Chapter Text
Even before getting knocked unconscious, Seungmin wasn’t having the best Thursday.
The morning had seen him sprawled back in his orthodontist’s chair at 7:00 AM sharp to get his braces tightened another few notches, which meant by 8:00 AM he was nursing a headache that oozed down his temples and permeated the entirety of his aching jaw. In a stroke of bad luck, the school cafe was closed down until the weekend due to an apparent espresso machine explosion, which meant the denial of his usual cup of soul-warming black coffee to keep him stimulated through his first block of courses. Han Jisung, on the other hand, had apparently replaced his red blood cells with caffeine, given the sheer amount of talking he’d been able to cram into their shared literary composition class.
The journalism major had either ignored or overlooked the bags beneath Seungmin’s glazed-over eyes, continuing to shove words into his ears until the professor snapped at them both. At least his talkative tablemate has the kindness to offer him a few ibuprofen for his headache. Not that it does much. By the time art history rolls around, Seungmin is almost expecting the professor to tell them her dog ate their tests from last week analyzing the impact of pre-Raphealite art on photography subjects.
Close. It was a tipped candle. And it was only two tests - one belonging to the unluckiest man on the face of the earth and the other belonging to Seo Changbin, who visibly experienced the full 5 stages of grief in 0.05 seconds. ‘Anger’ involved punching Seungmin’s upper arm so hard his fingers turned to static. For a moment, the sharpness of it yanked focus from the dull ache in his head, and he found himself almost grateful for the respite. With his spotless academic record, he’d probably be able to puppy-dog eyes his way into not retaking the test and just averaging his assignment grades from that unit, but that was a quest for Tomorrow Seungmin. Less Exhausted Seungmin, who might actually have the energy to beg for mercy.
Finally, finally, classes came to their bitter end, allowing him to slog across campus to the music building to prepare for another day of practice.
Autumn tints the world sepia.
Leaves bristling golden and orange and red, the artist’s palette of a sunset available at all times of day, even under the blanching radiance of a late afternoon sun. The university marching band spills into their back parking lot like a leaf pile toppled by a cool fall breeze until the air is filled with the sound of tuning instruments, dissonant and comforting.
No time to waste though, and so drum major Christopher Chan ascends his podium and lifts his hands to call the band to attention at 6:30 PM on the dot. Regionals are coming in a month, after all, and while their sound is rich and their marching is solid, there are certainly some show formations that require quite a bit of cleaning.
Warm-ups pass in a haze. Seungmin's teeth still feel like they're being wrung out like dishtowels, so his focus is weak and his mind is wandering. Part of him wonders if his bad luck is going to continue into rehearsal. That would suck.
Of all the places to suffer misfortune, during a marching show - surrounded by big metal instruments, big metal drums, and dozens of sweaty young adults who frequently walk backwards - has to be one of the worst. Maybe this band is his home, but that doesn't mean he wants to get bulldozed by a sousaphone.
That mental image encourages him to try and squint his way into paying more attention to what's around him, and just in time, as Chan shouts out which set they're going to repeat before leaning down to crank on their metronome. Dr. Beat.
Humanity's loudest technological creation.
Understandable, since the deafening metallic ticks have to be heard over an entire marching band to keep their footfalls in tempo. Apparently, it's audible from blocks away. Definitely audible to any pour souls still in the south school wing, despite all rehearsals taking place far away in the long-ago abandoned senior parking lot, a good six minute walk from the main university building.
Normally, Seungmin finds the repetitive droning of Dr. Beat very soothing, but normally there's not a migraine blurring his vision out. Every downbeat hammers into his skull. It’s impossible to focus on anything except the noise - the metronome, and the brass, and the scuff of sneakers on asphalt, and the ripple of color guard flags sweeping by his head.
Pay attention. Pay attention.
Easier said than done, yet by sheer force of will, Seungmin manages to take advantage of a six measure rest to recenter himself. His baritone feels like a hunk of cement in his hands today because he’s so tired, so he narrows in on the crest of the instrument’s bell, shining silver in the October sunlight. Condensation dews on the mouthpiece hovering a few millimeters in front of his lips as his heaving breaths ghost over it. One of his socks has slipped low, exposing a stretch of ankle that keeps sliding painfully against the edge of his other foot’s sneaker with each rigid step he takes.
Tiny sensations trying to anchor his drifting mind, and they wind up working, more or less. Clarity returns, and as soon as it does, Seungmin is rewarded with a dawning realization that something is off. Something isn’t right here, in this formation.
Immediately his eyes cut sideways to check if he’s in line with the musician to his right, and he is. Same with the one on his left, which means he’s perfectly dressed, with the correct amount of spacing between his shoes and the shoes of each of his neighbors. While he’s far from the best marcher in the band, his spatial awareness is good and his instincts rarely fail him. So, why does this feel so wrong?
The baritone section takes a collective breath to jump back in, their rest complete and the 3rd act of the show approaching, and Seungmin hastily joins them. Managing to tear his confused gaze away from his surroundings just in time to see the end of a color guard pole swing directly into his face.
“. . . out of fucking nowhere -"
“Yah! Language!”
“Are you seriously getting on me about that right now?”
“Did anyone get the nurse?? Did she leave for the day?”
“Chan’s getting the medkit-"
“Wait, he’s moving!”
“Oh, thank fucking Christ -"
Seungmin cracks an eye open and meets the gaze of an angel.
Ah. Died a little younger than I wanted, but I guess I can't complain.
"Seungmin!" Blessedly, the angel is speaking to him, in a voice that feels more familiar than it should. "I'm so sorry, gosh, are you okay??" Not an angel after all.
Close, though. Hwang Hyunjin.
The world is quieter than it had been just a moment ago. Chan had shut off Dr. Beat, thank god, and all the chatter from just before he’d opened his eyes has cut off abruptly, leaving only the faint buzz of cicadas to fill the air after Hyunjin's question.
The parking lot surface is hot beneath his bare legs and arms, alerting Seungmin to the fact that he's now laying on the ground. Sprawled on his back, with quite a few people hovering over him with their shadows cutting across his body, thankfully blocking the sun from blinding him too much. Now, the only thing blinding him is the beauty of a certain blonde color guard member, framed in a halo of light and looking incredibly worried. Although Seungmin opens his mouth to give his usual I'm fine, the words shrivel up on his tongue as he finally moves and lets the new, exciting pain of getting smacked by a flag hit him all at once.
It seems like after he'd gotten hit, he'd fallen straight backwards - his skull connecting to the asphalt with an eagerness fit to rival long lost lovers sprinting through an airport to collide in a hug. It hurts. It hurts pretty bad, in a sickeningly warm way, and he almost misses the fact that he's only staring blankly up at Hyunjin (who's still waiting for a response) with one eye.
Right, right, that makes sense, since the flash of the white pole had been rocketing towards his left eye, that's where he must've gotten hit. Instinctively, Seungmin lifts a hand to cover the injury, moving sluggishly while his body tries to wake back up. It feels tender beneath his fingers. Already swollen shut, no doubt blooming in rich purples and blues and adding to the cocktail of discomfort swirling in his brain.
What an awful Thursday.
"My head," he finally moans. Hyunjin's expression plummets even further. Maybe he should have said something more comforting, but that would require energy, and it’s taking every ounce of focus he has to not roll over onto his side and throw up on the concrete. He’s grateful he’s not prone to crying, or else he’d probably be tearing up in front of the entire band, which would be mortifying and also unfortunate, considering that these are the only people he talks to. Speaking of which.
Changbin looms into his reduced field of vision, a furrow of concern between his dark brows. “You, uh . . fell really hard. So. Don’t . . move just yet, okay? Chan is coming back in a secon-"
“Hyunjin, what the fuck happened??”
Across the lot, steam pouring from his ears, comes Han, slinging his huge bari saxophone around to his back and glaring at the guard member like Hyunjin had just run over his dog. Which, he sorta had. “You’re late to warmups for what’s gotta be the twelfth time this month, and then you’re gonna be surprised when something like this happens? You’ve gotta be kidding me, you’re so lucky you didn’t hit his mouth, or I’d be -"
The back of Han’s sleeveless shirt is snagged by a strong hand belonging to a much stronger person, and the sax player is yanked to a halt before reaching striking distance.
“Accidents happen. Relax.” That low, raspy voice is recognizable even to Seungmin, who’s barely paying attention to the commotion he’s inadvertently caused; Lee Minho, senior, dance major, color guard captain, and one of the only people able to pump the brakes on Han’s dramatics. No one can remember when they started dating. One day they were good friends, and the next they were holding hands on the trek out to the back lot, and it had felt so natural that everyone sort of forgot that they hadn’t always been dating.
“Are you okay? Minnie?”
Minnie. Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while.
It’s only when that gentle voice calls out to him and he opens his eyes - eye - that he realizes he’d closed them at all. The sun is very warm, and his head hurts very bad.
For once, the ever petty Hyunjin hasn’t risen to Han’s bait. All of the dancer’s attention is down on Seungmin, warmer than the sun could ever hope to be and laden with guilt and worry in equal measures.
Despite being the one knocked flat on his ass, Seungmin can’t help but want to wipe the fear off his face. “I’m fine,” he manages to croak out, to Hyunjin’s visible relief. “I’m . . Really, I don’t know what happened.”
“I’m so sorry. Here, I can -"
“Hey, Seungmin!” Whatever Hyunjin was going to do is halted by Chan’s sudden arrival. He must’ve fully sprinted from here to the band room and back to retrieve their medkit, but he’s smiling hugely and barely panting for breath. Sometimes, their drum major doesn’t seem human.
But he is. Often painfully so. Maybe he’s greeting his favorite brass member with casual fondness, as if they’d unexpectedly run into each other at the corner store, but his expression is tight and he’s on his knees by Seungmin’s side in a mere instant, hands fluttering around his face and chest to find what he can fix.
The attention is starting to make his skin crawl, and he mumbles a half-hearted assurance. “I’m fine, he didn’t . . My mouth wasn’t hit.”
Chan gurgles out a noise somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “Yes, good, that’s good, but you did, in fact, hit your head. Really hard.”
“Hard enough that I genuinely heard it over Dr. Beat,” Jeongin chimes in from somewhere by Seungmin’s sneakers.
Jisung snaps out, “Not helping!” It earns him another yank at the collar.
"Seungmin, I'm so sorry," comes another whimper directly above him. Oh god. In the sunlight, the tears starting to pool in Hyunjin's big eyes glitter beautifully, but Seungmin stares at them in horror because he can't handle people crying on a good day, and today certainly isn't a good day. The notion that he might have to comfort the guy has him wishing the fall would have knocked him out longer.
"It's okay, Hyunjin, it was an accident. It happens!" Chan actually isn't human. He's an angel. "You and I are gonna get Seungmin back to the band room so we can check him over, alright? Sounds good?"
Hyunjin manages to sniffle and nod before the tears spill over his thick lower lashes and stream down his cheeks.
"Hey, hey, aren't you the one who should be crying? This feels backwards."
Not even his primal compulsion to tell Han to shut his big mouth can get Seungmin to respond to the jab. Fatigue is slogging through his body like syrup, denser than the concrete beneath his back, coaxing him to melt down into the parking lot and become one with the dirt. That might be nice. It's probably cooler down there anyway.
"Seungmin doesn't cry, have you ever met him?" Thanks for the support, Jeongin. "I think the kids these days are calling it 'emotional constipation,' or something." You cuck.
Suddenly there's a hand sliding underneath his neck to cradle the base of his skull, and then he's sitting upright, and then his arm is drawn over a set of shoulders, and then he's standing. Or, well, it'd be more accurate to say "leaning," since Chan is taking nearly all of his weight with barely a grunt of protest.
Hmm. It looks like a lot of the blood that was previously inside of his head is outside of it, on the ground now. When Seungmin is finally vertical again, the world goes black for a worrying length of time. Long enough that he starts to wonder if he'll once more wake up on the ground, but then the glare of the autumn sun sears into his eyes and he's still on his feet. Success!
That might be thanks to Hyunjin, who's wormed his way underneath Seungmin's other arm to help their drum major tote him back to the band room. It's comforting to have their warmth against each side, but it also means his hand isn't covering his black eye anymore, and all three of them can hear the sharp, pitying intake of breath from everyone who’d come to circle around them finally seeing the damage done.
"Oof," Minho mumbles, with an actual iota of concern.
Which is concerning.
Because Minho being concerned means Seungmin may as well have one foot in the grave.
Pink douses his bruised face under the intensity of all these eyes on him and him alone. He hates it. He hates it. A maddening itch to bring his hands up to cover himself has his fingers twitching against Hyunjin’s back, and luckily the blonde catches - or remembers - Seungmin’s intense dislike of crowds and skillfully maneuvers them both until their backs are to the rest of the band.
Thank you.
“I can take him, Chan. Don’t worry.” The assuredness in Hyunjin’s voice has Chan’s eyebrows lifting, and after a moment to examine the guard member’s face, he nods.
“Be there in five minutes,” he swears to them both, already trotting over to his podium. “I’ll call his parents on the way.”
Don’t bother, he wants to call out after him. They’re not coming.
But by this point, Seungmin has little interest in anything besides getting out of the heat and laying down for about 20 years. The two start off on their trek to the school building. Chan calls the band to attention behind them, trying to salvage the scraps of productivity that hadn’t been evaporated after seeing their first chair baritone get his shit absolutely rocked by the hottest university student in this hemisphere.
Speaking of which. The arm curled tightly around his waist is strong, but lean, and Seungmin can’t help the tickle of discomfort at having to rely so much on someone else. Especially someone who’s practically a stranger.
Stranger? I guess so.
His arm is sticky where it presses to the back of Hyunjin’s neck, sweat slicking both their skin. That might be where their physical similarities end. In comparison to the other’s slender frame, Seungmin feels clumsy, heavy, slow.
Quiet descends more completely the further they get from the lot, until their footfalls and equally strained breathing are noticeable enough to grow awkward. Someone should say something.
Sorry for hitting you in the face. Hyunjin had already apologized.
I’m fine. Really I don’t know what happened. Seungmin clearly didn’t blame him.
So, there’s no reason to say anything until Seungmin catches the toe of his sneaker on a rock, sending them both stumbling. “Agh.” One of his usual noises. This one is of frustration. “Sorry, my fault. Walking is . . .” his words trail off as he gets out of his own head enough to actually look at Hyunjin. What he sees elicits a frown powerful enough that the blond can feel the confusion in the air between them, and turns to catch Seungmin’s stare.
“Is this -"
“Since when are you taller than me?”
The answer comes faster than Seungmin expects, soft with sincerity. “Since the summer break between sophomore and junior year.” High school, not university. Merely two years since they’d graduated and yet it feels like six lifetimes ago. Hyunjin labors to tear his gaze away, focusing straight ahead at their approaching destination. “And, I’m . . really sorry. Really.”
Seungmin gives no response because isn’t sure they’re talking about the flag pole anymore.