder. Every time Jo moved to rinse his brush, Yuma had to lean back, creating a rhythmic, awkward dance of personal space.

​"You use... three different types of hair wax?" Jo asked, eyeing the counter.

​"It’s a process!" Yuma huffed, his face turning that familiar shade of pink as he tried to focus on his reflection while Jo’s calm, steady presence was right there in his peripheral vision. "Not everyone can just wake up looking like a statue, Jo!"

​"I don't look like a statue."

​"You do! You’re all... sharp lines and silence. I’m just... fluff."

​Jo paused, his toothbrush in his mouth. He looked at Yuma in the mirror—the drummer’s hair was finally falling into place, framing his wide, anxious eyes.

​"I like the fluff," Jo muttered through the toothpaste bubbles.

​Yuma froze, his hairbrush suspended in mid-air. "What?"

​"I said we’re going to be late," Jo corrected himself instantly, spitting into the sink and splashing his face with cold water. "Get your bag. We’re meeting the others in five minutes."

​Jo walked out, leaving Yuma standing in the clouds of hairspray, wondering if he had actually heard those four words or if the Seoul altitude was finally getting to his brain.

-

​The air in Seoul was sharper than in Tokyo—crisper, with the scent of roasted nuts from street vendors and the hum of a city that never quite sleeps. For the seven exchange students from Tokyo University of the Arts, the "International House" dormitory at Seoul National University was their new fortress.

​Jo stood by the window of the fourth-floor common room, staring at the Namsan Seoul Tower in the distance. To the other students passing by, he looked like a living editorial—sharp jawline, eyes that seemed to see through walls, and a quiet intensity that made people lower their voices when he entered a room.

​As a sophomore at TUA, his paintings had already sold for prices that made his professors sweat. He was the "Ice Prince" of the Fine Arts department. But as Jo pulled out his phone, a string of unread LINE messages from three different people in Tokyo popped up.

"Are you really gone for a year?"

"Call me when you land."

"I'll miss our Friday nights."

​Jo deleted the notifications without a second thought. People assumed he was "untouchable" because he was picky; in reality, he just didn't like staying in one place for too long. For Jo, dating was like a sketch—easy to start, easy to throw away.

​"Staring into the void again, Jo?" A heavy arm dropped across his shoulders. K grins that could melt cameras, stood there with Fuma, who was already organizing their shared kitchen supplies with military precision.

​"Just looking at the light," Jo said firmly. "It’s different here."

​Across the hall, the silence was being thoroughly murdered.

​"I'm telling you, Maki, the snack selection in the lobby is a 10/10. We are going to survive this!" Yuma was vibrating with energy, his hands constantly tapping a rhythm against his thighs as he unpacked.

​Yuma was the heart of the Music department back at Tokyo. A drummer who could talk an ear off a statue. Everyone loved Yuma. Everyone flirted with Yuma. And yet, Yuma was the only one in his friend group who had never actually made it to a second date.

​"You're only excited because you're nervous," Harua remarked, peering over a stack of film equipment.

"I’m not nervous! I’m... socially prepared," Yuma countered, though his indecisiveness was already kicking in. "Wait, should I wear the leather jacket or the denim one for orientation? Is the leather too 'I'm a rockstar' or is the denim too 'I'm trying too hard'?"

​Taki and Maki shared a look. "It's a language class, Yuma-kun. Not a concert," Maki sighed.

​-

​The afternoon sun hit the windows of the Korean Language Education Center. The seven Japanese students sat in a semi-circle, waiting for their guides.

​Jo sat in the back corner, his sketchbook open, already drawing the architecture of the room. He didn't look up when the door swung open.

​"Annyeonghaseyo!" A bright, greeting voice filled the room.

​As EJ started the roll call, Yuma was busy trying to find a pen in his overcrowded bag. He accidentally knocked his water bottle over, and it rolled across the polished floor, stopping right at the toe of a pair of expensive-looking loafers.

​Yuma scrambled to grab it, coming face-to-face with the person in the back row.

​Jo looked down. His eyes met Yuma’s wide, panicked ones. The ‘Untouchable’ painter looked at the ‘Talkative’ drummer, and for the first time since landing in Korea, Jo didn't look back at his sketchbook.

​"Your bottle?" Jo asked, his voice low and firm.

​"Ah! Yes! Sorry! I usually have better grip strength than this, I swear—" Yuma started rambling, his face turning a bright shade of pink.

​Nicholas leaned over to EJ, whispering with a smirk, "Do you think what I think, Juju?."

​EJ grinned, checking his clipboard. "I think I know. But we can discuss it later babe."

-

EJ and Nicholas were helping the professor, passing out name tags. Then the professor starts the class.

​"Okay, everyone!" the professor announced. "Today we practice the most important phrase: 'Annyeonghaseyo, Jeoneun [Name] imnida.' Please, one by one!"

​The "Film Trio" went first. K was smooth, Maki was loud and confident, and Taki was so adorable the professor actually clapped. Then, it was Yuma’s turn.

​Yuma stood up, his knees shaking. He had spent all morning practicing, but his brain was a mess of drum rudiments and Jo’s "statue" comments.

​"Annyeong... haseyo!" Yuma started, but as he continued, his thick Kansai accent began to bleed through. His vowels were too bouncy, his pitch rising and falling in that rhythmic, Osaka-style lilt. "Jeon-eun... Yuma... yo!"

​The class giggled. It wasn't mean—it was just that Yuma sounded like a character out of a colorful anime. He looked like he wanted to shrink into his hoodie, his face rapidly turning the shade of red Jo had teased him about.

​"Ah, wait, wait," Yuma stammered, his indecision kicking in. "Was it imnida or ieyo? I... uh..."

​Before Jo could even open his mouth to say something (not that he knew what to say), Harua leaned over from the row behind them.

​Harua was the "Soft Prince" of the group—quiet, observant, and surprisingly academic. He placed a gentle hand on Yuma’s shoulder, his voice a soothing contrast to the classroom’s chatter.

​"It's okay, Yuma-kun," Harua whispered, loud enough for the professor to hear. "Try it like this. Soften the 'ya' at the end. Focus on the 'm' sound."

​Harua leaned in close, his face just inches from Yuma’s as he patiently mouthed the syllables. "Jeo-neun... Yu-ma... im-ni-da."

​Yuma looked at Harua with literal stars in his eyes. "Harua! You’re a lifesaver! Like a hero!" He repeated it perfectly this time, his Kansai lilt softening into something charming. When he sat back down, he grabbed Harua’s hand in a brief, excited squeeze. "You have to help me with the homework later, okay? Please?"

​"Of course," Harua smiled, his eyes crinkling. "We can study in the dorm lounge after dinner."

​Jo watched the entire exchange from six inches away.

​Usually, Jo didn't care about "group dynamics." If someone was struggling, he let them figure it out. But watching Harua’s hand on Yuma’s shoulder—and seeing the way Yuma was now beaming at the freshman photographer—made something sharp and hot twist in Jo’s gut.

​He felt his grip tighten on his pencil until the wood creaked.

​Why is he so loud about being grateful? Jo thought irritably. It’s just a basic introduction. And since when does Harua study Korean so well?

​"Jo-ssi? Your turn," the professor called.

​Jo stood up. His Korean was technically perfect, but his tone was icy. "Asakura Jo imnida."

​He sat down and immediately opened his sketchbook, drawing aggressive, dark lines that had nothing to do with the architecture of the room. He was sketching a bird—one with messy, "fluffy" feathers—being cornered by a sleek, calm fox.

​During the break, Nicholas leaned against the wall next to Jo’s desk. "Harua is a good guy, isn't he? Very patient. Yuma seems to really... rely on him."

​Jo didn't look up from his sketch. "He's fine. A bit overeager."

​"Yuma likes 'overeager'," Nicholas pushed, a smirk dancing on his lips. "Since he can't make decisions himself, he likes people who take the lead. Like Harua just did."

​Jo’s pencil snapped.

​He looked at the broken lead, then across the room where Yuma and Harua were sharing a bag of honey butter chips, laughing about something. Jo felt a strange, foreign urge to walk over there and drag Yuma back to their "statue and fluff" side of the room.

​"I'm going to get coffee," Jo said, standing up abruptly.

​"Coffee for one?" EJ asked, popping up from nowhere.

​"For one," Jo snapped, walking out of the classroom with a stride that was much faster than usual.

-

While the vending machine down the hall was hummed as Jo waited for his coffee, the atmosphere in the classroom shifted into high-gear gossip mode. With the "Ice Prince" out of earshot, the curiosity that had been simmering since the K-BBQ dinner finally boiled over.

​Yuma leaned in toward Fuma, his voice a hushed but frantic whisper. "Fuma-kun, you’re in the same department as him. Those rumors mentioned... also last night confession…about Jo dating seven people in a year. Is that actually true?"

​The rest of the group—Taki, Maki, Harua, and K—all leaned in so fast they nearly bumped heads.

​Fuma sighed, crossing his arms. "It’s not exactly a secret in the Fine Arts wing. Jo doesn't go looking for people, but people are drawn to him like moths to a flame. He’s... efficient. He’ll go on three dates, realize there’s no 'artistic spark,' and end it before the month is up. He’s not cruel, he’s just brutally honest."

​"I heard a different version," K interjected, spinning a pen between his fingers. "In the Film department, the girls say he’s a 'Vampire.' He dates people just to study their expressions for his portraits, and once he’s captured their 'essence' on canvas, he loses interest entirely. He’s a romantic hunter."

​"I heard he once broke up with a girl because her favorite color 'clashed' with his current palette," Maki added, wide-eyed.

​"That's so cool... but also terrifying," Taki squeaked, clutching his Korean workbook.

Yuma listened to every word, his heart sinking further with every different perspective the group offered. He felt a strange, uncomfortable tightness in his chest—a mix of disbelief and something that felt suspiciously like disappointment.

​A hunter? A vampire? Someone who gets bored in weeks?

​But then, his brain flickered back to the morning. He remembered the smell of the sandalwood soap, the way Jo had stepped into his personal space in the tiny bathroom, and that low, mumble through toothpaste bubbles: "I like the fluff."

​It felt smooth. It felt like flirting. But according to the rumors, that was just Step 1 of Jo’s "process."

​Am I just a new 'expression' subject for him to study? Yuma wondered, his face heating up. Is he just teasing me because I'm an easy target who's never dated anyone?

​"He’s just... he's a player," Yuma muttered to himself, though his hands were trembling slightly. "A very, very talented player."

"You okay, Yuma-kun?" Harua asked softly, noticing the drummer’s distress. "You look like you're overthinking again."

​"I'm fine!" Yuma stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. "I just... I don't like rumors. I want to hear it from the source."

​"You're going to ask him?" Maki gasped. "Directly? You’ll be turned into a block of ice!"

​"I'm a drummer," Yuma said, trying to summon a courage he didn't quite feel. "I deal with loud noises and heavy hits. I can handle one painter."

​Just then, the door opened. Jo walked back in, carrying a single black coffee. The room went dead silent. Jo’s eyes scanned the group, landing on Yuma, who was standing up and staring at him with a look of pure, panicked determination.

​Jo raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "Did I miss something?"

​"We need to talk," Yuma blurted out. "Tonight. In the room. No sketchbooks, no distractions."

​The "GEIDAI 7" (Plus EJ and Nicholas) collectively held their breath. Jo looked at Yuma for a long beat, his expression unreadable, before a tiny, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

​"Bold," Jo murmured. "Fine. Tonight."

-

The common room of the International House was bathed in the warm, yellow glow of floor lamps, creating a cozy atmosphere that felt like the world was away from the biting Seoul wind outside.

​In the far corner, tucked away behind a decorative partition, Yuma and Harua were sprawled out over a low table. Their Korean textbooks were buried under a mountain of flashcards and empty banana milk cartons.

​"No, no, Yuma-kun! Look at the stroke order," Harua laughed, leaning in so close that their shoulders were pinned together. He took Yuma’s hand, guiding the pen across the paper. "If you write it like that, it looks like a doodle, not a character."

​"It’s hard!" Yuma whined, though he was grinning ear-to-ear. He leaned his head back, accidentally brushing against Harua’s forehead. "You’re like a genius, Harua. How do you know all this?"

​"I just like languages," Harua replied softly, his voice dropping into a gentle, intimate tone. "And I like helping you. You make the boring stuff fun."

​Yuma beamed, his energy bouncing off the walls. He leaned over to whisper something in Harua's ear, causing both of them to dissolve into a fit of hushed giggles. From the outside, they looked like the perfect campus couple.

​Jo entered the lounge, his black hoodie pulled up. He had intended to go straight to the kitchen for water and then retreat to the room, but the sound of Yuma’s laugh acted like a magnet for his eyes.

​He saw them. He saw the way Harua was touching Yuma’s hand. He saw the way Yuma was looking at Harua—with that wide, trusting "golden retriever" gaze that Jo had assumed was reserved for... well, he wasn't sure what, but he didn't like it being directed at someone else.

​Jo walked toward the kitchen, his pace steady, but his eyes were locked on the corner. He was so busy staring at the back of Harua’s head that he didn't notice the heavy, metal trash can that had been moved for cleaning.

​CLANG.

​The sound echoed through the silent lounge like a cymbal crash. The trash can skidded across the hardwood floor, spinning loudly before hitting a table.

​Yuma and Harua both jumped, their chummy bubbles popping instantly.

​"Jo?" Yuma asked, blinking in surprise. "Are you okay?"

​Jo stood perfectly still. His shin was throbbing, but his face remained a mask of absolute, chilling indifference. He didn't wince. He didn't even look down at the trash can. He simply adjusted his hoodie and looked at them with the cold, bored eyes of a professor judging a failing grade.

​"The layout of this room is inefficient," Jo said, his voice flat and steady. "Someone should report the hazard."

​"You... you literally kicked it, Jo-kun," Harua said, a bit confused.

​"I was testing its weight," Jo lied, without skipping a beat. He turned his gaze toward Yuma, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. "Yuma-san. It's 10:00 PM. We have a 'talk' scheduled, remember? Or were you too busy playing teacher to keep your word?"

​The air in the room suddenly felt ten degrees colder.

​"I remember!" Yuma stood up, feeling that familiar rush of flustered heat. "I was just... Harua was helping me!"

​"Good. Don't be late," Jo said. He turned and walked away, his gait perfectly normal despite the fact that his leg was screaming in pain. He vanished into the hallway with the grace of a phantom.

Yuma sat back down, but the chummy vibe was gone. He looked at the spot where Jo had stood, his mind already spinning into overthink-mode.

​Possibility 4: Strategic Distraction. Possibility 5: Jealousy? No, Jo doesn't get jealous. He gets bored.

Possibility 6: The 'Ice Prince' is actually a clumsy mess when he's mad.

​"That was... weird," Harua muttered, picking up a flashcard. "He looked like he wanted to paint me into a dark corner."

​"It was very weird," Yuma agreed, his eyes shining with a new kind of determination. He pulled out a small notepad and scribbled: Item #1 for tonight: Why did you kick a trash can while staring at Harua?

​"Harua, I think I have to go," Yuma said, packing his bags at lightning speed. "I have a 'hunter' to cross-examine."

-

The atmosphere in Room 403 was suffocatingly still. The only light came from a small desk lamp on Jo’s side of the room, casting long, sharp shadows that made him look like one of his own charcoal sketches.

​Jo was leaning against his headboard, arms crossed, watching Yuma with the calm patience of a predator. Yuma, meanwhile, was clutching a crumpled piece of notebook paper like a shield.

​"Sit down, Yuma-san," Jo said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room. "You’ve been vibrating since the afternoon class. Just say it."

​Yuma didn't sit. He took a deep breath. "Fuma-kun told me about the seven people, Jo. And K-kun said you’re a 'hunter' who gets bored once you finish a portrait. And then... and then there was the trash can tonight."

​Jo’s expression didn't flicker. "Go on."

​"Why did you kick it?" Yuma’s voice rose an octave. "You were staring at me and Harua like you wanted to set the textbook on fire. And why did you tell me you 'like the fluff' this morning? Is this... are you flirting on me? Am I just the next 'subject' you’re trying to capture before you move on in three weeks?"

Jo remained silent for a heartbeat too long. Then, he stood up. He didn't move aggressively, but his presence seemed to fill the room, forcing Yuma to back up against the door.

​"You've done a lot of research, for the first day" Jo murmured, stopping just inches away. He didn't look angry; he looked intensely curious. "But you’re asking the wrong questions."

​"I'm—I'm not—"

​"Why does it matter to you, Yuma-san?" Jo interrupted, his gaze locking onto Yuma’s wide eyes. "If I’m a 'hunter,' why are you so worried about being the prey? If you think I’m going to get bored of you, why are you blushing every time I breathe in your direction?"

​"I'm not blushing! It’s the... the room temperature!"

​"The room is 20°C," Jo countered. He reached out, his cool fingers barely brushing the collar of Yuma's hoodie. "You spent thirty minutes in a cold shower this morning. You spent two hours 'studying' with Harua but didn't write a single correct sentence because you were watching the door waiting for me. Why do you care if I've dated seven people or seventy?"

​Yuma’s heart was drumming a frantic, irregular beat. "I care because... because I’ve never done this! I don't know how to play these games, Jo! I don't want to be someone’s 'three-week project'!"

​"Then don't be," Jo whispered.

The air between them crackled. Yuma wanted to push him away, but his hands stayed frozen against the door. He wanted to confess that his heart did a backflip every time Jo looked at him, but his indecisiveness—his greatest enemy—clamped his jaw shut.

​"I... I just want to know if the rumors are true," Yuma managed to say, his voice trembling. "That's all."

​Jo pulled his hand back, the warmth of the contact vanishing instantly. He retreated to his bed, the 'Ice Prince' mask sliding back into place.

​"The rumors are just stories people tell because they don't understand the truth," Jo said, turning off the lamp. The room plunged into near-total darkness. "As for Harua... tell him to keep his hands off your notebooks. His handwriting is terrible."

​"That's all you have to say?" Yuma asked into the dark.

​"Go to sleep, Yuma-kun. You have class in the morning."

​Yuma scrambled into his own bed, his mind a chaotic mess. He hadn't gotten the honesty he wanted, but Jo hadn't denied the rumors either. More importantly, Jo hadn't denied that he was watching Yuma and Harua. And last, why the sudden change from -san to -kun

​In the dark, both of them lay awake, staring at opposite walls. Jo felt a strange, restless heat in his chest that no "boredom" could explain. Yuma felt a spark of something that terrified him.

-

The morning sun in the lecture hall felt far too bright for the storm brewing inside Room 403. The ‘GEIDAI 7’ gathered for the official announcement of the "Seoul-Tokyo Synthesis Project."

​The professor stood at the podium, adjusting her glasses. "This program is about crossing boundaries. Music must see color; art must hear rhythm. Therefore, you have been paired across departments for your first major grade."

​EJ sat in the back, leaning against Nicholas with a look of pure, angelic innocence that disguised the fact that he had spent an hour in the professor’s office "volunteering" to help organize the pairings.

​"The pairs are as follows," the professor announced:

• ​K & Fuma (Visual Narrative)
• ​Taki & Maki (Sonic Media)
• ​Harua & ... (The professor paused) ...individual documentary lead.
• ​Jo & Yuma (Audio-Visual Installation)

The silence between Jo and Yuma was a physical wall. As the class broke into groups, Yuma dragged his chair over to Jo’s desk with a screech that set everyone's teeth on edge.

​Jo was already sketching. He looked perfectly composed, his long fingers moving the pencil with surgical precision. He didn't look up, but his voice was steady. "The prompt is 'Resonance.' I was thinking of a series of monochromatic canvases that react to live percussion. Minimalist. Sharp."

​Yuma blinked. He had expected Jo to mention last night—to tease him, or at least acknowledge the tension. But Jo was acting as if the hunter conversation had never happened. The nonchalance was infuriating.

​"Minimalist?" Yuma countered, his voice a bit louder than intended. "Resonance is about vibration. It’s messy. It’s loud. If we’re doing this, I’m not just 'background noise' for your paintings. We need to find a middle ground."

For a second, their eyes met. The memory of the "talk"—the low light, the hand on the collar, the fluff comment—rushed back. Yuma’s heart did its signature triple-beat, and Jo’s hand hesitated on the paper.

​Jo was the first to look away. He cleared his throat. "Fine. Give me a tempo. I'll sketch the visual weight of the beat."

​Yuma took a deep breath. He realized that if he let his overthinking take over, he’d ruin his chance at the one thing he loved most: music. He pulled out a pair of drumsticks he always carried and tapped a complex, syncopated rhythm on the edge of the wooden desk. Tap-tap-da-tap.

​"Do you hear that?" Yuma asked, his eyes suddenly sharp and focused. "That’s not monochromatic. That’s a deep purple. Or maybe a burnt orange."

​Jo paused. He actually put his pencil down and listened. He watched the way Yuma’s hands moved—no longer clumsy or shy, but confident and precise. This was the "Drummer Yuma" everyone talked about.

​"Burnt orange," Jo repeated, his voice losing its icy edge. He opened a new page in his sketchbook. "Show me the rhythm again. Slower."

​Across the room, Harua watched them. He saw the way Jo was leaning in, his usual "untouchable" aura flickering as he watched Yuma work.

​"They're actually working," Nicholas whispered, appearing behind Harua. "I thought they'd be arguing about the rumors."

​"They aren't arguing," Harua noted, his photographer’s eye catching the way Jo’s gaze lingered on Yuma’s wrists. "They’re using the project as a shield. But look at Jo’s sketch. He’s not drawing the 'resonance.' He’s drawing the way Yuma’s hair moves when he hits the desk."

​K chuckled, leaning over. "That's going to be one very 'orange' project."

​As the class ended, Jo stood up and packed his bag. "Meet me in the basement practice rooms at 6:00 PM. I’ll bring the charcoal. You bring the drums."

​"I'll be there," Yuma said, standing firm. "And Jo?"

​Jo paused. "Yeah?"

​"Don't be late. This project is my priority."

​Jo stared at him for a long moment—surprised by the sudden backbone in the 'fluffy' drummer—before nodding once. "Understood."

-

It’s 6:00 PM in the dimly lit basement practice room. The practice room was a bunker of soundproof foam and cold concrete, tucked deep in the bowels of the SNU Arts building. A single spotlight hung over the drum kit, making Yuma look like he was on a stage, while Jo sat in the shadows on a tall stool, his easel standing between them like a barricade.

"It's too busy, Yuma-kun," Jo said, his voice echoing sharply off the walls. He held up a sketch of jagged, interlocking lines. "If you play that complex of a fill, the visual becomes a mess. We need breathing room. Space. Silence."

​Yuma gripped his sticks, his knuckles white. "Silence isn't 'Resonance,' Jo! Resonance is the tail end of a sound that refuses to die. If I play it your way, it’s just... a heartbeat. It’s boring."

​"It’s not boring, it’s intentional," Jo countered, standing up and walking into the light. "You’re trying to fill the room because you’re afraid of the quiet. Just like you talk because you’re afraid of the answer."

Yuma flinched. The argument was supposed to be about art, but Jo’s words were slicing right back into last night’s tension.

​"I'm not afraid of the quiet!" Yuma snapped, standing up from his throne. "I just think your 'minimalism' is a way for you to stay detached. You don't want to commit to a color, just like you don't commit to a person!"

​Jo stepped closer, his shadow looming over the drums. The "Ice Prince" mask didn't just slip—it melted. He leaned down, his face inches from Yuma’s, a sudden, dangerous spark in his eyes.

​"Maybe," Jo murmured, his voice dropping to that low, velvety tone that always made Yuma’s brain short-circuit. "Or maybe I just haven't found a rhythm worth committing to until now. Are you going to keep shouting, or are you going to show me what 'commitment' sounds like?"

​Yuma’s breath hitched. His heart did a frantic drum roll against his ribs. He's doing it again, Yuma thought, feeling the heat climb up his neck. He’s flirting in the middle of a fight. How can he be so nonchalant while I feel like I'm exploding?

For a second, Yuma almost crumbled. He almost did what he always did—stuttered, blushed, and let the other person lead the way.

​But then, his gaze fell on his drumsticks. He thought about the years of practice in Tokyo, the callouses on his hands, and the scholarship that brought him to Seoul. He wasn't just a "fluffy" roommate. He was a musician.

​I am a mess, Yuma thought, closing his eyes for a brief second to center himself. But for the music... for the art... I have to stand tall.

​He didn't back away. Instead, he looked Jo right in the eye, his expression shifting from flustered to fiercely professional.

​"Sit down, Jo," Yuma said, his voice firm and devoid of the usual tremor.

​Jo blinked, surprised by the sudden authority.

​"Sit down," Yuma repeated. "You want to see 'Resonance'? Then stop talking and start looking. I’m going to play the bridge. You’re going to draw the vibration of the cymbal, not the shape of it. We aren't doing it your way or my way. We’re doing it the project's way."

​Jo stared at him, truly seeing him for the first time—not as a curious study, but as an equal. Without a word, Jo sat back down on his stool and picked up a thick piece of charcoal.

Yuma sat back at his kit. He hit the crash cymbal—a long, shimmering wash of sound—and then began a slow, deep groove on the floor tom.

​The air in the room changed. The flirtation was still there, buzzing like static electricity, but it was being channeled into the work. Jo’s hand flew across the paper, his strokes matching the intensity of Yuma’s kick drum. Every time Yuma looked up, he saw Jo watching his hands with a focus that was intimate, yet respectful.

​They worked for three hours straight. No rumors, no "seven people," no trash-can-gate. Just the sound of wood on brass and charcoal on paper.

​As they finally packed up, the tension had shifted from awkward to something much more profound.

​"We have the foundation," Jo said, his voice a bit raspy. He looked at his charcoal-stained hands, then at Yuma, who was dripping with sweat but glowing with a sense of accomplishment. "You were right about the orange. It needs to be a gradient."

​"And you were right about the space," Yuma admitted, wiping his forehead. "The silence makes the hits harder."

​Jo stepped toward the door, then paused, looking back at the drummer. "You're a lot more than 'fluff' when you have those sticks in your hand, Nakakita Yuma."

​Yuma felt the blush coming, but this time, he didn't try to hide it. He just smiled. "And you're a lot more than an 'Ice Prince' when you're actually listening, Asakura Jo."

-

The three-weeks marathon of rehearsals and studio sessions had transformed Room 403 into a chaotic workshop of charcoal dust and drum sheet music. But as the deadline arrived, the tension shifted from the dorm room to the SNU Media Gallery.

The gallery was packed. When it was finally Jo and Yuma’s turn, the room went dark.

​Yuma took his seat behind a simplified percussion setup. As he began a rhythmic, heartbeat-like pulse on the muffled snare, Jo stood before a massive, multi-paneled canvas. Using a specialized digital projection that tracked the frequency of the drums, Jo began to paint live.

​Every time Yuma hit a deep note, a splash of burnt orange bloomed across the white space. When the rhythm became frantic and sharp, Jo’s strokes turned into jagged, electric lines of black and gold.

​"The concept," Jo explained to the silent crowd while he painted, "is that silence isn't the absence of sound, but the preparation for it. Yuma’s rhythm dictates the weight of my color."

​"And the color," Yuma added, his voice steady as he transitioned into a complex polyrhythm, "gives my sound a physical body. We aren't two separate artists anymore; we're one vibration."

​The performance ended with a single, crashing crescendo that saw the entire canvas flooded with a vibrant, glowing sunset hue. For a moment, there was total silence—the "resonance" they had fought about—before the gallery erupted in applause.

The Professor stood up, looking impressed. "A remarkable synthesis. Asakura-san, your work usually lacks warmth, but today it was burning. And Nakakita-san, your indecisiveness seems to have vanished behind that kit. What changed?"

​Jo looked at Yuma. For the first time, he didn't give a cool academic answer. "I stopped trying to control the outcome and started listening to the person next to me."

​Yuma felt a lump in his throat. "I realized that if I don't stand tall for my art, the fluff just blows away. I had to be firm to match Jo’s intensity."

​The other students were buzzing. Fuma was nodding proudly, while Harua was snapping photos of the duo with a soft smile.

As they stepped off the stage, the adrenaline was still surging. They were both breathing hard, eyes bright with the high of a successful show.

​"We did it," Yuma gasped, his face glowing. "Jo, we actually did it!"

​"You were incredible," Jo said, his usual guard completely down.

​Without thinking—driven by pure, unadulterated joy—they both raised their hands.

​CLAP.

​Their palms met in a perfect, firm high-five. But the moment their skin touched, it wasn't just a celebratory gesture. It was as if the "resonance" they’d been studying had physically manifested. A sharp, literal spark of static electricity jumped between their palms, and for a second, neither of them pulled away. They stood there, hands locked in mid-air, eyes wide, paralyzed by a sudden, heavy magnetic pull that had nothing to do with art and everything to do with the two of them.

​Realizing they were holding the pose for a beat too long, they both jerked their hands back as if they’d been burned.

​"Uh... static. From the... carpet," Yuma stammered, shoving his hands into his pockets.

​"Right. Very... high friction," Jo muttered, looking at his own palm as if it were a foreign object.

Across the room, Nicholas was leaning against a pillar, arms crossed. He hadn't missed a single second of the exchange. He nudged EJ, who was busy wiping a fake tear from his eye.

​"Did you see that?" Nicholas whispered.

​"The high-five? Yeah, it was cute," EJ chirped.

​"No," Nicholas smirked, his eyes narrowing as he watched Jo and Yuma pointedly avoid looking at each other while walking toward the exit. "It wasn't a high-five. It was a short circuit. They’re finally waking up."

​EJ grinned, pulling out his phone. "Then it's time for the 'Mandatory Cultural Outing.' I’m booking the tickets for the Namsan Seoul Tower cable car right now. And I’m making sure they get the 'Couple's Cabin'."

-

The sun was dipping below the horizon, bleeding shades of violet and burnt orange—the very colors of their project—across the Seoul skyline. The Namsan cable car creaked as it began its slow ascent toward the tower.

​Inside the small glass cabin, the atmosphere was thick. EJ and Nicholas had "lost their tickets" at the boarding gate, and the rest of the crew had been pushed into a different car by a sudden surge of tourists. Now, it was just Jo and Yuma, suspended in mid-air.

​Yuma stared out at the twinkling lights of Myeong-dong, his reflection ghosting against the glass. The silence was louder than his drums.

​"Jo," Yuma started, his voice soft. "About that night... and the rumors. Seven people in a year. Is it really because you get bored? Or is that just what people say because they can't get close to you?"

​Jo was leaning against the railing, the city lights reflecting in his dark eyes. He stayed silent for a long time, watching a distant car on the road below.

​"It wasn't because I was 'hunting,'" Jo finally said, his voice unusually quiet. "Most of them... they liked the idea of a 'genius painter.' They wanted to be a muse, not a person. When I realized they were looking at the canvas and not at me, I ended it. It wasn't seven heartbreaks, Yuma. It was seven times I realized I was still alone."

​He didn't give names, dates, or details. It was a skeletal truth, lacking the "drama" the others had whispered about, but for Yuma, it was enough to breathe. The "vampire" image K had described began to dissolve, replaced by something much more human—and much lonelier.

​Yuma felt a wave of relief wash over him, followed by a sudden, grounding calm. "I see."

​He turned away from the window to face Jo. "You know... we’re going to be here until December. We’ve finished one month. That means I have nine more months this year just to figure out if you're actually a jerk or just misunderstood."

​Jo’s eyebrows shot up. "Nine months?"

​"Yeah," Yuma said, a small, confident smile playing on his lips. "I’m going to slow down. I don't need to know every detail of your exes tonight. I'd rather see what you're going to paint tomorrow. I’m going to judge you by what I see, not by what others says."

​Jo felt a strange tension in his chest. A part of him—the part that was used to being in control—wanted to demand why Yuma was suddenly being so mature. He wanted to ask, 'What do you see right now?' but he caught himself. He didn't want to ruin the fragile peace they had just built.

​Instead, Jo stepped closer, closing the gap in the small cabin until Yuma was tucked between him and the glass. He leaned down, a glint of his old teasing self returning, but his eyes remained soft.

​"So, I'm under observation for nine months?" Jo murmured, his breath ghosting over Yuma’s ear.

​"Strict observation," Yuma squeaked, though he didn't move away.

​"Then do your best, Yuma-kun," Jo teased gently. "Don't let the rumors distract you. If you want to know the 'true' Jo, you’ll have to pay attention. I’m a very complex subject to study."

​As the cable car reached the summit with a gentle jolt, Jo reached out and briefly, almost tentatively, ruffled Yuma’s fluffy hair.

​"Let's go. EJ is probably waiting to take a hundred photos of us looking awkward."

​Yuma followed him out into the cool night air, his heart still racing but his mind finally quiet. He had nine months. And for the first time in his life, he didn't feel indecisive at all.