Chapter 1: Chapter One
Chapter Text
The gym was shaking. It always did when they played here. When their team, the reigning thunder of their division, stepped onto their home court. But tonight it was shaking like the whole building was in an earthquake.
Because tonight wasn’t just any game. It was them versus their rivals. Their rivals… and him.
Sweat dripped into the corner of San’s eye as he sprinted down the court, lungs burning in the best way. The scoreboard glared from above like some judge waiting for the final blow: 76–76 with four minutes left.
The crowd stomped their feet so loudly the floor trembled through San’s shoes. Someone screamed his name. Someone else screamed an insult at the ref. The student section howled like wolves.
San tuned it all out. He always could, except when this specific team showed up. Except when this specific person was on the floor.
“San! To your left!” Hongjoong called, voice sharp as a misfired whistle.
San darted right instead, cutting past two defenders with the confidence of someone who didn’t just believe in his own speed. He worshiped it. The ball thudded against the court, each bounce syncing with the electric pulse hammering in his chest.
His legs were on fire. His breath caught somewhere between a shout and a growl. His senses were heightened where everything was crisp, everything was loud, and everything was now.
He lived for this. He thrived in chaos. He was built for these final seconds and his team trusted him with them.
“Go, San! FUCKING GO!” Wooyoung screamed from the bench, half-standing on a teammate’s leg.
San snorted and pushed harder. Of course Wooyoung was screaming profanity. The man didn’t have an indoor voice.
San pivoted around the last defender and rose for the shot—
“Hey!” someone yelled, too close.
A body slammed into him and his shot faltered, arcing wrong, hitting the rim and bouncing out. The crowd groaned like a single creature in pain.
San hit the ground in a roll, palms stinging from the burn of the hardwood. He was up again in half a second, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He didn’t even need to look to know who’d fouled him, but he looked anyway.
The player was benched by the coach and San sighed in relief. They just had to make it three and half more minutes. Then he looked up again when the other team switched players.
And there he was.
Kang Yeosang.
Stepping onto the court like he owned it. Like he owned the game. Like he owned every inch of San’s peace of mind. His team’s coach had finally put him back in.
The crowd screamed his name and San hated how loud they got for him.
Yeosang didn’t acknowledge them directly. He rarely did. His expression was cool, unreadable, chest rising with practiced calm as if he wasn’t just subbed into a tied game with seconds left after scoring every point the first three halves..
San glared at him so hard his vision wavered. Yeosang looked right back, that same neutral stare San had despised for two years.
Two. Whole. Fucking. Years.
“Of course they put him in now,” San muttered under his breath, annoyance boiling instantly. “Cowards.”
“San, stop staring,” Seonghwa said as he walked by to position himself. “You look unhinged.”
San didn’t stop staring. If anything, he stared harder. Yeosang simply lifted an eyebrow, barely. Almost invisible. Anyone else might’ve missed it, but San didn’t and he took it like a slap to the face.
The ref handed San the ball for inbound. His palms were slick, his fingers a little too tense, his breath too uneven. He knew what was happening. He hated that it was happening. But Yeosang always did this to him. A single look and every nerve in San’s body tightened. Every instinct sharpened, then twisted.
This wasn’t nerves. This wasn’t even their regular rivalry. This was war.
San took the ball. “Let’s go,” he growled.
The next three minutes weren’t basketball. They were a duel.
The second San had the ball, Yeosang was on him, but never fouling him, Yeosang wasn’t sloppy like that. No, he was precise. Shadowing San’s movements with terrifying grace.
San darted left and Yeosang mirrored. So San crossed over, but Yeosang flowed with him like water. The crowd roared each time they collided at the three-point line. At this point, no one was watching the overall teams. They were just watching them.
Hongjoong tried to direct traffic, but San barely heard him. Yunho called for a pass and San ignored him. Wooyoung yelled another curse, but San barely processed it.
All he saw was Yeosang. Yeosang’s eyes, dark and steady. Yeosang’s shoulders, angled like he was reading San’s next move. Yeosang’s stance, wide and rooted, ready for the kill.
San’s heart jackhammered.
“Come on then,” San muttered under his breath. “Try me.”
Yeosang’s lips twitched. Not a smile or anything remotely warm, but a reaction. And that was enough to piss San off further.
San lunged forward, forcing the pace, dribbling low and fast. Sweat flicked off his jawline as he carved through the court. Yeosang stuck to him like a ghost, never touching, never slipping. Their shoes squeaked in near-unison, a synchronized rhythm built from two years of hating each other efficiently.
“You’re slow tonight,” San taunted, breath sharp.
Yeosang didn’t respond. He let his game speak for him. San hated that about him too. How hard was it for some mutual trash talking. It was literally 30 percent of his love for the sport, but when a certain someone doesn't fight back the same way it just looked like he was being mean.
He drove toward the basket, but Yeosang cut him off. He spun and Yeosang reversed with him. Then he went for a shot and Yeosang’s hand rose like a blade and the ball glanced off his fingertips.
The crowd oohed louder than San expected. He cursed loudly and Yeosang stayed silent, eyes cold. The ball went out of bounds so the rivals’ team got possession. Just his luck.
San’s pulse roared in his ears. Twenty seconds left.
He already knew what Yeosang would do next. He knew the play, the pattern, the psychology. For two years, Yeosang had been the one player who forced San to think, to predict, and to freaking adjust. And now he was about to outmaneuver him when it mattered most.
The opposing point guard tossed Yeosang the ball. San tightened every muscle, ready. Yeosang began dribbling up the court, slow and steady, like time didn’t apply to him.
San stepped in front of him and Yeosang’s gaze flicked up briefly, assessing. San felt it like a live wire against his spine.
“You’re not getting past me,” San hissed.
Yeosang finally spoke. It was low and quiet, and clearly only meant only for San.
“You always say that.”
San lunged on instinct, but Yeosang moved first. A single feint, just a tilt of his shoulders, the barest suggestion of motion, and San fell for it. Just by an inch. Just enough that Yeosang slipped past on the opposite side.
San spun instantly, but Yeosang was already ahead.
“NO—!” San shouted, sprinting after him.
Yeosang glided down the court like gravity didn’t apply to him. The crowd rose to their feet.
Five seconds.
Yeosang sidestepped Jongho.
Three seconds.
He leapt, so calm, so effortless.
Two seconds.
The ball left his fingertips shooting towards the basket and… like San’s own demons hated him…. nothing but net.
BEEEEEP
And just like that the game was over and San felt his stomach drop into the floor.
The gym erupted with half cheering and half screaming. Yeosang landed with perfect balance, chest rising evenly as though he hadn’t just delivered the killing blow.
San stopped mid-court, fists clenched, breath ragged. His whole body shook, not from exhaustion, but from pure, furious adrenaline.
They’d lost. Because of him. Because he fell for one fucking move. And because Yeosang stole the win right out of his hands.
San wanted to punch something. He wanted to scream. He wanted Yeosang off the court, out of his sight, off the ever loving planet!
His anger was cut off when the music started soft and the teams started to line up for post-game handshakes. San marched through the line, jaw grinding, then Yeosang stepped in front of him.
Up close, he was too calm. Too composed. His hair was slightly damp, his jersey clung to the sharp lines San refused to acknowledge. His expression was neutral and unreadable as always.
“Good game,” Yeosang said.
San glared at him like he wanted to set him on fire.
Yeosang didn’t flinch, didn’t acknowledge the hostility at all. He just held out his hand. But San was already riled up so he slapped his palm harder than necessary.
Yeosang barely reacted and that, of course, pissed San off even more.
They walked past each other without another word, but San felt the encounter buzzing under his skin like static. He stomped toward the tunnel while his teammates exchanged tired groans and post-loss shrugs.
San wasn’t shrugging. He was vibrating with frustration. The second they passed through the tunnel’s shadows, San slammed his hand into the nearest locker, the metal cracking as pain shot up his arm.
“San!” Hongjoong barked.
San turned, still breathing hard, face twisted.
Hongjoong marched up to him, captain mode activated. “Calm. Down.”
“He—” San started.
“I know.” Hongjoong held up a hand. “You played your ass off. It was a close game and he got you on a good move. That’s it.”
San wanted to argue. He wanted to spit fire. But his chest was too tight and the sound of Yeosang’s shot hitting the net echoed violently in his head.
Yunho clapped San’s back gently. “You two were insane out there. I thought the court was gonna crack.”
Wooyoung snickered. “No, San’s forehead vein was gonna crack.”
“Shut up,” San snapped.
“Love you too,” Wooyoung chirped.
San paced, running a hand through his hair. “Two years,” he muttered. “Two years of this shit and you’d think I’d get used to him.”
Seonghwa snorted softly. “You never get used to people who piss you off that thoroughly.”
“And you two go at each other like some kind of Shakespeare feud,” Mingi added. “Like old rivals or enemies fated by the gods.”
San threw him a look. “What the hell have you been reading lately?”
Mingi shrugged.
Hongjoong sighed and leaned against a locker. “Look. We all know your history. You and Yeosang have been rivals since the day you set foot on a college court. And yeah, it’s heated, and yeah, you want to win that fight every single time.”
San clenched his jaw.
Hongjoong continued, more gently, “But you gave everything tonight. You did your part. It just ended the way it ended.”
San breathed hard through his nose. That answer didn’t satisfy him. Nothing would because he didn’t give everything. He left one opening. Just one. And Yeosang fucking took it.
San sat heavily on the bench, well, “sat” was generous. He dropped onto it like gravity finally won. The sting in his palm from hitting the locker was finally catching up, throbbing in time with his pulse. He curled his fingers into a loose fist, trying to ignore it.
Yunho plopped onto the bench next to him, legs stretched all the way out like he was emotionally defeated spaghetti. “Hongjoong is right. You did your best, but that game was brutal.”
“You think?” San muttered.
Wooyoung tossed his towel into his locker and whirled around dramatically. “I’m surprised the court didn’t explode from the tension. Like, come on, that was not normal competitive energy.”
“Nothing about those two is normal,” Jongho said, utterly deadpan as he peeled off his jersey.
“Gee, thanks,” San snapped.
Jongho shrugged. “Just saying what everyone already knows.”
Mingi sat on the floor, leaning back against a row of lockers like he needed structural support to emotionally process whatever the hell had happened. “Bro, I swear, every time Yeosang looks at you, it’s like he’s deciphering your entire soul and planning its downfall.”
San shot him a glare. “He’s not—he just— he’s annoying. He’s upsetting. He’s—”
“Pretty,” Wooyoung supplied.
San choked. “No—!”
Wooyoung burst out laughing, nearly falling into Seonghwa, who caught him by the collar like a misbehaving cat. “Wooyoung, for the love of god, shut up.”
“What?! I didn’t say anything wrong,” Wooyoung said, grinning like a menace. “I’m just saying, your enemy is hot. It’s a classic. It’s like folklore. Heroes and villains. Princess and pirate. Sun god and moon—”
“Wooyoung.”
“Right, my bad.”
San dragged both hands over his face, muffling a groan. “I just hate him.”
“You’ve said that for two years,” Hongjoong reminded him, calmly unlacing his shoes. “And yet you still let him get under your skin every single time.”
“He gets under everyone’s skin,” San snapped. “He plays like he’s untouchable. Like he’s above—”
“He’s not above you,” Seonghwa interrupted softly. “He competes with you. Exactly with you. I’ve never seen him rise to anyone else like he rises to you.”
That didn’t help. That just made San’s stomach twist weirdly.
“Also,” Jongho added, “you definitely talk about him more than anyone else does.”
San stared. “I do not.”
The entire locker spoke in unison. “You do.”
San’s eye twitched, but before he could threaten violence, justifiably, the door swung open with a metallic slam. Their coach entered and everyone snapped straight like soldiers.
Coach Lee wasn’t a tall man, but he carried the weight of years in the sport, gruff experience, and absolutely zero tolerance for bullshit. His voice was the kind that could wake the dead and the chronically late.
“Listen up.”
San swallowed hard, jaw still locked tight. Coach Lee tossed his clipboard onto the bench and it skidded till it hit Wooyoung in the thigh making him yelp.
“You played your hearts out tonight,” Coach said. “You fought. You pushed. You didn’t give up even when the pressure was insane.”
San felt the words digging under his ribs, scraping at the wounded pride there.
The coach continued, “I’m not mad at a loss like that. That wasn’t a loss from slacking. That was a battle between two well-matched teams. And frankly anyone watching that game saw something special.”
Wooyoung raised a hand. “Coach, if you mean the San and Yeosang rivalry—”
“Shut up, Wooyoung.”
“Yes, Coach.”
The coach pointed the end of his pen at San. “Especially you. You kept that team alive out there.”
San blinked and something warm flickered under the anger. He hated it.
“But—” Coach went on, “—you let your emotions get reckless. Again.”
San looked down and he felt Jongho pat his shoulder in quiet sympathy.
The coach crossed his arms. “Two years of rivalry or not, you can’t let another player control your focus. You’re too good for that.”
The quiet in the room thickened. San didn’t respond. Or rather couldn’t. Because Coach Lee wasn’t wrong and he hated that he was never wrong.
Seonghwa stepped in. “They’ve always had this thing, Coach. From the very first tournament.”
“Yeah,” Yunho said. “Like, their first matchup ever. You should’ve seen them. They were already snarling at each other.”
“San elbowed him in the ribs,” Wooyoung chimed.
“He elbowed me first!” San argued, old instincts firing.
“And then Yeosang shut him down in the second half,” Hongjoong added helpfully.
San shot him a betrayed look. “Why would you say that?”
“Context,” Hongjoong said, shrugging.
The coach sighed. “Look, I know your history. Rival schools. Rival playstyles. Both of you being the breakout stars of your year. That kind of pressure breeds conflict.”
The team nodded.
San glared at the floor. He could still see Yeosang’s shot in his mind. He could still hear the perfect swish. He could still feel the rough slap of Yeosang’s hand against his during the game-ending handshake.
Neutral. Cold. Unaffected. San hated how unaffected he seemed.
The coach softened his tone. “Be proud of the work you did tonight. You fought well, but make sure you learn from it too.”
He let that hang in the air before heading back toward his office, the door closing behind him. There was a short silence. Five seconds to be exact.
Then Wooyoung flopped across San’s lap like a dramatic fainting damsel. “Saaaaan… why does Yeosang haunt you like a ghost who died unsatisfied?”
San nearly shoved him off. “Can you not?”
“He definitely lives in your head rent-free,” Yunho added.
“No,” San hissed. “He lives in hell. Which is where he should stay.”
“That was a lot of emotion,” Mingi noted.
“Yeah, I’m sensing repressed feelings,” Wooyoung said.
“Wooyoung, I swear to god—”
“Guys,” Seonghwa cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Enough. San’s still pissed so let him cool off.”
San exhaled through gritted teeth, shoulders tense. The truth was he was more than pissed. He was rattled. He was buzzing. He was wired to the bone because every single time he faced Yeosang, something in him twisted in a way he couldn’t name. And losing to him was gasoline on a fire San already struggled to control.
Hongjoong clapped San’s back. “Hey. Go shower, get some water, and reset. Then we move forward. That’s how we do it.”
San nodded stiffly. The rivalry wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. He would win again and again until they faced each other one last time. And then he would beat the fucking crap out of Yeosang and his team.
🏀🏀🏀🏀🏀
San woke up like he’d been hit by a truck. A very specific truck. One with Kang Yeosang driving it, calm-faced, with no remorse.
His eyes snapped open to the soft grey light sneaking through the blinds of the dorm window. He blinked once, twice… then immediately regretted having eyeballs.
Everything hurt. His shoulders felt like he’d slept under a boulder. His legs were tight enough to snap. His back ached. Even his ribs felt bruised. And his hand throbbed with a hot, sharp rhythm that pulsed all the way up to his wrist.
He stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the initial rush of irritation to pass. But like everything else, it did not.
The ceiling fan rattled overhead, wobbling slightly, sounding like it might drop on him at any moment. He’d been complaining about that stupid fan for months, however Yunho insisted it gave the room character. “Ambience,” he said. San thought it gave the room existential dread.
He groaned loudly. The kind of groan reserved for old men and extremely dramatic college athletes.
Yunho, in his bed across the room, snored softly. He was curled around a pillow, one leg kicked out of the blanket, face smushed against the fabric like he was hugging the best sleep of his life. His hair stuck up in five different directions and his breathing was peaceful.
San envied it. He swung his legs over the side of the bed too quickly and hissed at the pull in his calves. Every tendon screamed in protest. Every muscle complained. He rubbed at the soreness along his neck, rolling his shoulders with a grimace. Then he flexed his right hand. Pain, sharp and immediate.
“Fuck,” San whispered.
He held it up to the morning light, twisting it slightly. The knuckles were swollen, not badly, but enough that it looked angry, raw, and absolutely like something he should’ve avoided doing. A bruise was forming, spreading in that ugly purplish bloom. Redness lined the bone and the skin felt tight and tender.
He frowned. “That’s what I get for punching a locker. Again.”
Yunho snorted in his sleep, as if responding.
San stood, stretching until his spine cracked like bubble wrap. “Ow, ow, okay. That was stupid.”
He padded to the bathroom, the cold tiles waking him fully. He splashed water on his face, letting the icy sting chase away the leftover heat from last night’s rage.
Then he found himself looking at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were swollen from lack of sleep. His jaw tense, hair sticking up, and he had a sour expression.
“You’re a mess,” he muttered to himself.
Still, he wrapped his hand with careful, methodical motions. The athletic tape felt familiar and comforting in a weird way. He’d wrapped sprains, bruises, jammed fingers, but wrapping his own self-inflicted locker punch? That was just embarrassing.
The final wrap was tight but not too tight. Which was good enough for practice.
He stepped out of the bathroom and began pulling on his clothes. Black athletic tee, loose gray sweats, hoodie zipped halfway up. He shoved his phone and chapstick into his pockets, then stared at Yunho. The man was still asleep and snoring like a contented bear.
San crossed the room and nudged him. “Hey. Get up.”
Yunho groaned, slapped blindly at the air, and then flopped face-first into his pillow. “No.”
“Yes. We have practice at noon.”
“That’s in hours.”
“We’re going early.”
“Why?” Yunho mumbled into cotton.
“Because I said so.”
Yunho cracked one eye open, squinting at him like San had personally wronged him. “What time is it?”
“Just past eight.”
Yunho looked betrayed. “What monster wakes up this early after a game?”
“Me,” San said. “Now get up. I don’t want to go alone.”
Yunho struggled upright, sitting there like an overgrown toddler waking from hibernation. He blinked slowly. “You look angry.”
“I’m fine.”
“Now you look very angry.”
“I. Am. Fine.”
Yunho’s attention drifted to the wrapped hand, and he frowned. “You wrapped it.”
“Yeah.”
“Is it because it hurts? I’m surprised you didn’t learn your lesson from last time.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“San.”
“Fine, yes, it hurts,” San snapped.
Yunho nodded knowingly. “So we’re in the ‘lying to ourselves about our poor life choices’ stage of the morning. Got it.”
San scowled, but Yunho just stretched leisurely, arms overhead, back cracking like a glowstick.
“You’re lucky you’re tall,” San grumbled. “If you were anyone else, I’d throw something at your head.”
Yunho grinned sleepily. “You love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
Yunho lumbered toward the closet and began pulling on clothes. “Can we at least get beakfast?”
San grabbed his backpack. “Yeah. We’ll go to the café.”
“And then early practice,” Yunho said, voice flat, “because someone is a masochist.”
San ignored him and opened the door. “Let’s go.”
The hallway was cool and quiet. Most students weren’t awake yet, but that was normal. It was a Saturday morning, which for the average college student meant “don’t speak to me until after 2 p.m.”
San and Yunho stepped out into the autumn morning. Dew clung to the grass. Leaves littered the walkway. The sun was barely awake, casting a soft glow across campus.
Yunho inhaled deeply. “At least the weather is nice.”
San shrugged. “It’s fine.”
“Wow. Someone’s grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy.”
“You’re San. That’s your resting state.”
San glared and Yunho just smiled wider.
When they reached the café, Yunho practically skipped inside. San glanced around pretending not to know him. Yunho ordered a comically large iced latte with extra cream, extra syrup, literally extra everything, while San ordered a plain black coffee.
“Why do you drink that black hole?” Yunho asked as they left, sipping from his sugar bomb. “It tastes like punishment.”
San blew on his cup. “I like the bitterness.”
“You are the bitterness.”
San elbowed him lightly. Maybe he was. He didn’t care.
They walked toward the gym, coffee in hand. Yunho was buzzing from sugar and San was buzzing from caffeine and leftover adrenaline.
“Are you gonna… talk about the game yesterday?” Yunho asked gently.
“No.”
Yunho nodded like he expected that. “Are you gonna pretend it didn’t happen?”
“Yes.”
“You know that never works.”
San’s jaw tightened. “It works for me.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Yunho said, dead serious. “It festers and you explode later.”
“I do not explode.”
“San,” Yunho said, pointing at him with his straw, “you elbowed a guy in the face last season because he said your hair looked flat.”
“It did look flat and he should have known not to mess with me.”
“That’s not the point.”
San sipped his coffee aggressively.
Yunho continued, “So, about Yeos—”
“No.”
“San—”
“NO.”
“You two—”
“Yunho, I swear to god—”
Yunho let out a laugh that echoed across the path. “You’re impossible. And obsessed.”
San grabbed his cup tighter. “I’m not obsessed.”
“Bro. You dream about beating him.”
San opened his mouth to argue, then paused. “…That’s not an obsession. That’s just dedication. It gives me motivation.”
Yunho rolled his eyes so hard it was audible.
When they reached the gym, the large glass doors were still locked, but the trainer’s entrance on the side would be open.
Yunho eyed San carefully. “Are you sure you're okay to practice?”
San stared at the building. The court inside, the bleachers, the faint smell of floor polish and rubber and sweat he loved more than he’d ever admit. His chest tightened, but he nodded. “Yeah.”
Yunho unlocked the side door with the code. “Let’s go loosen up. Maybe shoot around before coach gets here.”
San stepped inside first, the cool air of the gym greeting him like an old friend, and took a deep breath. “Yeah. Let’s work.”
The gym was cold. Not freezing, just the kind of cool that made the air feel sharp and clean. Sunlight cut through the high windows in long, soft beams that landed across the empty bleachers and the glossy wooden court. Dust motes drifted lazily, glowing whenever they passed through a shaft of light.
San always loved the gym like this. Quiet. Empty. Calm. No roaring crowds. No pressure. Just him and the court.
He dropped his backpack onto the bench and breathed in. The smell of varnished wood, old chalk, and faint rubber polish filled his senses, settling something inside him.
Yunho bounced a ball experimentally, the sound echoing, crisp and satisfying. “God, it does feel nice being early every once in a while,” he said.
San cracked his neck. “I hate being awake, but I like being early.”
“Progress,” Yunho said, tossing him a ball.
San caught it one-handed, ignoring the slight ache through his wrapped knuckles. He spun it once, feeling out the weight.
They took their spots at opposite ends of the free-throw line.
“Just a light warm-up?” Yunho asked.
“Yeah.”
Yunho gave a small nod and San’s version of “yes, I need to burn off every emotion in my soul” was subtle but unmistakable. They started with simple chest passes. Clean, rhythmic thuds as the ball traveled between them.
San kept his movements controlled, grounding himself in the repetition. Pass. Catch. Push. Catch. Step. Repeat.
The echo of each bounce bounced off the far walls and came back softer, filling the empty gym.
“Do you think coach will go easy on us today?” Yunho asked, stepping slightly left to adjust his angle.
San snorted. “After last night? No chance.”
“Yeah, true.” Yunho chuckled softly. “He’ll probably make us run suicides.”
“Good. I feel like running.”
Yunho shot him a look. “You always feel like running after a bad game.”
“It works.”
“For who?” Yunho teased.
San ignored that, stepping back and launching the ball. It arced perfectly and dropped through the net with a crisp swoosh. That sound, god, that sound, loosened something in his chest.
He rolled his shoulders again. “Rebounds?”
Yunho nodded and moved under the net. San shifted to the three-point line, wiping his palms on his hoodie before taking his stance. He shot a few. Missed the first. Hit the next two. Missed the fourth by an inch. Every time Yunho grabbed the rebound, he lobbed it back with lazy precision.
“You’re tilting left,” Yunho called.
“I know,” San muttered.
“Then fix it.”
“I know, Yunho.”
“Doesn’t sound like you know.”
“Yunho—”
“You’re still tilting.”
San dropped the ball and pointed at him. “Do you want me to punch you?”
“With your bad hand? I’m not scared.”
San growled and Yunho grinned like an idiot, bouncing lightly on his heels. “I’m just saying, you’re overthinking your shots.”
“I’m not overthinking.”
“You always overthink after a game with—”
San snapped, “Don’t say his name.”
Yunho raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No need to bite my head off.”
San swallowed hard, shaking out his shoulders. “Let’s just keep shooting.”
Yunho nodded, not pushing further, because that was the thing about Yunho. He poked, but he knew when to back off.
San took another shot and it ended with a swish. He exhaled slowly.
The gym door creaked and footsteps echoed. San didn’t turn, but Yunho looked up with a grin. “Morning!”
“Why are you two here so damn early?” Wooyoung’s voice floated in, followed by his dramatic sigh. “It’s Saturday and this is illegal. I’m calling the police.”
San rolled his eyes. Wooyoung strutted in wearing mismatched warmup gear: a hoodie that wasn’t his and shorts that absolutely were too short to be school-regulation. Plus he was carrying a smoothie bigger than his head.
“I could smell the tension from outside,” Wooyoung announced loudly.
San closed his eyes. “Oh my god.”
Wooyoung hopped onto the bleachers and sipped obnoxiously through his straw. He pointed the straw at San like a weapon. “Are we recovering from the loss in general, or are we recovering from the loss to a specific person?”
“Wooyoung,” Yunho warned.
“Fine, fine.” Wooyoung threw both hands up. “I’ll behave… Maybe.”
San grabbed another ball before he could react to that.
Moments later, the gym door opened again. Seonghwa came in, neat and put-together even at 9 a.m., hair fixed, hoodie perfectly fitted, holding a clipboard like he was the assistant coach.
“Morning,” he greeted calmly.
“Morning, hyung,” Yunho echoed.
“Hi, angel,” Wooyoung chirped.
Seonghwa didn’t look at him, instead he scanned San briefly. “How’s your hand?”
“Fine,” San said quickly.
“Uh-huh.” Seonghwa’s tone made it clear he didn’t believe a single syllable. “Let me see.”
“No.”
“San.”
“No.”
“San.”
San groaned loudly and held out his hand. Seonghwa inspected the wrap with clinical precision, fingers gentle but firm. “You’ll be able to practice, but be careful. If it worsens, I’m dragging you to the trainer.”
San rolled his eyes. “Yes, mom.”
“You wish,” Seonghwa said, patting his shoulder like he was dealing with a particularly difficult child.
Then came Hongjoong. Short, focused, and carrying a notebook and water bottle, looking like he’d already been awake for five hours strategizing their next play. He made eye contact with San for half a second and San looked away faster than he meant to.
“Morning,” Hongjoong said with a tiny sigh. “Why are you all here so early?”
“It’s San’s fault. He dragged me,” Yunho said.
“Of course it is,” Hongjoong replied.
Mingi and Jongho trudged in next. Mingi looked like he hadn’t mentally arrived yet and Jongho looked awake, serious, and vaguely judgemental by default.
Jongho adjusted his backpack straps. “Are we starting practice early?”
“Yes,” San said.
“No,” Hongjoong said.
“We can,” Yunho offered.
“Why are you all like this,” Hongjoong muttered, rubbing his forehead.
San inhaled deeply through his nose, steadying himself. The gym felt different now. It was louder, fuller, warmer even. But in a good way. In a familiar way.
Yunho passed him the ball again. “Ready?” he asked quietly.
San nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
They resumed shooting, the rest of the team spreading out, warming up, stretching, arguing, complaining, and totally vibing. A normal practice.
And for a little while, San managed to forget the sting of last night. Almost. He took another shot earning himself another swish.
Almost.
By the time they’d been practicing for close to two hours, the gym no longer felt cold. It felt lived-in.
The chill of early morning had given way to the humid heat that only came from eight sweaty athletes running drills like demons. Sunlight had climbed higher through the windows, warming the bleachers and casting bold, bright streaks across the court.
Balls bounced. Someone laughed loudly. Someone else cursed at missing a layup. Shoes squeaked. Water bottles clicked open and slammed shut. And San, finally, blessedly, felt like himself again.
That tight coil that had been wound up in his chest since last night had loosened. His muscles ached in a good way now. His brain had quieted and his hand didn’t throb anymore once he worked past the initial stiffness.
He stood near the free-throw line, hands on his hips, sweat dripping down his temples as Yunho collapsed dramatically next to him.
“I’m dead,” Yunho groaned, sprawled like a crime scene.
“You’re fine,” San said, nudging his leg with his foot.
“I’m not fine. You killed me.”
“You’re still alive though.”
“No. My spirit is gone. I’m a ghost now.”
San smirked slightly. “Then shut up and haunt the court.”
Yunho let out a whine and rolled onto his stomach, limbs splayed. “I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Yunho paused, lifted his head, then let it drop back down. “No, I don’t, but I want to.”
“Stop being dramatic.”
“Stop being athletic.”
San snorted and took a sip from his water bottle.
Across the court, Wooyoung was trying to see how many times he could bounce a ball off the wall at an angle and catch it behind his back. Spoiler alert: not many.
After the seventh failed attempt, he groaned loudly. “Why is gravity always against me?”
“Because you suck?” Jongho suggested blandly from where he was sitting, stretching his quads.
Wooyoung pointed at him with betrayal in his eyes. “Jongho. Our sweet, precious Jongho. You wound me.”
“You wound my eyes every time you play like that,” Jongho replied.
San wheezed a laugh.
Seonghwa, leaning against the bleachers and wiping sweat from his neck with a towel, called out, “Wooyoung, stop throwing balls at the wall. You’re going to break something.”
“Why would you put that idea in his—” Hongjoong started.
A loud bang echoed through the gym and everyone turned. Wooyoung stood frozen, hands mid-air, staring at the basketball-sized dent in the foam padding on the lower portion of the wall.
Seonghwa closed his eyes. “I literally just told you—”
“It wasn’t me!” Wooyoung protested immediately.
“Wooyo—” Hongjoong cut himself off with a long inhale that sounded like he was invoking every ancestor he had for patience.
Mingi wandered over from the bench, holding half a granola bar, chewing slowly. He blinked at the dent. “Oh. That’s new.”
“Wooyoung did it,” Jongho said.
“I DID NOT—!”
San cracked a grin, finally feeling the familiar lightness that came from being around these idiots long enough. He sat on the floor, stretching his hamstrings, legs out, reaching for his toes. His wrapped hand brushed the court and he glanced at it automatically. Still swollen, a little stiff, but he’d taken care of worse.
Yunho rolled over onto his back and started making tired snow-angel motions against the hardwood. “San.”
“What?”
“Carry me to the bench.”
“Hmm let me think. No.”
“Please.”
“Nope.”
“I’m so dehydrated I’m hallucinating.”
“You’re full of sugar.”
“I’m dying.”
“No you’re not.”
Yunho groaned loudly and dramatically. “You’re heartless.”
“That’s accurate,” Wooyoung chimed in, walking past with a bounce in his step. “I’ve been saying that for years.”
“Shut up,” San and Yunho both said at the same time.
Wooyoung gasped. “Wow. Unity. Cherish this moment, Yunho. He agreed with you.”
San threw his towel at Wooyoung, making him yelp and run.
Hongjoong sat down beside San, opening his notebook. He scribbled something, cross-referenced something else, and hummed to himself. “Your footwork was better today.”
San blinked. “Really?”
“Yeah, it’s cleaner. You were more in control.” Hongjoong glanced at him. “And you were calmer today.”
San lifted a shoulder. “I just needed to get moving.”
“Mm.” Hongjoong tapped his pen. “How’s your hand?”
“Fine.”
“Positive?”
“It’s fine.”
Hongjoong stared at him for a moment. That soft, captain stare that saw more than it let on. San looked away because he did not want another lecture.
Out on the court, Seonghwa was demonstrating proper passing angles to Mingi, who was bending forward in concentration like he was listening to ancient wisdom. Wooyoung attempted to interrupt at least twice and was ignored both times.
Jongho, having finished stretching, walked over to San and nudged his foot. “You’re off today.”
San frowned. “No, I’m not.”
“Not physically,” Jongho clarified. “Mentally.”
San bristled. “I’m fine.”
Jongho shrugged and wandered off. “If you say so.”
San stared after him with an offended look. “Why is everyone diagnosing me today?”
“Because you're easy,” Yunho said from the floor.
San whipped around. “What?!”
Yunho lifted his head. “To read. You’re easy to read.”
“Oh.”
San sat back, weirdly relieved that Yunho didn’t mean something else. Yunho smirked, knowing exactly what he did and San kicked him lightly in the thigh.
“Ow—okay I deserved that,” Yunho admitted, laughing.
Wooyoung suddenly jogged their way, breathless and energized. “San! I have a question!”
“Yeah… no.”
“You didn’t even hear it!”
“Still no.”
“It’s important!”
“It probably isn’t.”
“SAN!”
San exhaled loudly. “Fine. What?”
“On a scale from one to ten,” Wooyoung said, swishing his smoothie cup, “how pissed were you last night when—”
San’s glare hit him like a truck.
Wooyoung froze mid-sentence. “Okay!” he said with a high-pitched squeak. “Never mind! Not asking! Continuing life!”
Yunho snickered.
San rubbed his face. “Why do I hang out with any of you?”
“Because you love us,” Yunho said simply.
“Because we’re fun,” Wooyoung added.
“Because we keep you from exploding,” Seonghwa said wisely.
“Because we tolerate you,” Jongho said.
Mingi raised a hand from across the gym. “Because we feed you!”
San groaned loudly again. God, these idiots. He loved them, but he’d rather die than admit it. He stood up, rolling out his shoulders. His hoodie was tied around his waist now, sweat darkening his tee. His hair stuck to his forehead in messy strands, but he didn’t bother fixing it.
He liked the warmth in his muscles. He liked the ache. He liked the noise of the gym. He liked the familiarity of it all.
Yunho sat up, legs crossed. “Are we getting food after practice?”
“Yeah,” San said. “I’m starving.”
“Burgers?”
“Obviously.”
“Wings?”
“Always.”
“Milkshakes?”
San hesitated. “Sure.”
Yunho grinned triumphantly, stretching his arms like a victorious toddler. San cracked a smile.
Just as things settled into an easy lull, Wooyoung started humming loudly, off-key, of course, while spinning a ball on his finger.
“You are the worst singer ever,” Seonghwa said without looking up.
“I am a treasure,” Wooyoung declared.
“A treasure best left buried,” Jongho muttered.
Hongjoong finally looked up from his notebook. “If you all don’t stop bickering, I’m confiscating balls for the rest of the hour.”
Everyone froze.
“Thank you,” Hongjoong said, resuming his notes.
Yunho whispered loudly to San, “He scares me more than coach.”
“Good,” Hongjoong replied without glancing up.
San barked a laugh and the sound echoed across the gym. This was what felt right. Sweaty, loud, stupid, and chaotic. This was his world and his people.
San stretched his arms overhead, sighing contentedly. No tension. No overthinking. Just this.
Then the gym door clicked open. Everyone froze for a second because it wasn’t the coach. He always entered slamming the door open and halfway through a sentence talking about running or getting off their butts.
But it was just the assistant bringing extra practice balls. The assistant nodded politely and left them be.
Yunho nudged him. “You okay?”
San nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good. Cause we’re playing lightning.”
Wooyoung gasped. “Battle to the death?”
“No,” Seonghwa said.
“Yes,” Wooyoung insisted.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“NO.”
San shook his head, laughing again. He loved a bunch of dorks.
Chapter 2: Chapter Two
Chapter Text
They were in the middle of their absolutely nonsense “lightning-but-actually-a-war” game with Wooyoung screaming, Yunho tripping over his own feet, and Mingi laughing like a cartoon villain, when the gym doors slammed open so hard they bounced off the stopper.
“LINE UP!”
Wooyoung dropped his ball and Yunho flinched so hard he almost fell backward. San sighed internally.
Coach Lee had arrived.
“LINE! UP!” Coach barked again, hands on hips, clipboard tucked under his arm. “You animals move slower than molasses!”
San jogged over to the baseline with the others, forming a straight-ish line. Straight for everyone else at least. It was crooked on Wooyoung’s end because Wooyoung physically did not understand geometry.
Coach paced in front of them with that look, the one that meant business.
“Do you all know what time it is?” he shouted.
“A little past noon,” Jongho answered politely.
“That was not what I meant.”
Jongho nodded. “Sorry, Coach.”
Coach Lee inhaled sharply. “I am asking if you all know what time it is in the season.”
Everyone straightened and Hongjoong answered. “Pre-season, sir.”
“Correct, Captain.” Coach turned, eyes blazing. “The game yesterday was a warm-up. A scrimmage. Meaning it doesn’t count.”
Half the guys let out quiet sighs of relief, expect San. He still hated losing whether it counted or not.
Coach continued pacing, his voice echoing through the gym. “Because that game will not determine our record. Or our ranking. Or our playoff eligibility. The season starts now.”
There was a soft ripple of excitement down the line. Yunho bouncing slightly, Wooyoung whisper-shrieking, Mingi rubbing his hands together like he was preparing for a feast.
San felt it too. The thrill of fresh season energy, the promise of new games, new competition, new reasons to dominate.
The coach lifted the clipboard. “And with the official start of our season,” he said, waving it like a sword, “comes the official line placements.”
Everyone perked up immediately. Starting positions were a big deal. Bench order even more so. Chemistry mattered. Strategy mattered. But bragging rights mattered most of all.
Coach continued, “Some of you will be staying exactly where you were last year. Some of you will be shifting based on improved performance or team needs. Some of you will rotate depending on the court matchup. Yesterday's game helped me put a few things into perspective.”
Wooyoung whispered loudly, “Please put me somewhere cool.”
“Wooyoung.”
“Sorry!”
Coach took a breath. “Let me finish before any of you open your mouths again.”
Silence. Actual, astonishing silence. San didn’t think it could ever be done.
The coach clicked his pen. “Starting lineup for the first half of the season. Point Guard goes to Hongjoong.”
Hongjoong nodded once, calm but satisfied.
“Small Forward…”
Seonghwa straightened automatically.
“…stays Seonghwa.”
Seonghwa smiled politely like he expected it (he did).
“Power Forward is Yunho.”
Yunho fist-pumped, grinning like a giant golden retriever who just got a treat. “Let’s go!”
“Save your energy for the court,” Coach muttered.
“Center will be Jongho.”
Jongho bowed his head once, proud, serious.
“And Shooting Guard…”
San felt his chest tighten instinctively. This was his spot. His role. His entire identity on this team.
“San,” Coach said.
San exhaled, not relief, not surprise, just acknowledgment of what he already knew he earned. “Yes, Coach.”
Wooyoung clapped dramatically. “Our firecracker king!”
“Shut up,” San muttered, but he didn’t hide the small smirk pulling at his lips.
Coach continued, flipping the page. “Bench rotation stays the same for now. Wooyoung, Mingi, you’ll fill in at Shooting guard, forward, and center as needed. Flexibility is our strength.”
Mingi nodded enthusiastically. Wooyoung threw jazz hands. Seonghwa sighed.
The coach turned the page again. “And a reminder: this is subject to change as the season progresses. Your effort, compatibility, and performance in actual games will determine who stays and who moves. You all have worked well together for the past two years so I doubt my threats will work, but still. Your spot can and will be replaced at any time if you start slacking and getting lazy.”
Everyone nodded. This was normal. Routine.
The coach then planted himself in front of them, arms crossed.
“This season is going to be long,” he said. “Grueling and unforgiving. And I need every single one of you operating like a goddamn machine.”
Wooyoung made a tiny beep noise and San elbowed him. Coach ignored them both. He had gone into speech mode.
“We’ve got more competition than last year. New rookies. Players transferring to new schools to win. Unexpected threats. Teams that think they can outrun us, outshoot us, and outsprint us.”
San could feel his blood heating at the thrill of it. Competition. Pressure. The court.
Home.
Coach jabbed a finger in their direction. “And I don’t give a single holy damn about other teams. I care about this one. And this one has the potential to go farther than any lineup I’ve ever coached.”
Yunho’s chest puffed up like a proud pigeon. Mingi breathed out a quiet “whoa.” Even Jongho’s stoic expression twitched. San stood a little straighter because he believed that too. And he wanted it, badly. Everyone did.
Coach lowered his clipboard. “Starting tomorrow, we begin structured drills for our first official game. Today it seems you’ve practiced quite a bit so go stretch, hydrate, shower, and rest.”
Wooyoung raised a hand. “Can we eat first?”
“Wooyou— You know what? I’m too tired to yell anymore. Yes. Go eat.”
“Bless you,” Wooyoung said, clasping his hands like Coach had cured a disease.
“Dismessed! Get out of my gym now.”
The team cheered in various volumes and intensities.
Woooyoung was always the loudest. Mingi accidentally elbowed him. Yunho hugged San from behind and San pretended he hated it. Hongjoong was already reviewing plays in his notebook. Jongho muttered something about protein while Seonghwa planned lunch and pretended these idiots weren’t his responsibility.
Everyone broke from formation, drifting into circles of chatter. San rolled out his shoulders again, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. That warmth, that bright, charged, exhilarating buzz of season energy, filled him up.
This was good. This was normal. This was how a season began.
And right now everybody was excited. Everybody was ready. They were a bunch of happy, hungry, sweaty idiots preparing to storm their season together.
🏀🏀🏀🏀🏀
The student quad was alive. Not chaotic, not crowded, just comfortably busy.
A soft breeze rustled through the oak trees lining the walkway. Sunlight danced through the branches, leaving scattered patterns on the ground. Students sprawled across benches, low walls, picnic tables, and patches of grass like lounge lizards with backpacks.
And at one of the tables under the shade of a giant tree, the basketball team had staked their claim.
San sat with his legs stretched all the way out, ankles crossed, hoodie on despite the warming weather. Yunho leaned against his shoulder like a sleepy golden retriever. Wooyoung sat across from them, drinking a smoothie that looked radioactive. Mingi occupied the bench backwards, arms draped over the backrest, swinging his legs like a kindergartner. Seonghwa stood with his iced coffee, not sitting because he disliked getting grass stains. Hongjoong typed on his laptop with deadly focus, barely blinking. Jongho was reading a textbook thicker than his bicep.
The picture of balance.
“Okay, okay, listen,” Wooyoung said loudly, slurping obnoxiously. “Environmental science is not real.”
Mingi frowned. “What does that even mean?”
“It means the Earth is too big to study. It’s like trying to organize a sock drawer the size of an ocean.”
San stared at him. “You sound like you’ve had three hours of sleep.”
“Four,” Wooyoung corrected. “And I’m thriving.”
“You’re delusional,” Seonghwa said, sipping his coffee.
Wooyoung pointed at him dramatically. “That’s just because you’re a biology major who thinks he’s better than me.”
“I don’t think I’m better than you,” Seonghwa said calmly. “I know I am.”
Mingi choked laughing and Yunho slapped the table. Hongjoong smirked without looking up from his computer.
San stretched his arms. “Why did you even take environmental science?”
“Because it sounded fun!” Wooyoung insisted. “And the professor seemed chill!”
“He gave you a six-page reading list,” Jongho said without looking up.
“He said it was optional—” Wooyoung began.
“No, he didn’t,” Jongho said. “He specifically said, and I quote: ‘Mandatory reading.’”
Wooyoung blinked. “…Oh.”
San sighed. “You’re an idiot.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“You’re my idiot.”
Wooyoung blinked in surprise, then grinned so wildly his smoothie nearly spilled. “San! You do love me!”
San threw a napkin at his face. “Shut up.”
Across the table, Yunho stretched like a cat. “As the resident psychology major, I diagnose Wooyoung as terminally chaotic.”
“You’re a psych major?” Seonghwa teased. “Are you sure you’re in the right field?”
Yunho gasped dramatically. “Wow. I am attacked. Verbally assaulted. Emotionally wounded.”
“Drama major,” Jongho muttered.
“I heard that.”
“Wasn’t a secret.”
Hongjoong closed his laptop with a frustrated sigh. “My group project partners are useless.”
San snorted. “Switch to an individual project.”
“I tried,” Hongjoong said, eyes dead. “The professor told me I ‘need to work on my cooperation skills.’”
Yunho patted his shoulder. “You’re in the wrong major, my guy. Leadership is your only vibe.”
“I know,” Hongjoong barked, then rubbed his face. “Why did I choose business again?”
“Because you like control,” Mingi answered.
“And spreadsheets,” Seonghwa added.
“And planning things down to the minute,” Wooyoung said.
“And yelling at us,” Yunho said cheerfully.
Hongjoong lifted a finger. “I do not yell.”
“You yell.” The table said in unison.
Hongjoong wilted. “Fine. I yell a little. But only because all of you stress me out.”
San shrugged. “That’s fair.”
Mingi leaned forward. “Okay but can we talk about how Jongho is taking advanced chemistry as a sophomore? That class sounds like hell incarnate.”
Jongho didn’t look up. “It is.”
“Then why take it?” Wooyoung asked.
Jongho flipped a page. “Because someone has to be smart on this team.”
“Hey—”
“Wait,” San said, squinting. “Aren’t you pre-med?”
Jongho shrugged. “Maybe.”
Seonghwa smiled softly. “He’d be a good doctor.”
“He’d terrify his patients,” Wooyoung countered.
“Your bedside is gonna be menacing,” Yunho said, nodding sagely.
Jongho threw a walnut from his trail mix at Yunho’s head. It hit and Yunho yelped. San laughed so hard he leaned forward and nearly fell off the bench.
“You’re all children,” Seonghwa muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“You love us,” Yunho sang.
“Against my will,” Seonghwa admitted.
San leaned back, letting his eyes drift closed for a moment. His shoulders slowly sank down from their subconscious defensive slope.
The sun felt warm. The breeze felt good. The voices around him blurred into comfortable white noise. He was at peace.
Until Wooyoung whispered loudly, “He’s definitely sleeping.”
San cracked an eye open. “I’m awake.”
“Are you?” Wooyoung leaned closer. “Are you spiritually awake?”
San kicked his shin.
“Ow—why are you choosing violence today?” Wooyoung whined.
“Today?” Mingi snorted.
“Okay, everyday,” Wooyoung corrected.
Yunho nudged San gently. “We should get food after practice.”
“Yeah.”
“Do wings sound good?”
“Always.”
“And… milkshakes?”
San side-eyed. “Maybe.”
Yunho grinned triumphantly.
Across the table, Hongjoong flipped his laptop back open just to frown at it. “I swear, if this project kills me, bury me in basketball merch.”
Seonghwa sipped his iced latte. “I’m not doing that.”
“It is literally my only dying wish.”
The group dynamic was perfectly chaotic. Hongjoong stressed, Wooyoung loud, Mingi cluelessly cheerful, Seonghwa beautiful and tired, Jongho brutally honest, Yunho affectionate and chaotic.
And San right there in the middle of all of it with the sun warming his hoodie, the breeze brushing through his hair, and the weight of everything finally melting away.
It felt like the start of a real season. A fresh one. A good one.
Mingi suddenly gasped. “Oh—did I tell you guys my intro to art class made us draw fruits yesterday.”
Wooyoung perked up. “What kind?”
“Like realistic fruits.”
“Why?”
“Because… I don’t know. Art?”
“Did you eat the fruit?” Jongho asked.
“What? No.”
“Then what’s the point?”
Mingi blinked. “…Art?”
Jongho shook his head like he had just heard the dumbest thing ever spoken.
Yunho slapped his knee. “I would’ve eaten the fruit.”
“You would eat anything,” Wooyoung said.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“You once ate grass on a dare,” San reminded him.
“That was one time—”
“A dare you started,” Seonghwa pointed out.
Yunho gasped. “Traitors.”
Hongjoong looked up with a sigh. “I need new friends.”
“No you don’t,” San said, smirking.
Hongjoong deflated again. “I know.”
Wooyoung threw a grape at him and Hongjoong dodged without looking up. “You missed.”
“Damn it.”
They were loud. They were ridiculous. They were… good.
A group of students passing by paused to stare because this table had eight laughing, loud, sweaty, athletic idiots taking up half the quad.
But San didn’t care. This was his world. His teammates. His comfort. He wouldn’t change this for anything.
Yunho checked the time on his phone. “Oh crap. It’s almost one.”
Hongjoong shut his laptop with a snap. “Practice time.”
Mingi stretched his arms wide. “I am so not ready.”
“That sounds like a you problem,” Jongho said, closing his chemistry textbook.
Seonghwa gathered his things neatly. “Let’s move. If we’re late, Coach will make us run suicides again until our souls leave our bodies.”
Wooyoung perked up. “Can my soul go home early?”
“No,” Seonghwa said.
“I wasn’t asking you, mom.”
San slung his backpack over his shoulder, rolling out his neck, letting his muscles buzz back to life. “Let’s go,” he said.
They all rose from the table at once. Eight college kids just trying to survive homework, practice, and Wooyoung’s constant chaos.
The walk to the gym was loud and stupid, as usual. Wooyoung kept throwing grapes into Yunho’s hood. Mingi kept missing steps because he was laughing too hard. Seonghwa walked ten feet ahead like a babysitter who had finally given up.
San felt… good. The kind of good that came from being surrounded by people too idiotic to let him stay in a bad mood for long.
The gym doors were propped open by the assistant trainer. A sign that the building was awake, alive, and ready for chaos.
“Let’s get changed before Coach storms in,” Hongjoong said, already marching like he had somewhere to be.
“Why are you walking so fast?” Wooyoung complained.
“Because I also don’t want to deal with any of you.”
“Rude,” Yunho muttered.
San pushed the door open and stepped inside the locker room, the familiar smell of detergent, old sweat, and floor polish wrapping around him like muscle memory.
Metal lockers lined the walls, half open, half dented from years of poor impulse control. San had personally contributed to at least three of those dents.
Everyone scattered into semi-organized chaos. Yunho peeled off his hoodie in one dramatic swoop. Mingi tripped over his own duffel bag. Jongho sat and tied his shoes like a calm adult. Wooyoung stripped his warm-up layers with the speed of someone being chased.
San sat on the bench and tugged off his hoodie, tossing it onto the hook behind him. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out that familiar tightness settling into his muscles.
“San,” Seonghwa called, “give me your hand.”
San held it up and Seonghwa inspected it like a disapproving mom, again.
“It’s fine,” San said.
“Mhm,” Seonghwa hummed, unconvinced but not unpacking it right now.
San pulled on his practice jersey, tying the bottom in a quick knot to keep the loose fabric out of his way. He tugged on his shoes, double-knotting the laces with practiced efficiency. His mind drifted to the court.
Warm-ups. Movement. Noise. The place where everything made sense.
“Alright, idiots,” Hongjoong clapped once, startling Wooyoung into dropping his elbow sleeve. “Let’s at least get warmed up before coach gets here.”
“Does he even know we’re early?” Wooyoung asked.
“I don’t think so,” Hongjoong said.
“Then why are we early?” Mingi added.
“Team discipline,” Hongjoong hissed.
“Translation,” San muttered, “Hongjoong needed to feel in charge.”
“I will smack you.”
They filed out into the gym again, shoes squeaking lightly against the polished wood. The place was brighter now, the sun had moved across the windows, casting warm stripes across the court.
San sucked in a deep breath. He loved this place.
“Alright, warm-ups,” Seonghwa ordered like the unofficial assistant coach he was. “Passing, then shooting. Keep it light.”
“Light?” Wooyoung echoed. “San doesn’t know what that word means.”
San flicked a ball at his forehead. “I will bury you.”
“With love though.”
They spread out automatically, muscle memory kicking in. San and Yunho took one side of the court, passing rhythmically, syncing their steps. Thump. Catch. Pivot. Pass.
San could feel his lungs opening, his energy rising, his body sharpening the way it always did at the start of practice.
On the far side of the court, Wooyoung and Mingi were already arguing about who had better bounce form. Jongho was practicing outlet passes like he was preparing for war. Seonghwa reminded Hongjoong to stretch his shoulders because he always forgot and always complained afterward.
It looked like every other start to every other practice.
San lobbed a pass to Yunho. “This feels good.”
“Told you,” Yunho said, sending it back. “Early practice is elite as long as it’s not eight a.m.”
“Don’t let Hongjoong hear that.”
“Too late,” Hongjoong said from across the court.
San groaned.
They kept at it for a while. Passing, jogging, loosening up, slipping into that effortless camaraderie that made practices feel less like drills and more like ritual.
Eventually, Wooyoung glanced toward the double doors. “Is coach… late?”
Hongjoong checked the clock. “Yeah. By five minutes.”
“That’s not unusual though,” Jongho said.
“No,” Seonghwa added. “But it’s the first official practice of the season. He’s normally early on these.”
San caught the ball, brows pulling together.
Huh. He hadn’t even realized it. Everything had felt so normal, so rhythmic, so easy, that he forgot Coach Lee never missed the opening minute of the first practice.
“Maybe he’s grabbing paperwork,” Yunho offered.
“Or coffee,” Mingi said.
“Or losing his mind emotionally preparing for us,” Wooyoung said proudly.
“Please shut up,” Hongjoong muttered.
But San glanced again at the door. Five minutes late. Six. Then it became Seven.
He bounced the ball against the floor once, twice. The noise echoed sharply in the suddenly too-quiet gym.
“Alright,” Hongjoong called out, trying to keep things steady, “let’s run one-handed passes until Coach gets here.”
“Why one-handed?” Wooyoung complained.
“Because your two-handed ones are still awful,” Jongho said.
Wooyoung clutched his chest dramatically. “I feel so attacked.”
“No,” Jongho corrected, “you’re just bad.”
San snorted, catching Yunho’s pass. “He’s not wrong.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side!” Wooyoung shrieked.
“I’m on the side of truth.”
“Wow. Betrayal.”
San rolled the ball between his palms, loosening his wrists. “Less whining, more passing.”
“Yes sir.”
“Wooyoung,” Seonghwa called from across the court, “don’t make me come over there.”
“I’m sorry,” Wooyoung shouted instantly.
The gym settled back into its rhythm. Bounce. Pass. Dribble. Shoes squeaking. Light laughter. Low chatter. Normal.
They ran simple partner drills for a while, nothing intense, just movement, form, timing. The kind of steady repetition that let San’s body take over and let his mind rest. He started to sweat, which felt good.
Yunho caught a pass and grinned. “You look like you’re waking up.”
“Finally,” San muttered.
“Your shot’s smoother today too,” Yunho said.
“It always is when Wooyoung shuts up.”
“I can hear you!” Wooyoung yelled.
“Good!” San yelled back.
Across the gym, Mingi was trying to convince Hongjoong that he could dunk today. Hongjoong was explaining, patiently, that Mingi was absolutely going to roll an ankle if he kept trying to dunk cold.
Mingi tried anyway and he did not dunk. However, he did land on his feet… barely. Seonghwa ended up dragging him away by the arm.
Jongho practiced cross-court passes with the kind of intensity San reserved for rivalry games. Wooyoung wandered for no reason, occasionally attempting trick passes and failing spectacularly.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. No one thought much of it. Coach being late wasn’t unheard of, especially on weekends, even if it wasn’t typical for a first official practice.
San took a break, bouncing the ball idly, letting it roll from his fingertips to the floor and back again. His wrapped hand barely twinged now and the warmth in the gym kept it loose.
“Water break!” Hongjoong announced like he was the actual coach. He practically was most days.
Groans filled the air, mostly Wooyoung and bottles cracked open. Everyone sprawled across their preferred sections of the court and sideline benches.
San sat on the floor against the wall, legs spread out, resting his head back and catching his breath. Yunho dropped beside him, already halfway through his water bottle. Mingi threw a grape at Wooyoung again and it hit him in the forehead.
“This is a hate crime!” Wooyoung howled.
“You deserve worse,” Jongho replied calmly.
San chuckled under his breath, shaking his head.
Then the gym doors clicked and swung open. Everyone looked up. Coach Lee walked in, flashing the easy, relaxed expression he wore only on days when he’d had a good breakfast and three coffees.
“Alright, listen up,” he called, strolling across the court, dropping his clipboard onto the scorer’s table like they were just starting any other practice.
San pushed himself up from the floor, rubbing his forearm, watching Coach carefully.
Nothing unusual. Nothing weird. Just Coach being Coach.
But then a second set of footsteps followed. Softer. Quieter.
San’s head snapped toward the doorway. Someone was behind the coach. Someone tall. Someone lean. Someone with presence even just standing there.
Someone San knew immediately without needing to see his face. His body recognized it first and something inside him jolted, sharp and electric.
Then the coach stepped slightly aside and the person behind him stepped forward into the gym lights.
San didn’t feel his hands loosen.
He only heard the sound of the basketball slipping from his fingers and hitting the floor with a heavy, hollow thud that echoed across the gym.
Conversation died. Movement froze. Even Wooyoung didn’t make a sound. Because the god forsaken person that was standing there was…
Kang, fucking, Yeosang. In their gym. On their court. Wearing their school’s practice gear.
His expression was neutral, posture perfect, and his eyes swept the room without flinching.
San’s heart slammed against his ribs. His blood went hot. His vision tunneled. Every muscle in his body locked like someone had hit a switch.
Because this wasn’t a rivalry game. This wasn’t a scrimmage. This wasn’t a stand-off across enemy lines.
This was… Yeosang. Here. On their side of the court wearing their uniform. And he had the audacity to be right in front of him.
San couldn’t breathe. The ball finished rolling and bumped against his foot. He felt his brain turn off as he stared at Coach. And the worst part of it all was when the coach's words processed into his ears.
“Alright, listen up,” Coach said, clapping his hands once as he strode to center court. “Let’s gather.”
The team shifted. Water bottles thudded onto the floor. A few balls rolled off to the side. Shoes squeaked as they fell into a loose semicircle.
Yeosang stood behind Coach, still, unreadable, hands behind his back like this was just another Tuesday.
San couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.
Coach cleared his throat. “I want you all to meet the newest member of our team.”
Silence hit the gym so hard it felt physical.
Wooyoung’s eyebrow slowly rose. Yunho’s mouth opened a little. Hongjoong blinked twice, face blank. Jongho stared like he was trying to solve a murder. Mingi froze mid-sip of water. Seonghwa did not move a muscle.
And San felt something in his body switch back on. Like he’d momentarily shut down and now every nerve was firing at maximum voltage. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Heat rushed up his neck. His fingertips tingled.
He glared at Yeosang first, sharp, razor-edged, and instinctual. Then he turned the glare on Coach. Because no way.
No. Fucking. Way. This was not happening. This was a treason.
“Hell no.”
The words tore out of him before he could stop them. Raw and furious. And then he turned, actually turned, and started walking away like he could physically exit reality and undo what he just saw.
Behind him, half the team gasped. Wooyoung whispered, “Oh, that’s not good.”
“CHOI SAN!” Coach barked, voice cracking like a whip. “Get your ass back here right now!”
San stopped. His shoulders rose and fell once, sharp and tense, then again. He still didn’t turn around. He didn’t want to. He wanted to leave. He wanted to scream. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. But a hand clamped around his forearm, firmly.
Seonghwa.
“San,” Seonghwa said quietly, pulling him back. “Don’t.”
San squeezed his eyes shut. “Let go,” he muttered.
“No,” Seonghwa said, already steering him back toward the group. “You’re staying.”
San resisted for half a second, but Seonghwa was stronger than he looked. And unfairly calm. San didn’t want to make it worse, so he let himself get pulled back into the semicircle. He lifted his head and immediately locked eyes with Yeosang again.
Yeosang didn’t look smug or amused. Hell he didn’t even look apologetic. He looked neutral. Completely and utterly neutral. San’s stomach twisted violently.
The coach exhaled like he was preparing for war. “Alright. Before anyone else loses their mind—” he shot San a pointed look “—let me explain.”
San crossed his arms tightly, muscles coiled like springs.
He continued, “Kang Yeosang has officially transferred to our university as of this week. That includes joining our basketball program since he is on a scholarship.”
Wooyoung made a strangled sound. Mingi whispered, “Dude…” Jongho blinked twice, processing. Hongjoong just rubbed his temple.
San’s voice shook with heat. “Why here?”
Yeosang’s eyes flicked to him. Just a flick. Barely even a movement. It made San want to punch something.
Coach raised a hand. “San, stop. All of you stop. Let me finish.”
San shut his mouth, but only because Seonghwa’s fingers dug into his arm in warning.
“Good,” Coach said, satisfied enough. “Now, yes. This is unusual timing. We are at the start of the season, and adding someone new this early will require adjustment. Especially considering his playing style.”
San scoffed under his breath. “Playing style my ass.”
“San,” Seonghwa hissed.
Coach ignored him. “But I made this decision for a reason. Yeosang is talented. Disciplined. And he will strengthen this roster.”
A small ripple of confusion ran through the group, but no one spoke.
Coach continued, tone firm. “I know there is history here. Rivalries. Tension. Questions.” His eyes slid to San deliberately. “But this is a team. And I expect everyone, and I mean everyone, to treat him with respect and fairness. No exceptions.”
San stared straight ahead, unblinking. He didn’t trust his own face right now. He barely trusted his hands not to curl into fists.
Respect him? Welcome him? Play with him?
On San’s court? On San’s team? In San’s space?
Absolutely not.
Coach clapped his hands again. “Good. Now positions! We’re starting with basic drills. Passing patterns, rotation practice, defensive lanes. Yeosang will join in today so he can adjust to our system.”
A few balls rolled. Players shifted into half-formation. But San didn’t move. He was vibrating. Buzzing. Burning. Not the fire he felt in games, not the adrenaline kind.
This was angry fire. Territorial fire.
Because this gym was his. This team was his. This court was his home, the one place that made sense, the one place untouched by the chaos of rivalry and frustration and—
And now this stupid, infuriating, pretty, perfect-fucking-posture nightmare of a person was standing in the middle of it wearing their colors.
San’s breath shook. He didn’t care what Coach said. He didn’t care what the team said. He didn’t care why Yeosang transferred.
He hated him. And nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to change that.
Coach blew his whistle once, sharp, firm, and way too casual for someone who’d just detonated a bomb in the middle of the team.
“Alright! Spread out! Warm-up drills first. Five-minute rotations. San, Yunho, Wooyoung, run passing triangles. Seonghwa, Jongho, Mingi, Hongjoong, defensive spacing. Yeosang…” Coach pointed. “…shadow their movements until you’re ready.”
Until you’re ready. San wanted to laugh. Or throw something. Or both.
But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word or even look in Yeosang’s direction. He just walked to his spot, spinning the ball once and catching it with that tight, sharp grip he only had when he was irritated.
“San…” Yunho murmured softly, like a warning.
“What,” San snapped.
“Nothing.”
“Then shut up.”
Yunho sighed.
Wooyoung cleared his throat and made a show of stretching. “Sooo… fun new season, huh? New faces! New vibes! New—”
San whipped around. “Don’t.”
Wooyoung shut up.
They started warming up, easy passes at first. San threw the ball to Yunho with a little more force than necessary. Yunho hissed and shook out his hands.
“Okay. Getting angry I see,” Yunho muttered.
San ignored him.
Across the gym, Yeosang moved quietly, smoothly, shadowing the drills like Coach instructed. Mimicking steps, adjusting angles, watching the flow of their group dynamic with calm calculation.
He did say anything, but he looked like he’d been here a thousand times. Like this wasn’t new or this wasn’t their home court.
San hated it. Hated how Yeosang stood there, completely unfazed. Hated how he didn’t flinch under the weight of being the outsider. Hated how he seemed untouched by the tension San knew the entire team felt.
Coach called, “Switch!”
New drills. Passing lines. Running patterns. Spacing footwork.
San refused. Absolutely refused to go anywhere near Yeosang.
If Yeosang was on the right? San was on the left. If Yeosang rotated forward? San rotated back. If Yeosang drifted toward a group? San drifted toward the opposite one. And Coach seemed to notice.
“San!” he barked. “Close your spacing! Use the middle lane!”
San pretended not to hear him.
“San!” Coach snapped again. “Middle lane!”
San stepped half an inch sideways, still nowhere near Yeosang.
Yunho whispered, “Dude—”
“Shut up.”
Ten minutes in, the team started adjusting to the new rhythm without San. And that pissed him off even more.
Because Yeosang moved fast, faster than he looked. He adapted easily and he synced with their pace within minutes, matching footwork, mirroring rotations.
Mingi threw him a pass and Yeosang caught it like he’d been playing with him for years. Wooyoung dribbled past him and Yeosang countered without even touching him. Jongho tested his spacing and Yeosang matched it perfectly.
San’s jaw tightened until it ached.
Coach nodded approvingly. “Good adjustment! Good speed! Keep it up!”
San wanted to throw the ball at the wall, but he kept moving. He had discipline. He had pride. And he wasn’t going to cause a scene yet. Because he knew he would eventually. He wasn’t stupid;y unaware of his own actions.
Another rotation. Another passing drill. Yeosang ended up in the same cluster as Wooyoung, Mingi, and San and so San immediately took three steps back.
Coach glared. “SAN! GET IN THE FORMATION!”
San stepped forward an inch. Barely. Coach’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t push it. The drill resumed. Ball to Wooyoung. Ball to Hongjoong. Ball to Yeosang.
Yeosang caught it lightly, fingers soft, movement clean. He turned, raising the ball to shoot and something in San snapped.
Maybe it was the calmness. Maybe it was the ease. Maybe it was the fact that Yeosang looked like nothing here challenged him.
Whatever it was, it was fast. Fast like instinct. Fast like heat. And fast like the kind of anger San only had around one person:
Yeosang.
San lunged forward. A hard, impulsive move, with his body cutting across the lane with sharp momentum. He didn’t think about adjusting or placement. He just moved.
Yeosang definitely saw him at the last second, but he wouldn’t have enough time to dodge. San’s shoulder slammed into Yeosang’s chest, hard. The impact cracked through the gym.
Yeosang’s breath burst out of him in a surprised sound. The ball flew from his hands, spinning wildly, slamming into the wall padding behind the hoop.
Then both of them hit the court. San’s palms burned against the floor and he heard the scrape of shoes, a gasp, what he thought was a curse.
“OH SHIT—!”
Yep, Wooyoung was cursing.
Yeosang let out a soft grunt, body curling slightly before he pushed himself up on one forearm. San stared at him with his chest heaving and adrenaline flooding every vein.
He expected anger. Surprise. Possibly a glare. Just something. But Yeosang just looked at him like San hadn’t just thrown himself at him full-force. Like it didn’t matter. Like San didn’t matter. And that poured gasoline on the fire burning under San’s skin.
The gym had gone dead silent. Every teammate frozen. Coach hadn’t even yelled yet because the shock hit him, too.
Yeosang rose slowly, dusting off his palms, not taking his eyes off San.
San’s heartbeat roared in his ears. He didn’t apologize or look away. He just seethed. Hands trembling. Breathing uneven. Muscles straining.
Because this was his court. His house. His family. His team. And Kang Yeosang was not welcome in any of it.
Not now. Not ever.
“SAN!”
Coach Lee’s voice ripped through the gym like a thunderclap.
San didn’t flinch. But then the clipboard hit the court with a broken crack and that got everyone. He had thrown it, actually thrown it, so hard the metal clip bent.
“What the hell was that?!” The coach shouted, pointing so sharply his whole arm shook.
San didn’t answer.
“Are you out of your damn mind?” Coach barked. “This is the first practice of the season and you’re already taking people out?!”
Still, San said nothing. His chest heaved. His jaw ached from clenching. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides.
Yeosang stood behind him, catching his breath, one hand resting lightly on his sternum, and a soft wheeze slipped out. Nothing dramatic, just a quiet cough that shook his shoulders twice before he straightened again.
The team’s heads all snapped toward him, but San ignored it. However, Coach didn’t.
He pointed again, this time directly at San. “You’re benched.”
The word slapped the air and San’s head jerked slightly, like he hadn’t expected that.
“For the rest of practice,” Coach continued, tone steel, “you are to sit over there on that bench and you do not move unless I say so.”
San felt heat crawl up his neck, humiliation mixing with anger like oil in a pan.
“Coach—” San tried.
“Not another word,” Coach snapped. “Move.”
Seonghwa placed a hand on San’s back. Gentle, but firm. “Go.”
San’s teeth grit. “I didn’t even—”
“Now,” Seonghwa warned under his breath.
San kicked the loose ball away and stalked toward the bench, every step loud, heavy, vibrating with barely leashed fury. He sat hard enough that the wood frame rattled under him. But he didn’t drop his glare from Yeosang.
And Yeosang… didn’t look bothered. He rubbed lightly at his chest before letting his hand fall to his side. The cough lingered faintly, a soft, rhythmic tightness in his breathing, but he waved Wooyoung off when he stepped closer.
“I’m fine,” Yeosang said, voice even. Then his gaze glanced over to San, for just a second, before moving back to the court.
Except San saw it. The tiniest curl at the corner of Yeosang’s mouth. Not a full smirk. Not even a half. But just enough. Just enough to say:
You lost.
San lurched forward on instinct, pure instinct, the same instinct that had sent him crashing into Yeosang moments ago, but Hongjoong’s arm shot out, blocking him without even looking.
“Don’t,” Hongjoong said.
San froze in place, chest heaving, skin hot, fingers twitching. Yeosang’s gaze flicked away, completely indifferent, like San wasn’t even worth his attention.
Coach clapped sharply. “Everyone else, back in position and restart the drill! Yeosang, rotate into Jongho’s group!”
The gym snapped into motion again. Balls bounced. Feet shuffled. Voices rose. But none of it reached San.
He sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, breathing hard, watching his teammates adjust without him. Watching Yeosang slide into their system like he’d always belonged there.
Jongho tested spacing again and Yeosang matched without missing a beat. Wooyoung threw him another pass and Yeosang caught it, smooth, easy. Mingi grinned when a fast rotation worked and Yeosang nodded once, almost polite.
The worst part of it all was how well the team adapted. San watched the pieces shift around him like the court itself didn’t care he wasn’t on it. His stomach twisted. His jaw locked. His fingers curled so tight his nails dug into his palm.
Because this was his house and Yeosang was walking through it like it meant nothing.
San bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted metal. He refused to speak or look away.
If the team wanted to welcome him? Fine. If Coach wanted to insist he belonged? Fine.
But San hated him. And if he would be benched every now and then that was what was going to happen. Because this hatred wasn’t going anywhere.
Practice dragged. Not because it was long, but because San wasn’t in it. He sat on the bench like a caged animal while the rest of the team moved around him. Running drills. Talking. Adjusting to Yeosang. Adapting.
He hated every second of it.
Eventually, Coach blew the whistle one last time. “Alright! That’s it! Good work today, most of you.”
San didn’t twitch.
Coach continued, “Scrimmage starts in two days. Full team rotation. Everyone is participating so no complaining.”
San’s stomach tightened. Everyone let out tired groans, minor cheers, or a mixture of both.
“Hit the locker room, shower, hydrate, and go home.” Then, with a pointed jab of his finger, “San. Stay.”
A few of the guys winced sympathetically. Wooyoung whispered, “Ohh that’s not gonna be fun,” and Yunho swatted him.
San didn’t move until the others started heading out. They gathered bottles, slung bags over shoulders, and their voices echoed as they shuffled toward the locker room.
He watched them go. He watched Yeosang go, too, who paused only for a moment to cough again, a tight little sound in his chest before brushing it off and walking out beside Jongho.
And when the gym emptied, Coach waited until the doors shut fully, then he walked over.
San braced for yelling. He deserved yelling. He even preferred yelling. Yelling he could ignore or fight back against.
But instead, the Coach sighed and put a hand on San’s back. Not hard. Not angry. Just… steady.
“San,” he said, softer than San expected. “You’re a good kid.”
San stared straight ahead, jaw tense.
“And you’re a hell of a player,” Coach went on. “One of the best I’ve coached.”
San swallowed.
“But you can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep your boundaries up like iron bars every time someone challenges you. Especially when that someone is on your own damn team now.”
San’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t answer.
Coach continued, “Yeosang is here. That’s done. Whether you like it or not, he’s wearing our colours now.”
San’s chest tightened, heavy and hot.
“And I don’t bring in new players lightly,” Coach said. “If I didn’t see the potential, I wouldn’t have done it. The two of you are top athletes. And if you ever figured out how to work together instead of trying to kill each other, you’d be unstoppable.”
San’s jaw locked.
Coach let out another long breath. “I’m not asking you to like him. I’m asking you to let go of whatever petty rivalry you two had and learn how to share a court.”
San blinked once. Hard.
“I don’t want to bench my best player,” Coach added, tapping San’s shoulder. “Especially not every time Yeosang comes near you. But I will if I have to.”
San finally forced out, voice stiff and low, “I got it.”
“I hope you do.” Coach gave his back one more firm pat. “Now get changed. Go home. Sleep. And ice your damn hand.”
San closed his eyes.
Right. His hand. It was still throbbing under the wrap from when he hit the floor. He barely noticed.
“Yeah,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Yes, sir.”
Coach nodded, satisfied enough, and walked off toward his office, muttering something about paperwork and aspirin.
San stayed frozen for a moment longer. Breathing. Steadying. Trying to keep his chest from exploding.
Chapter 3: Chapter Three
Chapter Text
Each step echoed as he made his way to the locker room. Everything inside him simmering. And no matter what Coach said. No matter how logical or reasonable or “team-first” it was supposed to sound… San hated Yeosang. And he wasn’t sure that was ever going to change no matter how hard he even tried.
San pushed open the locker room door, halfway expecting everyone to go dead silent again.
And… yeah. It was quiet.
Not painfully quiet, but loaded enough that even Wooyoung shut his mouth. A few of them were halfway through changing, a few sitting on benches, a few rinsing sweat off their faces.
San paused in the doorway for a beat. The air felt tight. He hated tight. So he said the first thing that hit his brain:
“Why do all of you look like somebody died?”
A couple of snorts fluttered out. Mingi laughed a little too loudly. Wooyoung sighed in relief. Jongho rolled his eyes. The tension unraveled, just a little.
San walked inside, tossing his bag onto the bench, peeling off his jersey with a grunt. As soon as he changed out his shirt, the room slowly came back to life.
Wooyoung started rambling about being hungry. Yunho made some stupid comment about wanting milkshakes. Mingi brought up a meme. Seonghwa complained about the smell in the room. It wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t stiff anymore either.
San rubbed his towel through his hair, letting the conversations distract him, or trying to. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yeosang at the opposite end of the locker room, alone.
His locker was empty except for a few items neatly placed inside. His movements were quiet, organized, and efficient. He pulled off his jersey, folded it, set it aside, and reached for a clean shirt.
No one stood near him. No one talked to him. Not out of malice, just uncertainty.
San felt something dark twist in his chest. Part of him wanted to spit out an insult, something sharp like “Yeah, stay over there, that’s where you belong.”
But another part, the part still hearing Coach’s voice in the back of his skull, muttered something frustrating and nagging about boundaries and teammates and “unstoppable” and blah blah whatever.
He shoved both thoughts away. He didn’t care. He wasn’t welcoming him. He wasn’t forgiving him. He wasn’t even acknowledging him.
He focused on tying his shoes instead. That lasted ten seconds before Hongjoong’s voice cut clean through the chatter.
“Yeosang.”
The room quieted by half. Yeosang turned subtly, expression unreadable as usual.
Hongjoong, standing with a towel around his neck, nodded him over. “Come here for a sec.”
San’s head snapped up.
Why the hell—
Yeosang hesitated only a second before walking toward them, not quickly, not timidly, just… normally.
Hongjoong crossed his arms. “We’re going to lunch. Do you want to come with us?”
San choked on air and he felt heat rise in his face, and not the good kind.
“Are you kidding me?” The words slipped out sharp, low, before he could stop them. “He doesn’t— we don’t—”
San shut himself up, jaw locking so tight it hurt.
Hongjoong didn’t even look at him, which somehow pissed him off more. He focused on Yeosang instead. “Well?”
Yeosang’s eyes flickered, maybe at San, maybe at the floor, before he straightened slightly.
“I already have plans,” he said quietly. “But… I appreciate the offer.”
His voice wasn’t hostile or defensive. Just calm. Of course it was calm. And it was smooth too. That may have been the most San had ever heard him say. He was always quiet on the court, but maybe that was just all the time.
Yeosang grabbed his bag, effortlessly, like he’d done this a thousand times in a thousand different locker rooms, swung the strap over his shoulder, and gave Hongjoong the smallest nod. Then he glanced, barely, almost nothing, in San’s direction. Not at him, but through him. And then he walked out.
San’s blood boiled. He wanted to throw something. He wanted to punch a wall or another locker. He wanted to march after him and shove him back inside the room just to demand… he didn’t even know what, just something.
But he didn’t move. He just sat there, fists clenched against his knees, watching the door swing shut behind the one person he wished he never had to see again.
The locker room filled with noise again. Small chatter, sneaker squeaks, zippers, showers turning on. But San didn’t hear any of it. He was stuck staring at that door. And he felt something he didn’t want to name burn low in his chest.
The locker room was buzzing again, more normal, more alive. Voices bouncing between lockers, towels snapping, someone spraying too much deodorant.
Hongjoong wiped his hair with a towel. “Alright. Let’s get lunch. I want real food.”
“Yes,” Wooyoung groaned dramatically, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’m starving.”
“I think we decided on wings.” Yunho said, hopeful as always.
“Always wings,” Mingi said, shaking his hair out like a dog.
Seonghwa rolled his eyes. “Fine. But you all are paying me back if you order half the menu again.”
San pulled on his hoodie and tugged the hood over his head. “I’m not going.”
Yunho blinked. “What? Are you good?”
“I’m not hungry.”
It came out flat. Too flat.
Wooyoung squinted. “Really?? You?? Skipping food?? That’s—”
“I’m. Not. Hungry.”
It came out sharper than he intended and the room quieted.
San slung his bag over his shoulder, avoiding their eyes. “I’m going back to the dorm.”
Yunho lifted a hand awkwardly. “…I’ll bring you something. Just tell me what you want.”
San didn’t look at him. “Whatever.”
“Okay.”
That was it. San pushed the door open and stepped out. The cool hallway air washed over him, but it didn’t help.
He shoved his hands in his hoodie pockets and started walking. His hood low, shoulders tight, footsteps loud, as if stomping the ground harder might make the day make sense again.
He didn’t bother taking the scenic route. He barely even noticed half the campus around him. He just walked and his thoughts didn’t stay quiet. They never did when he was alone.
What the hell was happening?
Two years. Two years of pushing himself. Two years of clawing his way up the rankings. Two years of putting everything into the game.
Because he loved it. Because he needed it. Because it made sense when everything else didn’t. But also because… Yeah, because of Yeosang.
Their rivalry wasn’t casual. Wasn’t friendly. Wasn’t “oh he’s good, I’m good.”
It was war. Quiet, constant war.
Every game between their teams was a fight. Every matchup was a challenge. Every point scored felt personal.
San had never had a rival like that. Someone who pushed him to go faster, aim sharper, think quicker. Someone who never, ever let him get comfortable.
And now Yeosang was here. On his team and in his space, messing everything up.
San kicked a pebble down the sidewalk.
How does someone just transfer like that? In the middle of the start of a season. Elite players didn’t just… move schools on a whim. It didn’t make sense.
And the part that grated on San’s nerves even more was that Yeosang was still so damn good. Like… annoyingly good.
Perfect spacing. Clean passes. Fast instincts. Almost effortless.
A normal newcomer would be nervous and overeager. They would look up to the veterans on the team.
But Yeosang moved like he belonged at the top from the minute he stepped inside the gym. He didn’t puff his chest. Didn’t brag. Didn’t challenge anyone. He just existed with the confidence of someone who knew he was better than half the room.
San’s jaw tightened as he crossed campus. He hated that confidence. Hated how calm Yeosang always was.
For two years, San had been the one with the fire. The trash talk. The intensity. The temper.
And for two years Yeosang never reacted. Never snapped. Never rose to the bait. Never even showed irritation.
He played like ice. Cold. Controlled. Sharp.
And when they were on opposite teams, that just made San push harder. Made him fight more. Made him feel something.
Because when it was just the two of them on the court, in those rare moments where the world narrowed to one-on-one, it felt insane and electric and addictive.
Not friendly. Not tender. Just pure competition. Just them.
San kicked another rock harder.
And now Coach wanted them to play together? Like nothing happened? Like they weren’t built on years of tension and frustration and silent battles?
San didn’t even know why they hated each other. Not really. Sometimes it felt like they just… did. Like they were wired to clash. Two top players reaching for the same peak, neither willing to step aside.
Maybe San took it more seriously. Maybe he was more emotional. More explosive. More invested. Maybe Yeosang just saw the whole thing as a stepping stone, something he climbed over quietly while San burned himself alive trying to win.
San exhaled sharply through his nose. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going away. Not today. Not this season. Not ever.
He didn’t want to work with Yeosang. Didn’t want him on the team. Didn’t want him anywhere near their dynamic.
Yeosang didn’t know them. He didn’t get them. He wasn’t one of them. And they weren’t friends. Not now. Not later. Not ever.
Maybe he could tolerate Yeosang on the court. Possibly. Maybe. Or maybe not. Honestly he’d just see how he felt the next time Yeosang opened his stupid, calm, neutral mouth.
San kept walking, hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pockets, head down, hood shadowing half his face. The further he got from the locker room, the quieter everything felt, which was fine. He needed quiet right now.
He crossed the campus green, cut between a cluster of academic buildings, and made his way toward the dorm halls. He didn’t take the usual route. Instead, he took the one with fewer people. The one where he could breathe without feeling judged.
His thoughts kept spiraling in tight circles, chasing each other, tripping over each other. He wasn’t even sure which emotion he was mad at.
Was it the anger from practice? The humiliation of getting benched? The shock of Yeosang showing up? The way everyone just… accepted him? Or the fact that San still didn’t understand why Yeosang was here?
He shoved his hands deeper in his pockets.
Two years. Two years of pushing harder because Yeosang existed across the court. Two years of wanting to beat him so badly he’d trained extra hours, skipped nights out, shot until his fingertips went numb.
He passed the rec center and was halfway down the sidewalk toward the dorms when he heard it:
thump… thump… thump…
A ball bouncing.
San frowned and glanced toward the outdoor courts. It was probably a few guys messing around. A club team. Freshmen. Anyone.
But as he looked, he realized it wasn’t multiple people. Just one. One singular figure moving fast across the half-court.
San slowed down without meaning to. He didn’t even realize he’d turned his feet toward the fence until he was already walking closer. As he rounded the corner and got a better angle, the shape came into focus.
Dark hoodie. Lean build. Quick footwork. And that posture, San knew it anywhere. His stomach dropped.
Yeosang.
“Seriously?” San muttered under his breath.
He watched for a second, hidden behind the fence, more curious than he wanted to be. Yeosang hadn’t noticed him.
He was in motion. Smooth, sharp, weaving across the court, dribbling around invisible opponents. His hoodie was loose, but his movements were precise. He took a step-back shot, the ball arcing cleanly—Swish.
Of course. San’s jaw clenched. He thought back to the locker room:
“I already have plans.”
This didn’t look like plans. This was training. This was extra reps. This was… effort.
San’s chest twisted in something like annoyance. Or disbelief. Or something he didn’t want to admit. He told himself it didn’t matter.
So what if Yeosang practiced after hours? San practiced after hours too. He practiced early mornings. Late nights. He lived and breathed the sport. But then his brain betrayed him and whispered:
He’s working harder than you today.
San shoved that thought away so fast it nearly made him dizzy. He scoffed under his breath, turning away.
Whatever. Who cared how much he practiced? Who cared if he was alone on a court under campus floodlights? It didn’t make him special.
San adjusted his hood and started walking again until he heard a sound. A small, tight grunt. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a noise of discomfort.
San turned his head sharply. The shot Yeosang had taken hit the net, bounced once, and rolled away unnoticed.
Because Yeosang was no longer standing. He was on one knee, then both, a hand gripping his hoodie over his chest. His head was bowed and his breathing was off.
San froze, his body reacting before his brain could catch up. He almost moved. Almost ran over and dropped to his knees beside him out of pure instinct.
Because anger was one thing. But watching someone collapse? That was something else.
His feet actually lifted off the ground, but Yeosang pushed himself up slowly. Breathing harshly, but controlled. He stood, rolled his shoulders back, and picked up the ball again. And he went right back to practicing. No break. No pause. No hesitation. Just… a restart.
San stared at him, irritation and something else twisting unpleasantly together in his chest. He shouldn’t feel bad. He shouldn’t care. He didn’t care.
He didn’t.
He gave Yeosang one more glance, just a flicker, just a tiny drop of pity he would never admit, and then turned down the path again toward the dorms. Hood low. Hands in pockets. Heart a mess.
He wasn’t helping him. He wasn’t talking to him. He wasn’t thinking about him. He was just going home.
And Yeosang could keep practicing until he fell over for all San cared.
🏀🏀🏀🏀🏀
San didn’t sleep great.
Not awful. Not good. Just that irritating middle ground where he woke up twice, rolled around, and at one point genuinely considered getting dressed at 4am to go shoot hoops until his brain quieted.
But he didn’t. Mostly because he knew Yunho would kill him if he woke him up.
So instead he dragged himself into the morning, hoodie over his head, coffee in hand, backpack slung low on one shoulder. He wasn’t excited for class, but whatever. Routine was routine.
The building was buzzing with chatter when he walked in. Students filing through hallways. Clusters of people half-awake, half-dead. Someone loudly complaining about an 8am exam.
San slipped into his usual classroom, letting the door ease shut behind him. It was big, a lecture hall with maybe fifty seats. Most students sat in roughly the same place every day even though none were assigned. Humans were creatures of habit. San especially.
Back row, end of the row, third seat from the left. That was his seat.
He walked straight there without looking up. Until he saw someone sitting in it. He stopped walking and stopped breathing for a second, too.
Dark hoodie. Straight posture. Slim frame angled slightly forward as he looked at something on his tablet.
No way. No. Absolutely not. The universe couldn’t be that stupid.
San stepped closer… closer… and the second the guy lifted his head—
Yep. Yeosang. In his seat. In his class.
San blinked slowly, like maybe his eyelids would reset reality.
Nope. Still Yeosang. Still in the seat San had sat in since the first day.
San walked all the way up to him, planted himself at Yeosang’s elbow, and said bluntly:
“That’s my seat.”
Yeosang looked up at him calmly. Why the hell did he look calm all the damn time? His eyes flicked to the chair, then back to San.
“There’s no name on it,” he said evenly.
San felt something in his chest ignite. “Everyone knows that’s where I sit.”
Yeosang blinked once. Slowly. “I’m not everyone and there are no assigned seats.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It does if you want to claim the chair legally. Do you have the document saying it belongs to you?” Yeosang replied without missing a beat.
San’s mouth dropped open. “What— I— legally? Are you insane?”
“I’m just pointing out your argument’s flaws.”
San stared at him, jaw clenching so hard it might crack. Yeosang had turned back to his tablet as if the conversation were over.
San opened his mouth—closed it—opened it again—
“You’re in my spot,” he repeated, quieter, angrier.
Yeosang’s eyes flicked up, expression unreadable. “You can sit beside me.”
San recoiled like he’d been insulted. “Why would I do that?”
“Because,” Yeosang said simply, nodding to the seating chart behind him, “it’s the only seat left in this section.”
San looked and Hh hated that Yeosang was right. Every seat in the back half was taken except the one right next to him. The only other open seats were in the front. And San absolutely refused to sit in the front.
No way in hell he was letting this man push him to the front row like some confused freshman.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Unbelievable.”
Yeosang said nothing.
San stood there for a second, trying to decide whether it was worth storming out of the class entirely. It wasn’t and he broke reluctantly, barely suppressing a growl. He let his backpack slump to the floor and he dropped into the seat beside Yeosang like he’d just been sentenced to community service.
He slouched immediately, hood up and arms crossed. Yeosang didn’t acknowledge him at all. Which somehow made it ten times worse.
San stared straight ahead at the whiteboard, jaw tight, muttering under his breath.
“You’re lucky I’m not sitting in the front.”
Yeosang didn’t respond and San glared. This was going to be the longest class of his life.
Class started with the low hum of people settling in, backpacks shifting, pens clicking, a few whispered greetings.
San slumped back into his seat, hood still up, half-asleep and half-annoyed. He dug around in his bag, found a crumpled half-sheet of notebook paper, flipped it over, decided he hated that side, then flipped it back.
He never organized his notes. Didn’t believe in it. Genuinely didn’t care enough. If he needed something important, he’d remember it by sheer force of will, or forget it and deal with the consequences later.
He scribbled something the professor said: “contextual variable influence” Right next to: “why tf is this at 9am”
The pen dragged unevenly. His writing slanted with each word and he crossed things out immediately. It looked like the notes of someone being held hostage. Which, honestly, yeah he could see it.
He leaned his head on his hand, eyes half-lidded, trying to keep up. Then, without thinking, he glanced sideways and paused.
Yeosang’s desk looked like a crime scene compared to his. Everything was neat. His notebook sat on the desk at a perfect angle. Lines colour-coded. Headings underlined. Bullet points spaced evenly.
He had a tablet open next to it, which was also organized with graphs, terminology lists, and more highlights.
It actually looked… nice. Too nice.
San frowned. Then his gaze drifted up, just for a second, to Yeosang’s face. It wasn’t even intentional. His eyes just… moved.
Yeosang was focused. Really focused. Eyes trained on the professor. Hand writing smoothly. Posture straight. Jaw relaxed. A little crease between his brows when he concentrated.
And in profile his lashes were long. Annoyingly long. Like they curled naturally, the unfair kind. And his skin…
Okay, was it always that smooth? That clear?? That soft-looking??? What was his secret????
San blinked. Hard.
What the hell am I doing?
His brain sputtered like a dying engine. He jerked his head forward, staring at the whiteboard as if it had personally offended him.
Absolutely not. He was tired. He didn’t sleep enough. His mind was broken. He was delirious. He was—Yeosang’s lashes were not worth thinking about.
San dragged his hood lower over his face, grumbling under his breath, “Nope. Not doing that. Not thinking about anything. I am fine.”
He scribbled on his paper: “get coffee later.” Then under it: “yeosang is irritating.” Then: “very irritating.”
He dug the pen into the paper harder than necessary.
Class dragged on. San barely processed any of it since he kept trying too hard not to look to his right, which somehow made him even more aware that Yeosang was right there.
Completely still. Completely calm. Completely unbothered. Of course.
Finally, after what felt like two hours but was only fifty minutes, the professor closed her laptop.
“Alright everyone, that’s it. Have a good rest of your morning.”
San was out of his chair instantly. He shoved his papers into his bag with zero technique, zero order, zero care. Zipped it halfway and didn’t bother with the rest.
He didn’t look at Yeosang. Didn’t say a word. Just shoved past him, literally nudging his arm as he squeezed out of the row, and power-walked straight out of the classroom like someone had set off a fire alarm in his head.
He didn’t look back once. He refused because if he did, he might end up doing the same stupid thing he did in games. Look for Yeosang again. And he absolutely wasn’t dealing with that before noon.
San stalked across campus like a storm cloud with legs. He wasn’t going back to the dorm. He needed air. He needed people who weren’t Yeosang. He needed to NOT think about lashes or neat handwriting or seats being “legally unclaimed.”
He headed toward their usual hangout spot, a pair of benches under a big tree beside the arts building. He spotted Seonghwa and Wooyoung immediately. Seonghwa was sitting upright, sipping tea like a civilized adult and Wooyoung was sprawled over the bench like a lizard, phone an inch from his face.
San walked up with the energy of someone who had fought a war. He didn’t greet them. He didn’t even sigh. He just flopped onto the bench next to them, face-first into his arms.
Wooyoung blinked at him. “Oh wow. You look like death.”
Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “Rough morning?”
San didn’t lift his head. He just made an agonized noise into his sleeves.
Wooyoung poked him with his foot. “Is that a yes or a ritual chant to summon demons?”
San lifted his head just enough to glare weakly. “That thing was in my class.”
“Who?” Wooyoung asked.
Seonghwa didn’t even need to guess. “Yeosang.”
San threw his arms in the air dramatically. “Yes. Him. And he was in my seat.”
Wooyoung sat up a little. “Wait— he’s in your class?”
“Yes,” San snapped. “And he stole my seat.”
Seonghwa blinked, unimpressed. “You don’t have assigned seats.”
“I KNOW THAT!” San shouted. “BUT IT WAS MY SEAT!”
Wooyoung leaned in with way too much excitement. “Did he move when you asked?”
“No.”
“Ohoho— what did he say?”
San mimicked Yeosang’s calm tone with extreme bitterness: “‘There’s no name on it.’”
Wooyoung lost it. He threw his head back cackling and he almost rolled off the bench. Seonghwa pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh.
San glared at both of them. “This is not funny.”
“It’s a little funny,” Seonghwa admitted.
San ran both hands through his hair. “He also said something about me not owning the chair legally. Like who even thinks like that?!”
Wooyoung gasped dramatically. “Oh yeah, he’s a menace.”
“He’s worse,” San muttered. “He’s organized.”
Seonghwa blinked. “Organized?”
“Yes. His notes, Seonghwa. His notebook was colour coded and straight. And he had a tablet with matching notes. MATCHING.”
Seonghwa exchanged a look with Wooyoung.
San pointed at nothing in particular, voice climbing an octave. “Meanwhile I’m over here writing on the back of a flyer with a pen that doesn’t even work half the time!”
“And how,” Seonghwa asked gently, “does this harm you?”
“Because,” San snapped, “he’s taking everything!”
Wooyoung blinked. “Like… chairs and pens and—?”
“Not literally,” San groaned. “Just— everything! My seat. My class. My sanity. My spot on the court. Everything he touches is neat and perfect and effortless and I HATE IT.”
Wooyoung nodded sagely. “He’s… tidy. You’re… San.”
San threw his head back and groaned.
Seonghwa patted his knee. “Alright. Calm down before you combust.”
San crossed his arms and kicked at the grass. “He shouldn’t even be here. He’s— he’s already fitting in. He practices extra. He’s good. Too good. And now he’s in my classes? In my seat? Breathing my oxygen?”
Seonghwa raised both eyebrows. “San, he’s just adjusting.”
“Adjusting to what?” San demanded. “A university is a university. What’s so hard about that?”
Seonghwa and Wooyoung exchanged a look, the kind that meant “Oh no, he doesn’t know.”
Seonghwa cleared his throat. “San… do you know anything about his old school?”
“Yeah,” San scoffed. “Their basketball team sucked except for him. Hence, why he is my rival.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
San frowned.
Seonghwa continued, “Yeosang went to a really strict college. Practically a private academy. It’s not like ours.”
San blinked. “Okay?”
“It had curfews,” Seonghwa explained. “Mandatory study hours. Weekly performance reviews. And if you didn’t meet goals, academically or athletically, you lost your scholarship, your dorm privileges, or both.”
San stared.
Wooyoung nodded vigorously. “My cousin went there for a semester. She said it was like prison but with more homework.”
Seonghwa added, “Students don’t usually choose that place. Their parents send them. Or they go because they’re top-tier students expected to perform. Constantly.”
San looked down, fingers tapping against his thigh.
“So,” Seonghwa finished gently, “he’s probably adjusting. This school has actual freedom. No restrictions. No fixed paths to follow. He’s probably learning how to be a normal college student for the first time.”
San’s chest tightened, not painfully, just… uncomfortably. He didn’t know that. He… hadn’t even thought to wonder.
“What does that have to do with magically sitting in my seat?” San muttered.
“Nothing,” Seonghwa said honestly. “But maybe cut him a tiny bit of slack.”
San scoffed immediately. “Absolutely not.”
Wooyoung grinned. “Of course not. That’d be way too healthy.”
San groaned into his hands again. “I hate all of you.”
“You love us,” Wooyoung sang.
San didn’t answer. He just slumped deeper into the bench, hoodie half-covering his face, loud sigh escaping him.
Yeosang adjusting to freedom. Yeosang practicing till he collapsed. Yeosang taking notes like a machine. Yeosang sitting in his seat.
San hated that any of that explained anything. But he hated, even more, that it kinda did.
San stayed slumped across the bench for a moment, letting the shade settle over him like a heavy blanket. Wooyoung scrolled through his phone. Seonghwa quietly sipped his tea, giving San space to breathe and complain at his own pace.
After a minute or two, San finally muttered, “I don’t have any more classes today.”
“Lucky,” Wooyoung groaned. “I have a lab in, like, twenty minutes and I’m spiritually unprepared.”
Seonghwa raised an eyebrow. “You’re never prepared.”
“Spiritually or academically? Because both are correct.”
San exhaled through his nose, pushing himself up from the bench. “I think I’m gonna hit the court for a bit.”
Both pairs of eyes rose to him immediately.
“San,” Seonghwa said slowly, “don’t push yourself.”
“I’m not,” San muttered.
“You always say that,” Seonghwa countered.
San rolled his eyes. “I’m just going to shoot around. Nothing intense.”
“Uh-huh,” Seonghwa replied, skepticism radiating off him like a parent hearing a teenager say they’ll be home “by 10.”
Wooyoung perked up instantly. “Go shirtless!”
San blinked. “What?”
“You know, get some attention. Flex a little. Sweat. Attract a fan club.”
San stared at him, deadpan. “Wooyoung.”
“What? It’s marketing.”
Seonghwa sighed deeply. “Ignore him. Please.”
“I always do,” San muttered, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
Wooyoung made a finger-gun gesture. “If you see someone staring, wink.”
San didn’t even reply to that, he just stood up, shook out his shoulders like he was resetting himself, and took a step backward.
“I’ll see you guys later.”
Seonghwa nodded. “Please just don’t overdo it or I’ll send Hongjoong to drag you home.”
“I won’t.”
“You will,” Wooyoung said with absolute certainty.
San snorted. “Goodbye.”
He turned and headed down the path, the sunlight warming the back of his hoodie, the breeze brushing through the leaves overhead. The campus felt quieter away from the benches, lighter somehow.
His legs carried him automatically toward the outdoor courts. He wasn’t thinking about Yeosang. Or class. Or notes. Or seats.
He just needed to move. To shoot. To feel normal for a bit. Even if “normal” now felt like a moving target.
The outdoor court came into view just past the rec center, the same one he’d passed yesterday, the same one he’d pretended he didn’t glance back at after seeing Yeosang collapse and get back up again.
Today, though, it was empty. Thank god.
No teams messing around. No freshmen trying to one-up each other. No annoying couple taking pictures on the sidelines. Just the court and him.
San let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He hopped the low gate, walked over to the ball rack, and grabbed a spare ball. One with a decent grip, the familiar weight settling instantly into his palms.
He spun it once. Twice. Then dribbled.
Thump. Thump. Thump-thump.
The echo filled the air, sharp and rhythmic, like a metronome setting his pulse back where it belonged. He stepped onto the court, shoulders relaxing for the first time since sunrise.
No people. No pressure. No coach yelling. No stupid rivalry burning holes into his brain.
Just space. Just breath. Just him.
He started simple with slow dribbles, switching hands, loosening his wrists. His body knew the motions without thought. He dipped into a crossover, stepped back, flicked the ball up, and swished. The net whispered at him. Comforting.
San huffed out a small laugh, tired but genuine, as he jogged to retrieve the ball.
He didn’t need teammates. He didn’t need perfect notes. He didn’t need seats or explanations or whatever the hell yesterday was. He just needed this.
The sound of sneakers squeaking lightly on pavement. The weight of the ball. The clean release from his fingers. The thud of landing. The quiet that wrapped around him like a blanket.
He dribbled again, faster this time. Left. Right. Behind-the-back. Spin. Jump. Another shot. Swish.
His lungs opened up a bit more. His heartbeat steadied. His shoulders dropped from where they had been glued to his ears all morning.
This was the feeling he loved.
No tension. No rivalry. No eyes watching him.
Just San. Just basketball.
He dribbled to the free-throw line, bounced the ball twice, exhaled, and shot again. It hit the rim, bounced up, then dropped in.
He smiled. Not big. Not bright. But real. No matter what was going on, this made him feel like himself again.
No chaos. No anger. No Yeosang invading his thoughts. Just San, alone on a court, exactly where he wanted to be.
By the time San finally slowed down on the court, the sun had shifted across the sky and the breeze had picked up just enough to cool his sweat.
He wasn’t breathless, just… used. Muscles warm, heartbeat low and steady, thoughts quieted by repetition. Exactly what he needed. But his stomach eventually betrayed him with a loud growl.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” he muttered at himself.
He grabbed his bag, hopped the gate again, and headed toward the food court. It wasn’t far, and at this time it usually wasn’t crowded. Which was good, he didn’t have the energy to deal with anyone, especially the loud freshmen who treated lunch like a festival.
Inside, the line wasn’t long, thank god. He ordered his usual without thinking. The one he could inhale in five minutes if needed.
He carried the tray out to the patio area behind the building where there were wide wooden benches, picnic tables, and plenty of open space. Perfect.
He scanned the area, eyes lazy, stomach already celebrating ad stopped.
Most of the benches were empty. Except one. Of course, because the universe had jokes today. Yeosang sat there.
Same hoodie as earlier with his head down. A pencil between his fingers. A few papers spread out neatly on the table in front of him. Maybe homework. Maybe notes. He looked… absorbed.
San stared for a second, tethered between annoyance and the bone-deep exhaustion holding his limbs together. He was starving, exhausted, and done with the day.
Avoiding Yeosang meant turning around and eating alone somewhere else. Which he absolutely did not have the energy for.
And it was a big bench. Huge, actually. Easily enough for four people to sit without touching shoulders. And Yeosang wasn’t even looking at him. He probably wouldn’t even notice.
San exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Whatever,” he muttered under his breath.
He walked over, sat at the opposite end of the bench, placed his food down, and immediately pretended the other half of the bench didn’t exist.
No eye contact. No acknowledgment. No tension.
Just eating. Just relaxing. Just being a normal human not spiraling because the universe had a sick sense of humor.
Yeosang didn’t look up. Hell, he looked like he was a robot moving automatically. He just kept working, pencil moving with steady precision.
San unwrapped his food, took a big first bite, and told himself firmly he wasn’t here because of Yeosang. He was here because he was hungry. Because he was tired. Because this seat was convenient.
And Yeosang was just… there as background noise. Nothing more. Absolutely nothing more.
San ate quietly. Or so he thought.
He scrolled through his phone, thumb flicking lazily through memes and team messages. He wasn’t really reading anything. His brain was on autopilot. The food was good, warm, familiar, comforting. Exactly what he needed.
The silence was… weirdly peaceful. Yeosang hadn’t looked up once. No comments. No staring. No interactions.
Which was perfect. Exactly what San wanted.
Until a voice cut through the air, flat and dry:
“Why are you eating so loudly?”
San froze mid-chew. Slowly, painfully slowly, he turned his head. Yeosang was staring directly at him. Not at his face, but at his sandwich.
San choked on his bite. “I— what? I’m not!”
“You are,” Yeosang said, completely calm. “You’re chewing like the sandwich personally offended you.”
San blinked hard. “And what business is that of yours?!”
“I’m trying to work,” Yeosang replied, motioning toward his neatly stacked papers. “The noises are distracting.”
San stared at him, mouth falling open. “Distracting? I’m literally just eating.”
“Loudly.”
“Oh my god—” San set his sandwich down, gesturing aggressively. “Do you want me to swallow it whole?! Would that help?!”
Yeosang didn’t flinch. “Well, no. Then you’d choke. And then I’d be forced to intervene, and I have no desire to give you the Heimlich maneuver.”
San sputtered. “WHY WOULD YOU EVEN— WHAT— WHO— WHY DO YOU TALK LIKE THIS?!”
Yeosang blinked. “You asked.”
“I DIDN’T ASK ANYTHING!”
“You raised your voice. That implies curiosity.”
San threw his head back toward the sky in agony. “I hate this school. I hate this bench. I hate—”
“Me?” Yeosang offered calmly.
San blinked at him. “…Yes. Great observation.”
Yeosang closed his notebook with a snap, far more decisive than the situation required. “I don’t have time for this.”
San scoffed. “Oh, but you had time to insult my eating?”
Yeosang ignored him, actually ignored him, as he checked his watch. Then, for the first time since San sat down, his expression cracked. Just a little. A flicker of something tight around the eyes. Worry. Annoyance. Maybe both.
“Damn it,” Yeosang muttered under his breath, sharp enough that San actually blinked.
Yeosang hurriedly stacked his papers, shoved them into his bag with a level of rush that looked completely out of character, and slung the strap over his shoulder.
He stood quickly and gave San one brief, unreadable glance. Then he walked off without another word.
San stared after him.
What… the hell?
He replayed the last fifteen seconds in his head. Yeosang’s tone shifting. The muttered curse. The sudden urgency.
San frowned down at his sandwich.
Was he really eating that loudly? No way. That’s not possible.
“Whatever,” he muttered. “Good riddance.”
But his brain didn’t let it go.
Where did he have to be? Why did he look worried? Was he late for something? Did San actually bother him that much? Was he—
No, San refused to go down that rabbit hole. He shoved another bite in his mouth, telling himself the weird twist in his chest was hunger. Definitely hunger.
He’d only gotten through half his sandwich when a loud voice snapped him out of his head.
“SANNNNNN!”
San looked up to see Mingi and Jongho approaching, waving like idiots.
Jongho pointed at him. “You look like you’re losing a fight with your lunch.”
Mingi grinned. “You good? You look… confused. Like, more than usual.”
San swallowed, straightened up, and shoved whatever he’d been feeling deep under the emotional rug where it belonged.
“Yeah,” he lied. “Fine. Totally fine.”
But the empty spot at the bench’s far end? The one Yeosang had left behind? San kept glancing at it. Just once. Maybe twice. Okay, three times.
And he hated that he didn’t know why.
Mingi plopped down next to San with the enthusiasm of someone who’d never been tired a day in his life.
“So are you done eating? I wanna hoop,” he said, swinging his bag onto his shoulder.
San blinked at him. “Right now?”
Jongho nodded. “We were heading to the big court. Wanted to see if you wanted to join.”
San absolutely could have said, Sorry, already practiced. He could have said, I’m tired. He could have said, No thanks, I need to go lie down and not think about Yeosang’s existence for five minutes. But instead—
“Yeah, sure,” he said, grabbing what remained of his sandwich and stuffing it into his mouth.
Jongho raised a brow, but didn’t question it. Mingi beamed like he’d won a prize. “Let’s go, then!”
They walked across the quad and toward the athletic complex, the conversation drifting lazily as they went.
Mingi was rambling about some YouTube video he watched last night involving a basketball trick-shot competition. Jongho was talking about a class project he refused to start until the night before. San nodded along, replying when he needed to, keeping the rest of his brain quietly half-occupied…with the question he hated having.
Where did Yeosang need to be? Why did he rush off like that?
It bothered him. Not enough to verbalize, god no, but enough to irritate him between sentences.
He looked worried, San thought, eyes narrowing at the sidewalk ahead. Did he forget a meeting? Was he running late somewhere? And why do I care—
He tried to shove the thought down. He tried harder when it popped back up. He tried even harder when it popped up again. He eventually gave up and mentally yelled at himself instead.
Stop. Thinking. About. Him.
Jongho nudged him. “You’re quiet. That’s new.”
San glared. “I’m always quiet.”
“No,” Mingi corrected cheerfully, “you’re always loud and pretending you’re quiet.”
San groaned. “I hate both of you.”
“Then you would have left already,” Mingi chirped.
Liana (Guest) on Chapter 1 Tue 09 Dec 2025 11:25PM UTC
Comment Actions
Tiny2 on Chapter 2 Thu 11 Dec 2025 10:57AM UTC
Comment Actions
PurplePilar8 on Chapter 2 Fri 12 Dec 2025 02:53AM UTC
Comment Actions
indelibleink89 on Chapter 3 Tue 16 Dec 2025 01:30AM UTC
Comment Actions