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Later, Jisung will blame Minho for not being around to shackle him to his seat.
“Kim Seungmin,” he bellows as he teeters on the edge of the DJ’s podium. The club blurs into an indiscernible sea of partiers before him. He feels Moses-like, ready to part them with nothing but pure faith that his proclamation will be heard. “Kim Seungmin! I’ve never been brave enough to say this to you before, but you need to know that you’re the cutest boy to have – hic – to have ever walked this campus! NAY. You’re the cutest boy to have ever walked this earth! I know barely anything about baseball, but I still go to – hic – every game just to see your face and your ass. And you have the prettiest, most kissable teeth too, they make me want to literally cry whenever I see them. If I could, I’d sing a thousand songs to you, but apparently this isn’t that type of club so I’ll have to dedicate one instead.” He sucks in another breath and then all but roars, feedback whining through the speakers, “DJ??? PUMP UP THE VOLUME and drop THE BEAT for my baseball boy-crush baby boy!”
He hands back the mic and staggers off the stage, scarcely able to stay upright. Behind him, the DJ obediently starts to play the greatest baseball anthem known to man: Supermassive Black Hole by MUSE.
He hopes Seungmin likes the homage he’s paid. More importantly, he hopes Seungmin likes him. If he doesn’t, then Jisung might just cry. In the meantime, he needs to find a corner to throw up in.
⚾🎙️🤍
[Record-scratch.
Freeze frame.
Insert a voiceover that sounds suspiciously like Han Jisung saying, “So you might be wondering how I got into this position.”
Rewind the reel to approximately five weeks before his grand confession at P.A.C.E a la the Twilight movie soundtrack. Our new scene takes place in a dimly lit, somewhat stale university dorm room. Off to the side, pressed against one bile-yellow wall, is a suspiciously human-sized lump fashioned from blankets. Now press play.]
⚾🎙️🤍
“I’m really, really sorry, hyung,” Jisung croaks, sniffling pitifully into his phone. He sort of wishes Chan was here in the flesh to gaze down at him so Jisung could drive home exactly how pitiful this poor dongsaeng of his is. He settles for a weak moan in lieu of the 4K proof. “Whatever fuck-ass cold Changbin-hyung brought back from Yongin has legit knocked me off my feet. I can barely sit up, never mind record a track.”
The beginnings of a sigh stirs over the line before Chan manages to abort it. “Okay,” he says, trying his best to hide his disappointment. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“Hyu-u-ung,” he whines.
Chan mimics his tone back. “Wha-a-at?”
“Please don’t be disappointed in me, you know I won’t be able to handle it. I promise that I’d be in the studio right now if I thought I could make it there in one piece.”
“Don’t be so silly,” he scolds. “Yeah, it sucks that you can’t be here, but it’s not a big deal. I’ll figure something out, don’t worry about it. Just focus on getting better.”
Jisung doesn’t know how on earth he’s planning to do that. How on earth Chan is going to ‘figure something out’, that is, not how Jisung intends to get better since he already has a rock-solid plan in place for that. (Read: to wallow in snot and self-pity until he’s ready to emerge from his cave to tip back Minho’s spicy chicken soup – always guaranteed to burn out the remnants of a sickness.) There was a reason why Jisung was chosen to sing the track in the first place. No one else in the department can belt high notes the way he can – and Chan’s new song has a lot of them.
He sniffles again, feeling wretched. “I’m really, really sorry, hyung.”
“It’s fine, honestly, don’t stress about it. Anyways, do you need me to send anything over to you? I can get food delivered to your dorm, whatever you need to feel better. Or I can send Minho home with something if you want?”
Jisung could weep. He really could. He doesn’t deserve the beauty of Bahng Christopher Chan’s friendship.
“Just some cough drops please,” he says. “My throat is fucking killing me.”
“Alright, sounds good. I’ll let Minho know to grab some on the way back to yours. Get some sleep, Hanjiji. I’ll see you later.”
He hangs up, leaving Jisung to rot in his misery and phlegm. Behind sun-scorched eyes, his head pounds. As soon as he’s on the other side of this cold, he’s so going to kill Seo Changbin.
Jisung’s fuck-ass cold turns out to be a fuck-ass fever that lasts for two bone-aching days. He spends it toppling in and out of incoherent dreams about a parliament of vultures who oversee his exams, groggy in-real-life exchanges with Minho and practising Chan’s song with the vaguely displaced determination to march down to the studio and record his vocals whether it kills him or not. Once it breaks, he crawls his way into the shower in the hopes of recovering something human beneath the stink, sweat and damp flannels. Then it’s another two days of bed rest and trying to build his strength once more: brick by brick, bowl by bowl of chicken soup. By the time he emerges from his hole, he’s once again ready to conquer the world.
Or something like it anyway. He’s still a little runny nosed whenever the wind blows too hard and he’s borrowed the vocal chords of someone who smokes ten packs a day, but at least he can walk in a straight line. Mostly.
“I’m going to kill Changbin-hyung,” he vows, hunched over a dirty chai latte in a haunt near campus. “If he ever sneezes near me again, I’ll drop-kick him, I fucking swear.”
“Stop acting like you don’t have two left feet,” Jeongin, known klutz and apparent hypocrite, says. “Knowing you, you’d probably land on your ass before you get halfway there.”
“The thought will still be felt,” he insists. “And so will the passion.”
“But the end-result? Probably something left to be desired, no?”
Jisung glowers. “Keep talking that way and I’ll drop-kick you in a minute.”
Jeongin laughs because he’s soulless and finds thorough pleasure in Jisung’s pain. Jisung pouts because, as dastardly as Jeongin is, he’s also Jisung’s best friend and he’s enough of a masochist to keep it that way.
He sighs and thumbs open his phone, once more gazing sadly at Chan’s post. It captures him with a peace sign in front of his laptop, working on his final year portfolio. Dimpled, beanie-clad, burgundy bags under his eyes – the full fucking Monty. He was genuinely so excited to sing Chan’s song. The moment he heard it, he knew it was his to perform. Alas, the universe has other plans. Damn his immune system. Damn Seo Changbin and his insistence on infecting half the damn department.
Unable to face his failings for any longer, he clicks away from the image, only to be confronted by Kim Seungmin in its stead. Captured by the university’s unofficial student rag, the star student twists and hurls a baseball with near-professional strength and power, slinging it through the air in a blur. ‘KING SEUNGMIN STRIKES AGAIN!’ the caption yells. Jisung feels like yelling too, but he settles for double-tapping a heart against the video.
“Can you believe,” he asks Jeongin, shoving his phone past whatever marshmallow monstrosity he’s decided to rot his teeth with, “someone this perfect actually exists and walks around the same campus as us?”
“Seeing as how Kim Seungmin is in my Interpersonal Communications unit and I see him three times a week – yes. Yes, I can. What else is new.”
“You’re so lucky.” He sighs again although this time it’s decidedly less forlorn and veers towards lovesick. “If Kim Seungmin was in my class, I’d have perfect attendance.”
“If Kim Seungmin was in your class, you’d have to be checked into the hospital for oxygen deprivation,” Jeongin retorts. “I seriously think you’d forget to breathe while you drooled over him.”
Jisung doesn’t bother to refute the point. It’s a pretty accurate assessment of the situation. “He’s so perfect, Innie. He’s, like, the ultimate boy crush. So can you honestly blame me for doing as the universe intended and crushing on him?”
“You could just add him on socials like a normal person and DM him,” he suggests.
“I think I’d rather kill myself,” Jisung replies, only somewhat joking.
“What a perfectly sane reaction to have.”
He snatches his phone back from the offensively unappreciative gremlin he has the misfortune to keep company with. “You don’t understand. He’s just too perfect. I could never dare to breathe near him and risk having him know who I am.”
“Perfect?” Jeongin echoes, revolted. “Perfect? The other day, during our lecture, I saw him dip his toast into ketchup.”
“And I’m sure he did it flawlessly.”
“Get up from your knees right now, you’re embarrassing me.”
“Leave me alone,” Jisung exclaims. “Let me drool over my baseball cutie in peace!” Then he adds, a touch more seriously, “I kind of like crushing on him from a distance without ever intending to do anything about it. It’s a time-pass, you know? Nothing that requires a huge commitment.”
Jeongin nods. “I get it. It’s like me with the Buzzcut Book Bandit. I could find out his name and which course he’s on, but it’s better to hate on him from afar instead.”
“For the last freaking time, checking out multiple books from the library does not make someone a book bandit.”
“Eight books, Sung. Eight. And two of them were on my required reading list too! It’s blatant criminal activity is what it is!”
Angel and saviour that he is, Chan grants Jisung the courtesy of waiting a few additional days to see if his voice will make a miraculous recovery. Sadly, it is not meant to be. While he’ll be able to rap the verses with ease, especially given that Chan opted for a melodic pace that doesn’t require overly complex breath control, the singing remains out of reach for now. Unable to delay recording for any longer, his submission deadline looming ahead of them like a final boss battle, they come to a reluctant compromise: Jisung will rap and Chan will find someone else to conquer the rest of it. The song will have to be a duet.
“This blows so hard,” Jisung says. He kicks off from the ground and spins on his chair in an equally miserable manner, the recording studio an apathetic blur around him. “Have I mentioned that I’m going to beat Changbin-hyung up when I next see him?”
“You might have said it once or twice,” Chan, the recipient of no less than eight such texts, says. Creaking with a laugh, he hooks his leg around Jisung’s chair and stops his spinning in its tracks so they can face each other. “Cheer up, Hannie-bug. I’m sure it’ll all work out either way. The guy I’ve found has a really good voice. I think he’ll match well with you.”
This does nothing to assuage his grumpiness. “He’s not better than me, is he?” He isn’t sure he can handle Chan thinking that someone else is better than him.
“Well…” Chan pretends to ponder over it, tapping his chin until Jisung yowls like a cat for him to stop. Dropping the act – although clinging steadfastly to his Cheshire-wide grin – he says honestly, “It isn’t really something you can compare, you have two very different vibes. You’re best suited to indie pop-rock and hip-hop, this guy does well with ballads. I think the contrast between you two will be just right.”
Again, his reassurance does little to appease Jisung’s ego. He huffs and leans back, crossing his arms. “Who is this guy anyway? You said he’s not even part of our department.”
“He’s not, I found him in noraebang the other day. His voice was so good I basically barged into the room he’d booked and begged him to help me out. I think he said he got vocal training as, like, a side hobby? Or something like that.”
A side hobby. That makes it even worse. He’s being replaced by someone who handles music as a side quest.
“I think you might know him actually,” Chan continues. “He’s in your year.”
“We’re in uni, hyung,” Jisung says. “There are thousands of people in my year.”
“He’s kind of well-known though. He’s one of the athletes for a student team. He plays cricket, I think?”
Jisung doesn’t know whether they even have a cricket team. Dread starts to wriggle along the notches of his spine. Surely, it can’t be...
“It isn’t Kim Seungmin, is it? The baseball player?”
Chan snaps his fingers. “Yeah, that’s it! Baseball! I knew you’d know him.”
Horror. Pure unadulterated horror.
Jisung makes a noise that sounds related to the squeaks of a suppressed fart. “You invited Kim Seungmin to this recording session and you didn’t think to tell me?”
Chan frowns. “I mean, I guess... Why, was I supposed to?”
“YES?!”
He leaps to his feet like a soldier standing to attention. The chair skitters back, rolling into the desk where it jostles Chan’s equipment. Jisung scarcely notices, his mind racing down a track. This changes everything. Literally everything.
“I need to leave.”
“What?” Chan splutters. “You can’t leave, we haven’t even started yet!”
Doesn’t matter. He needs to go. He can’t meet Kim Seungmin for the first time looking like this. Look at the state of him!
Under the impression that he was meeting nobody special, Jisung didn’t bother to dress up; in fact, he is very much the opposite, still clinging to the last vestiges of his illness and wanting to rot in the pity of that. His biggest hoodie, no longer quite black, has seen better days: pilled, possibly stained, probably in need of a wash. His hair could do with a wash of its own too. It felt a little greasy when he left the dorm that morning, but at the time, he figured it was a problem that could be dealt with in the evening. And that’s not to mention the state of his face. Fuck, he has Vaseline smeared all around his nostrils and philtrum because he blew his nose so much over the last week that his skin became dry and flaky and he’s been trying to revive it ever since.
“I’ll be right back, I promise,” he says.
Yet before he can take more than a single stride towards the door, it’s shouldered open. Like the heroine of a horror movie, Jisung watches, aghast, as his worst nightmare steps into the room. Kim Seungmin, his crooked smile at the ready, sinks into a shallow bow.
“Hi sunbae. Sorry for being late.”
His voice sounds like birdsong already.
Jisung is so, so fucked.
This is simultaneously the best and worst day of his entire life. Granted, it hasn’t been a very long life. And there is the one time where he had a minor scare with a man-eating Malaysian crocodile when he was on holiday which ranks high up there too. But regardless of all of that – in spite, nonetheless, notwithstanding – today truly does take the cake.
It’s the best for obvious reasons. This is the closest he’s been to Kim Seungmin ever since he saw him hurl his first baseball in the opening game of their freshman year. In the time since, he’s only ever existed on the peripheries of Seungmin’s world, if at all. Sometimes, Jisung salivates over his social media posts whenever he decides to pass the time with a little stalky-stalk to see if Seungmin’s shared anything new. (The beauty of his crush having a public Instagram. What a glorious world they live in.) Mostly though, he just watches Seungmin in awe from the stands of their school stadium along with the rest of the crowd. Yet now they’re so close that he can see the freaking pores on the man. He might even be able to count his eyelashes if he squints hard enough.
On the other hand, it’s also the worst day of his life because why the fuck does today have to be the day that he meets Kim Seungmin. How can Chan do this to him? They’re meant to be bros. Bros. And now he’s reduced Jisung to a stale, pimpled, plum tomato of a human being as he does his best not to spontaneously combust whenever Seungmin so much as breathes in his direction.
Which he does.
Several times, in fact, because in addition to being the greatest athlete this university has seen in living memory, Seungmin also happens to be polite. Happens to be nice. Happens to go out of his way to include Jisung in his conversation, even when all it earns him is a muttered monosyllabic answer and a desperate attempt to melt into the shadows of his dirty hoodie.
Jisung kind of wants to marry him for it. He also wants to run out of the building, screaming like a madman. Instead, here he is, forced to pretend as though he has any semblance of sanity left between his ears.
“This is really good, sunbae,” Seungmin says now, elbows on his knees as he listens to Chan’s demo. “Like this sounds professional.”
Chan smiles, soft and bashful as though he can’t believe someone would think that. “Hardly. I’ve got a long way left to go before I manage that level of skill. But thank you for the kind words.”
“I’m being serious,” he insists. “This would go crazy on the charts. Right, Jisung-ssi?”
Oh sweet heavens. His name sounds positively delectable in Seungmin’s mouth. How can one person be this perfect?
“Yeah,” Jisung manages. “Word.”
It’s official. He’s going to shove his head into a blender.
Seungmin cracks a smile, revealing the crooked crowd of his teeth. A transparent set of braces catches the fluorescent lights above and Jisung’s tummy does a stupid flip like it’s an athlete too. Gymnastics, here he fucking comes.
“Word,” he echoes.
On second thoughts, perhaps he can save the blender for another day.
They run through the demo once more, this time with Chan pausing every so often to explain how he envisions the execution. Seungmin absorbs it all diligently, his head tilted to the side as if to capture Chan’s every word. Somehow, Jisung manages to pull his concentration away from his spiralling thoughts to do the same, tucking away Chan’s guidance for later.
At last, it’s time to get down to business.
“Okay.” Chan claps his hands together and then rubs them in anticipation. “Seungmin-ssi, since you’re new to the whole recording thing, why don’t you sit back and watch me run through it with Jisung first? It might make the whole thing seem less intimidating.”
Novice though he may be, Seungmin seems a far cry from intimidated. He looks just as cool and as collected as he does whenever he’s on the baseball field. (Just as fiendishly sexy too, Jisung thinks, before a mental Jeongin drags a hypothetical miniature of him offscreen.) Nevertheless, he humours Chan’s suggestion with a nod and sits back to watch the show.
His expectant look is enough to make Jisung queasy. He feels like a worm squirming on a hook, ready to be submerged to its gristly demise.
Somehow, he manages to get into the recording booth without making a complete fool of himself. Once inside, everything that follows is mechanical. Headphones on. Phone out, unlocked to the lyrics that Chan texted across. Big, deep breath in.
“Okay Hanjiji.” Chan’s voice feeds into the recording booth. “Let’s take it from Lonely life. Don’t think too much about the tone right now, just do what feels right.”
“Sounds good.”
Jisung lifts his phone to eye level. Music swells through the room, transcendent. Another big breath and then he’s off, gliding into the rap and letting the groove guide him. As soon as he starts, he already knows he’s half a beat too late, can sense Chan’s criticism before it comes, but he diligently sees the section through to its end regardless. When he breaks off and looks through the heavy plate glass window, it’s to Kim Seungmin’s incredulous laugh and applause.
“Wow,” he marvels. “Is this how things are done in the music department?”
Chan nods, his finger pressed to the talkback button. “That was a good start. You made it more sentimental than I expected, but it works. That being said, you missed your cue so you were out of time.”
“He was?” Seungmin asks, mystified.
Jisung indulges in a sheepish smile. “Yeah, I noticed that too.”
“Let’s try that one again, okay?”
“Sounds good, hyung. I’ll take it again from the top.”
Under Chan’s careful instructions, the song starts to come together. He makes Jisung rerecord some lines here and there, asks him to throw in the occasional ad-lib or take one out, but all things considered, his session doesn’t take long. Before he knows it, Chan is asking him to wrap things up.
“That was good,” he reiterates. “You did well, Hannie-bug.”
Beside him, Seungmin has scarcely moved an inch, so engrossed in the proceedings. He smiles now, earnest in a way that is almost blinding to look at.
“That was really cool, Jisung-ssi,” he agrees. “You’ve set a high standard for me to meet.”
Once he got into the swing of things, Jisung forgot to be embarrassed about Seungmin’s presence. That temporary lapse in judgement swiftly ends. Within moments, he feels heat prickle over his skin like pins.
“I’m sure you’ll be great,” he mumbles, unable to meet his gaze. “Channie-hyung only said good things.”
“Oh, he’s brilliant,” Chan says offhandedly. “Matches you perfectly.”
If only.
“I have a lot left to work on,” says Seungmin, “but I’ll take the compliment while I still have it.”
They swap places, Seungmin standing shoulder-width apart behind the mic, his lyrics printed on a booklet that’s then propped against a stand level with his face, while Jisung slouches next to Chan. The look on his face is familiar. It’s been plastered all over the university’s social media more times than Jisung can count. He’s had the pleasure of glimpsing it in real life too during games where he’s snagged a seat close enough to see Seungmin on the pitch. Mouth pressed to a flat, imperious line. Tension circuiting through his body.
“Ready?” Chan asks.
Seungmin nods as grimly as a warrior might face down a mythical beast. “Ready.”
He opens his mouth. The music trickles in. And he sings.
“It isn’t that terrible,” Jeongin tries. When Jisung groans into his pillow, he insists, “No, I mean it. It could’ve been a lot worse.”
“It also could’ve been a lot better. Just look at me, Innie. Look at me.”
He turns onto his back with the same gracelessness that he flopped onto his belly with as soon as he stumbled into Jeongin’s dorm earlier to bemoan his terrible luck.
The day has been long and painful. As soon as they wrapped up recording, Jisung’s hopes for a quick escape were dashed by Chan’s insistence on treating them to dinner. In the face of Seungmin’s delight at a free meal and Chan’s expectant look, Jisung was helpless to do anything other than comply.
And so, instead of drowning in mortification in his shower, he spent all damn day in Kim Seungmin’s presence while looking like a greasy rat. He could practically feel the oil gathering in his hair with each second he spent in that damn restaurant. Could all but see American troops on the horizon, readying their vessels to launch war on his scalp. In a moment of desperation, he even slipped into the restroom to sprayed a lemon-scented disinfectant can onto his clothes, praying desperately that he didn’t stink as badly as he feared was the case.
“Okay so you’ve had better days,” Jeongin says. “You’re a performing arts student! Everyone knows you guys can get a little bedraggled sometimes. I’ve encountered some seriously questionable smells whenever I’ve gone to pick up Minho-hyung from his dance classes. Some of those guys really need to fix their diet.”
Jisung wants to cry. “I need to fix my diet! I live off cup ramen and energy drinks!”
Jeongin rests a solemn hand on his shin. “Jisung. Bro. You will survive this.”
“But will my pride?”
“Let’s be honest, it already lost that battle a long time ago.”
“I fucking hate you,” Jisung says and tries to jam his foot into Jeongin’s stomach so he can suffer a gristly death by his big toe.
Laughing, Jeongin pushes him away. “Look, it’ll be fine. Seungmin was there for Channie-hyung, not for you. I doubt he thought that much about what you looked like. But if it makes you feel better, we can drown your sorrows in a bar crawl tonight. Changbin-hyung messaged me earlier, asking if we were free to go out. Whaddya say? Are you up for it?”
“He’d better treat me to free drinks if I do go,” Jisung grumbles. “This is all his damn fault anyway.”
Not for the first time, he imagines passionately tackling the man for daring to infect him with the flu in the first place. Alas, even his imagination isn’t delusional enough to paint him as the winner; with arms like that, the only person who can go head to head with Changbin in a battle of strength is probably Minho.
He thinks of Kim Seungmin in the performance arts building and then later in the restaurant, his legs crossed politely as he poured chilli oil onto his food. What impression must he have gained of Jisung after the events of today? Most likely that he’s an awkward weirdo who can’t string two sentences together outside of the recording booth. Or locate the nearest shower.
Humiliation once again crashes over him. Crying aloud, he collapses onto his front again, attempting his best impression of a beached whale, and does his best to smother his way into the afterlife via Jeongin’s musty bedsheets.
Life plods on as it is famously known to do. Changbin treats him to a single free shot and then holds Jisung’s hair back from his face when he doubles over later that night, throwing up in the grimy toilet of whatever club they’ve ended up in. Jisung showers and does his laundry. Lectures drag him to campus and his weekly assignments call for his attention and in a mere matter of days, he remembers how to function with only the occasional war flashback to his encounter with Kim Seungmin. It’s a blessing he doesn’t take lightly.
In the meantime, he drinks warm water and sucks on cough drops until his voice finally gains an approximation of its usual strength. As soon as he finds out, Chan pounces on the opportunity to call him in to record backing vocals for his project. Jisung goes willingly and tries not to swoon over how perfect he sounds once paired with Kim Seungmin. For someone with only a moderate amount of formal training, Seungmin’s vocal abilities are breath-taking. Sure, he isn’t the most proficient of singers, but he doesn’t need to be, not when he carries enough emotion to make a statue cry.
“This is really good, hyung,” he says as they listen to the track play back. “I hate to say it, but maybe it worked out for the best that I couldn’t do the main vocals for this one…”
“Seungmin has such a raw way of singing, doesn’t he?” Chan says, tactful enough to not agree quite so blatantly. “You can’t train that sort of emotion into someone.”
“I can’t believe he isn’t a music student,” Jisung agrees. “He has the chops for it.”
“What does he study anyway? As crazy as it sounds, I don’t think it came up last week. All I know is that he plays baseball for the uni and he’s in your year...”
“He’s in communications. Jeongin has a couple of units that crossover with him.”
Chan whistles. “Social sciences, huh?”
The various colleges of their university have a friendly rivalry that stretches back to time immemorial. Perhaps they are not natural enemies with the College of Social Sciences in the way Medicine is, but it’s still wild that someone so talented could belong to a different discipline and not dedicate their life to their natural instrument. Almost criminal really. But who knows? Maybe Seungmin just really likes having a conversation.
“It could be worse,” Jisung says. “He could be part of the Engineering college.”
“Never insult one of my sons like that ever again.”
“One of your – slow down, hyung! Does Seungmin know that you’ve adopted him? You’ve known him for all of five seconds!”
Five long, painful seconds.
Another war flashback seizes Jisung. He winces and tries not to slam his head into the circuit board to scrub it from his memory.
It’s okay. He can get over this. He will get over this. And the next time he sees Kim Seungmin – whether that’s during a baseball game or by mysteriously running into him on campus – he will look far from a greasy rat. He will look chic and suave. He will look like the star of a teen romcom who everyone in town has a gigantic crush on. He will be cool.
In a truly sickening turn of events, he looks like anything but. Granted, he might not be dripping grease this time, but he still resembles something of a rodent when they next run into each other. Of the ‘drowned rat’ kind, this time.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Jisung groans on the fateful day, looking at the torrential downpour on the other side of the doors before him.
Outside, the weather shows no sign of letting up. Normally, Jisung wouldn’t care. Unfortunately, he had the grand idea to forgo a coat for the day and now his only protection against the rain is a thin, cotton zip-up. He sneaks another glance at the sky. It looks even greyer than the tarmac and leaves little hope for a change in its temperament.
Fuck it. He’s just going to have to brave the storm.
Taking a deep breath in, he flings the door open and charges into the street. Almost immediately, he feels drenched to his toes. The rain swells around him, roaring like a pride of lions. Gritting his teeth together, Jisung keeps his head down and bears through its assault. He makes it down half a street before he decides his current pace won’t cut it anymore and breaks out into a run.
The world becomes a blur of panic and colour. Wind lashes into his face in icy whips. His hood gives up the fight and falls back, exposing his crown to the elements. He hardly registers it. All he knows is fervent desperation. Whether he makes it in one piece or not, he needs to get to the bus shelter where he can find a modicum of protection against the weather. Otherwise, he might die.
By the time he makes it there, he’s miserable. Miserable and shivering, now that he’s no longer running in a fight for his life. He shoves his fingers beneath his sleeves, hoping to thaw them into feeling once more. They’re as a cold as a corpse’s, ice-like as they sink into his flesh. Jisung shivers again and then sniffs, utterly despondent.
“It’s crazy out here, right?”
The voice is so unexpected that he shrieks. The sound is immediately swallowed by the storm – but when he turns to face the owner of the question, it’s painfully clear that he snagged onto it first. Kim Seungmin sits at the shelter, looking as soaked as Jisung feels, yet a million times more attractive for it.
Jisung’s teeth chatter in a feeble reply.
Undeterred, Seungmin bobs a greeting. “Hey Jisung. It’s been a minute.”
He’s going to explode. Kim Seungmin remembers his name. Kim Seungmin remembers his face. Kim Seungmin has seen him looking like he’s been dragged backwards out of a drain on more than one occasion and Jisung can’t even say anything to defend himself.
He searches for a suave reply to save the day and lands on: “Skrrt.”
Okay, so this afternoon seems like as good a time as any to walk into oncoming traffic.
A laugh answers his stupid as fuck greeting. “Is that how you say hi as a music student?”
Only if you’re a dumbass like Jisung maybe.
He manages a weak smile. “Sure. Something like that.”
“Well, in that case: skrrt.”
Seungmin pairs it with twin rock on signs, committing to the bit to the very end. In that moment, Jisung swears he falls in love. He can almost see his heart trip out of his chest and land pathetically near Seungmin’s feet. It spasms in time with the way Seungmin’s eyes crinkle at the corners from the force of his smile.
Feeling as helpless as he did when Chan dragged them out to the restaurant, Jisung answers in kind with a peace sign. His fingers snag on his sleeve as he struggles to free them for the gesture, but eventually he manages to flash them by his eyes – still lined with raindrops – and attempts a grimace of a smile.
“Word.”
Yeah, it’s official. He’s going to step onto the road any moment now.
Seungmin laughs some more. It’s as musical as his singing was. “Word,” he echoes, just as he did during their recording session. His thoughts must harken back to the same memory because he says now, “You were really cool that day, you know. I know I said it at the time, but I genuinely meant it. Your rapping was really impressive.”
Had it not been for the sub-zero temperatures, Jisung thinks he might’ve blushed. “Um. Thanks. I tried my best, I guess.”
“No, seriously, it was crazy. I genuinely didn’t know we had talent like that in our uni. Like I’m surprised you haven’t been snatched up by a record label already, honestly.”
Now he’s just being kind.
“I’m a long way from that,” Jisung says, shifting on the balls of his feet. Fuck the sub-zero temperatures. The pins and needles on either side of his head feels like a hell of a blush to him. “Trust me. Besides, Channie-hyung’s good at directing. It wouldn’t have sounded nearly as good as it did without him there to oversee the whole process.”
Seungmin accepts the deflection with a nod. “He’s talented too,” he agrees. “I’m lucky you guys even let me into the room.”
Jisung frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you two are clearly talented,” he says, as if stating a matter of fact. The sky is grey. The pair of them are soaked to the bone. Jisung and Chan are talented. “And I’m just some guy that sunbae found singing an IU song in noraebang once. S’not really the same thing, is it?”
He says it without pity or resentment. From head to toe, he exudes serenity: hands in the pockets of his windbreaker (he’s prepared better for the turn in weather than Jisung has) and his spine reclined against the stop in the very picture of blithe acceptance. An acceptance that Jisung rejects wholeheartedly.
His frown deepens. “I’m not sure I’m following. You were great last week. You have to know that.”
“I mean…” Seungmin shrugs. “I was okay, I guess. I could’ve been a lot better.”
The rain ceases to matter. The cold ceases to matter. Even his embarrassment at looking like he’s rolled around in a dirty puddle ceases to matter. All that holds weight is how very wrong Kim Seungmin is. His performance was more than okay. It was fucking phenomenal. As soon as he opened his mouth, it was like a chorus of angels descended upon Chan’s recording booth. It felt as though he cracked open Jisung’s heart and gouged grief into him by the mere breath in his lungs. It was – he was –
“You were perfect, what the hell,” he blurts, sounding far more passionate than he intends. As soon as the exclamation is out, he realises he doesn’t want to walk it back. He plants his feet square on the ground and looks Seungmin dead in the eye. “You did amazing. Trust me, I don’t say that lightly. Especially considering I was the one who was originally going to sing the vocals for the track so you could say I’m a bit possessive over the song as it is. Hyung and I weren’t lying when we said you did well.”
Seungmin’s surprise blossoms as a pleased smile. “You really think so?”
“One hundred percent. I’m kind of surprised you didn’t go for vocal music as a course to be honest. It would suit you.”
The compliment stretches Seungmin’s smile, Yellow-Sea-wide. “I did consider it briefly,” he admits, “but it seemed like a lot of work. In the end, I went with something I could balance with baseball.”
That makes sense. As brilliant as he was in the recording studio, Seungmin’s first love is so clearly baseball. A single game will attest to that – and Jisung has been to all of them. He would know.
The bus rolls up to the stop then, sloshing water everywhere as its wheels cut straight into the puddle pooling beside the curb. Seungmin rises to his feet and steps to Jisung’s side, waiting patiently for passengers to disembark. A string of students files out, ducking their heads against the rain or crowding under their jackets, crying out against the immediate assault. Jisung can sympathise – or he would, if he weren’t so conscious of the streak of heat standing next to him. Another shiver zigzags down his spine.
“Here.” Seungmin extracts a small square pouch from his windbreaker and presses it into Jisung’s palm. Immediately, a wave of warmth ripples up his arm and all the way down to his toes. Jisung shivers again. “You look like you need it more than me.”
He curls his fingers around the heat pack, unable to hold onto Seungmin’s gaze as he murmurs his thanks. If this interaction continues for any longer, he might very well ignite at random as though he’s made of a pyrophoric substance.
Their path now clear, they board onto the bus, one after the other: Seungmin first, followed by Jisung. Not interpreting their conversation to be any sort of invitation, Jisung claims a separate row for himself, where he can tip his head against the window, foggy with condensation, and squint at the city rolling past. The temperature of the bus pricks sensation back into his flesh and the heat pack assists. A few rows forward, his heart continues to beat out of tune, still tethered in place to Seungmin’s ankle.
“I can’t believe Kim Seungmin knows my name,” Jisung says for quite possibly the millionth time.
Minho doesn’t look up from where he’s meticulously sorting, pairing and rolling up his socks. An entire drawer’s worth has been upended around him in a sea of funky patterns. “Didn’t you say you spent an entire day with him and Chan the other week? I’d be concerned if he didn’t know who you are.”
“I mean… yeah, I did, but like. That’s not the point. He knows my name. My name! And he thinks I’m talented enough for a record label to sign me!”
“I fear this is common knowledge,” Minho informs him, “and a popular sentiment. Literally all of your department thinks you should’ve been signed by someone, like, yesterday.”
“And he gave me his heat pack,” Jisung continues as if he hasn’t said anything. “It was in his pocket and already warm so he was probably using it for himself, but he didn’t even hesitate to share it the second he saw me shivering!”
In the face of his heart eyes – so potent that even Jisung can sense their existence – Minho decides to relinquish the battle against common sense.
“He’s basically in love with you,” he agrees. “Who the fuck said chivalry was dead?”
“When we get married, our wedding favours should be heat packs,” Jisung says dreamily. “It can be our thing. Our inside joke.”
“So funny. Hilarious really.”
The only stain that marred the encounter is the fact that he looked like a sewer rat throughout it. When he finally made it back to his dorm building, squelching his way into the lift like a swamp creature, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror at the back and nearly screamed.
Maybe he’s been cursed to look his worst around Seungmin. There has to be a divine reason why he’s in such a terrible state whenever they meet. But that doesn’t matter, at least not right now. True love can transcend minor inconveniences like one’s appearance – at least, it can while Jisung is still riding the high of Seungmin knowing his name.
In a terrible cliché of university life, Jisung likes to frequent coffeeshops in his spare time, particularly with a laptop tucked under his arm. Plenty crowd around campus which leaves him with a healthy selection to choose from. In their freshman year, he and Jeongin visited and ranked all of them, evaluating each establishment based on the quality of its iced americanos, whether it served cheesecake and how much of an aesthetic it provided for Jeongin’s social media dumps. His personal favourite balances distance with convenience (meaning it isn’t horrendously busy nor is it horrendously far from campus to travel to) and sells a killer blueberry cheesecake, though Jeongin always argues that the visuals leave something to be desired.
Today, Jeongin isn’t around to drag his feet and complain about whether his jumper complements the décor. So Jisung, upon leaving his lecture theatre and deciding that he deserves to have a sweet treat, sticks his headphones in and embarks on the journey over, all in the name of dessert. He can think of no worthier cause.
While he walks, he tosses over the lyrics that have been dogging him all day. That morning, he woke up feeling particularly inspired and has been distracted ever since, trying to etch out the song that’s baked in his head over the past several hours even while his lecturers talked at him about something terribly unimportant. As soon as he orders his usual, he sits down at the nearest available table to finally scribble it out in his songbook.
He’s too engrossed in the task to register when his name is called by the barista. Then the soft clink of a glass and plate being set down on the table cuts into his flow.
A familiar voice says playfully, “Order for Han Jisung.”
When he looks up, more out of reflex than genuine curiosity, it’s to the sight of Kim Seungmin.
As always, he looks like an angel sent by the heavens. Dressed in a dark denim jacket over a slim-fit white t-shirt, a baseball cap emblazoned with the university’s logo placed squarely on his head, he’s practically the poster boy for his team. He also happens to be the poster boy of Jisung’s dreams, but that’s neither here nor there.
Blinking, he tries to compute Seungmin’s existence in a way that makes sense. “Um. Hi?”
When Seungmin smiles, it’s to reveal a mouth full of familiar braces. Almost immediately, Jisung’s stomach starts up with the acrobatics once again. The American teen movies of his childhood had it all wrong: braces are cute.
“Hey. They called your name a few times, but when you didn’t respond, I figured I’d just bring your stuff over to you.”
He blinks again, this time at the drink and slice of cheesecake on the table. “Oh. Oh, right. Th-thank you.”
“No problem,” Seungmin says easily. He points at the chair opposite Jisung. “Mind if I sit down while I wait for my order?”
“No, no, go for it!” Jisung says. He pulls his things towards him, as if to clear space. “Sorry, I’m a bit distracted. I got caught up in writing this new song I’ve been thinking about all day and my brain kind of stops working whenever I’m in the zone like this, I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologise,” he says, again with that unwavering steadiness that Jisung is growing to recognise. “Feel free to ignore me while you do your thing by the way. Just act like I’m not here.”
That’s a lot easier said than done. Now that Jisung has been pulled out of his thoughts, his brain feels as though it’s caught within a groove, stuck on the presence of the boy opposite him. He does his best to return to his lyrics but can’t help the way his attention wanders across the table. Seungmin seems none the wiser, thumbing through his phone while he waits for his name to be called. Beneath the table, his foot taps out a rhythm to the café’s radio. A traitorous part of Jisung wonders how he’d react if Jisung decided to tap back.
Is this what Seungmin would look like on a date? It’s certainly the right environment for it: what says ‘student date’ more than a cheap coffeeshop right on the cusp of campus? As soon as he thinks that, Jisung’s head almost spins from how quickly it fogs up. Something about the concept of being on a date with Seungmin is enough to unravel him into ribbons. Fucking hell, he needs to calm the fuck down. This is embarrassing.
To stifle his ridiculousness, Jisung takes a gulp of his iced americano and then another of his cheesecake. Today, the cafe opted for a raspberry flavour instead of its usual blueberry, though the dessert is no worse off for it. Actually, it tastes pretty good.
Compulsion propels him to blurt, “Would you like a bite?”
Seungmin pauses his scrolling. “Sorry?”
“Um. A bite? Of my cheesecake?” Jisung has no idea why he’s talking in question marks, but he doesn’t know how to stop. His ears warm as he continues, “You can try some if you want? It’s really tasty?”
Seungmin’s gaze drops down to the cheesecake sitting innocuously in between them. “I’ve heard good things,” he admits, “but I shouldn’t. Coach has us all on a strict diet ahead of the next game.”
“Oh. That makes sense.”
It also sounds like it sucks massive balls. Jisung can’t imagine how miserable it must be to have a diet imposed upon him, simply by virtue of being an athlete. Thank goodness he can’t do sports to save his life. An existence without his sweet treats is not one he cares to explore.
“Thanks for offering it anyway,” Seungmin adds.
“No worries. And like… if you do want to have some anyway, regardless of your diet, Coach isn’t around to know. And I won’t tell him if you won’t.”
Seungmin flashes a grin. “It’ll be our little secret, yeah?”
“Something like that,” Jisung says weakly. His ears feel like they’re on fire; Seungmin has a laugh that’s as pretty as the sunset.
“My hero,” he jokes. “Maybe I’ll take you up on the offer sometime.”
“Haha. Yeah... Maybe...”
Mini-Jeongin pops up in Jisung’s head, as he so often does whenever Jisung behaves in a way that’s sure to garner his judgement. This time, he face-palms and laments Jisung as a hopeless case. An accusation he’s unable to refute, given his gormless replies and the fact that he has imaginary conversations with his best friend in his mind. He needs help, honestly.
“I don’t think the diet will make much of a difference anyway,” he says in an attempt to salvage the situation. “You’re already talented. I swear you steal the show in all of your games.”
Seungmin cocks his head to the side. The gesture is so puppy-like that Jisung immediately understands why, in addition to ‘King Seungmin’, a popular nickname that was coined by Seungmin’s teammates christens him as Seungmeongie. It’s uncanny actually.
“You’ve been to my games?”
“I mean, yeah,” Jisung says. “Hasn’t everyone?”
He shrugs. “Chan-sunbae didn’t seem to know much about it.”
“That’s because Channie-hyung locks himself in the studio for, like, eighty percent of his days. The other twenty, he spends at the gym.”
“Ahhh, a gym rat.” Seungmin makes a face. “I’d rather not. Give me a track field any day.”
“You mean to say your coach doesn’t have you grinding away as part of your training?” Jisung asks, genuinely curious. “Surely you have to build arm strength for a pitch that strong? You throw strikes, like, all of the time.”
A smile blooms across Seungmin’s face – mischievous, teasing. “Oh wow. You do watch my games.”
It takes Jisung a few seconds to catch onto what he means. As soon as he does, he hurtles face-first into a blush. “I – I mean, yeah, but like – even if I didn’t, you’re all over socials anyway...” He rushes to take another sip of his drink, aiming for nonchalance and falling terribly short. “Kind of hard for me not to notice.”
Except Seungmin only grins harder. “You stalk me on socials too?”
Jisung splutters, mid-gulp. “Stalk?!” he squawks. “I don’t – I don’t stalk! You’re just, like, really popular, okay! I swear people are always posting about you.”
“Do you leave a like and a comment when they do?”
Whatever noises Jisung musters up are hardly human. Here he is: Han Jisung, hamster extraordinaire. Victim of the wicked slope of Seungmin’s amusement and his satisfaction at watching Jisung flounder.
Part of him wishes they’d revert back to their polite compliments of each other, where Jisung had at least a modicum of control over the conversation – but the rest of him rather embarrassingly basks in the taunting. Ever so slightly, that is. Apparently, he’s a masochist who likes it when he’s made fun of. Or maybe he just likes Seungmin.
“You,” he finally manages, pointing at the devil in question, “are being incredibly mean.”
Another cock of his head. “I am?”
“Yes. You are. You’re teasing me.”
“Kind of, yeah,” Seungmin confesses shamelessly. “We know each other well enough to do that now, don’t you think?”
They do? That’s news to Jisung. Not that he’s necessarily complaining.
He says as much outright – although he’s careful to leave the final part out. He might be terrible at hiding his crush, but he has some pride left in him. Sort of.
“Sure we do.” Seungmin dismisses his doubt. He leans back in his seat and adjusts his baseball cap, once again looking as cool as Jisung always says he is. “We’ve recorded a whole song together for someone. I’d say that means we know each other. You’ve even helped me cheat on my diet and everything.”
He compounds this by reaching over to carve a small sliver of cheesecake from Jisung’s plate. The moment he places the dessertspoon between his lips, Jisung almost squeaks. Oh, fuck. Their lips have occupied the same space. He’s shared an indirect kiss with motherfucking Kim Seungmin of all people. Shit. Maybe the imaginary version of Jeongin doesn’t have to be disappointed in him after all.
“Hey, this is really good,” Seungmin says, looking at the plate as if surprised.
Somehow, Jisung manages to find his voice. “They always are. It’s why I come here.”
“Interesting… Maybe I should swing by for a proper slice after the season’s through. This is really good.”
It’s a date, Jisung thinks but doesn’t say. He takes another desperate gulp of his iced americano before it can slip out in the same manner that his initial offer of cheesecake did: flung forward on a whim because the sight of Seungmin stops his brain from running at full capacity. He watches Seungmin indulge in another miniscule portion.
“Nine iced americanos for Kim Seungmin?” the barista calls.
“Oh. That’s me.”
Is Jisung delusional or does he sound disappointed?
He watches Seungmin push back from the table and head over to the counter to collect his order. Once there, he charms the barista with the same effortless nature that he worked his magic on Jisung with, pulling a giggle out of her as she packs his drinks into a bag. Jisung can sympathise. It’s difficult to avoid turning into mush under Seungmin’s attention, however brief it may be.
“I should get these to the rest of the team,” he says, returning with two paper bags full of drinks to stand on the other side of Jisung’s table. “Sorry to have derailed your song-writing session. I hope the rest of it goes well.”
“It’s alright,” Jisung replies. He offers up a small smile. “It was kind of nice actually. Even with all the teasing.”
Amusement crinkles the corners of Seungmin’s eyes. “Good to know. I’ll see you around then?”
“Yeah – yeah, of course. See you around, Seungmin.”
Jisung actually does start to see him around after that. In the library, when crossing the quad, at the bus stop outside of the dorms. Kim Seungmin is everywhere. Kim Seungmin is all. The frequency of his appearances isn’t a huge change from the usual. Before the recording session, he used to spot Seungmin in the wild fairly often; it’s how his crush developed in the first place, kept alive by these glorious glimpses of him.
The main difference is that now Seungmin knows who he is. So where they previously coexisted without interaction (aside from Jisung salivating from a comfortable distance), acknowledgement takes the lead. Now when Seungmin spots him, familiarity melts his impassive resting face into cheer. He throws across a nod or a wave of his hand. He shares twin looks of commiseration at how packed the bus is on the commute into uni. He says hey Jisung and what’s up Jisung and see you around Jisung and laughs whenever Jisung cracks a joke or stumbles over his replies. There’s small talk. Conversation. The glimmer of his braces whenever he flashes a smile is haunting.
One time, Jisung helps him kick a vending machine into coughing up the drink he paid for. Another day, Seungmin rushes to catch up to him after Jisung accidentally drops a booklet in his haste to make it to class. Bit by bit, the encounters stack up.
None of their interactions are ever ground-breaking. No one is going to want to write home about it or whisper about it with their friends. But it’s heart-fluttering all the same – and really, isn’t that all that matters?
Bringing my new friend to tonight’s gig, Jeongin texts. Please be normal.
Lounging on his bed in clothes he’s worn for eighteen-plus hours and putting off the shower he’s been meaning to have for the past three, Jisung types out a careful reply.
how much did you pay the poor guy to hang out with you lol
Jeongin’s response, predictably, is to tell Jisung to fuck off, at which point he really does laugh out loud.
Later that evening, however, there’s little amusement to be found. All because Jeongin, the sneaky fucker that he is, turns out to have made a new friend in none other than Kim Seungmin of all people. Which wouldn’t be an issue considering that he and Jisung are acquaintances™ now, but Jisung’s crush has spent the past couple of weeks marinating into something a little more serious than a benign time-pass, meaning that the sudden attack flusters him even more than usual. Plus, he happens to be performing at tonight’s gig which unlocks a whole new layer of pressure he isn’t prepared for.
“Jisung,” Seungmin says warmly as soon as he sinks into his seat. “Stalking me in person as well socials now, are you?”
Jisung pointedly does not acknowledge the quirk of Jeongin’s eyebrow as he looks between them. “Technically, you’re the one stalking me. You crashed our night out, not the other way around.”
“Guilty as charged,” he says, flashing his hands in a lazy show of surrender. “Jeongin invited us. He said that these gigs are always a good vibe. Can you believe I’ve never been to one before?”
Us being Seungmin and his best friend Lee Felix, a guy who needs no introduction yet offers one up anyway, beaming like he’s being paid a million per exposed tooth to do it. Felix is somewhat of a notoriety on campus, propelled there by his status as the only male cheerleader for the university. Jisung has seen him somersaulting across a field more times than he can count. It’s kind of impressive.
“You’ve been missing out,” Jeongin says. “We have some crazy talent in the music department. I feel like I’m always walking away from these nights with a new person to follow.”
HALL OF FAME was created for as much. Way back when, far before Jisung even fathomed pursuing music as a career, a bunch of students sweet-talked the bar into hosting an amateur performance night so they could show off their vocal chops. It’s been a staple in the local underground scene ever since. Nowadays, it’s become a tradition to perform at the event at least one time over the course of their degree. Tonight marks Jisung’s fourth appearance.
“You’re in luck,” he tells Seungmin and Felix. “Changbin-hyung is on tonight and he’s definitely someone you’ll want to keep up with after this. His flow is fucking insane.”
He might be a tyrant intent on infecting Seoul, but Changbin also happens to be one of the most talented people Jisung knows. In the words of Beyonce herself: when he sneezes on the beat, the beat gets sicker. Always a standout performance to watch out for.
“What about you?” Seungmin asks. “Jeongin mentioned you were performing today as well.”
“Did he now.”
Jisung doesn’t know whether to strangle Jeongin for it or kiss him for bragging about him.
“He’s passable,” the traitor says airily. “Changbin-hyung is much cooler.”
Strangulation it is then.
But first: a drink.
Despite being a menace, Jeongin is also generous enough to pay for the first round. As a horrible lightweight, Jisung can’t afford to get tipsy ahead of his set so he opts for an iced lemonade, feeling terribly juvenile while the rest of the table nurse their beers and Felix cradles a fancy-looking cocktail decorated with an orange paper umbrella.
As if summoned by their praise, Changbin turns up not ten minutes later, shouldering his way through the crowd with Minho and Chan in tow. With them comes the added volume that always accompanies any scenario which places Minho or Changbin within three feet of each other. How can two people possibly be so loud?
In a feat Jisung can only admire, Seungmin (and Felix) take it in stride. Although his social capabilities aren’t always quite as dire as they like to present around Seungmin, he’s still a far cry away from Seungmin’s particular brand of ease. It’s genuinely fascinating to see in action. The man’s confidence is staggering.
And attractive, but hey, what’s new.
He’s just so freaking cool.
“Careful.” Jeongin leans over to murmur down his ear. “Your humongous heart eyes are showing.”
“Shut up, no they’re not,” Jisung hisses, even as he actively has to school his face into a neutral position. He drops his voice further to add, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you’re friends with Kim Seungmin all of a sudden. Do I mean absolutely nothing to you?”
“Check who’s talking. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that you’re friends with him.”
“Yes I did! I told you that we’re on a regular hi-bye basis now!”
“This is not a hi-bye basis,” he says, incredulous. “Are you mad?”
Well, what else could it be?
“Hanjiji,” Changbin interrupts from across the table. When Jisung glances over, he’s lounging in his seat like the king of the bar he knows he is, his eyes glimmering over his beer bottle. “Are you prepared to get absolutely annihilated tonight?”
Competitiveness rears its head in him. “Listen, old man, I’m not convinced you’ll stay awake for long enough to make it onto the stage in the first place. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
“Oooh,” Chan crows, straightening up in delight. “Are SpearB and j.one about to face off again?”
“j.one?” Seungmin asks, his head tipped to the side. “SpearB?”
“Their Soundcloud names,” Minho says.
“Last time they performed on the same night, they ended up in a rap battle,” Chan explains. “It was pretty cool actually, I still have the footage saved to my phone.”
It was pretty cool. Jisung also happened to be four drinks deep into the night so he doesn’t remember much of it, aside from the way he clung to the beat with the last dregs of his strength as he and Changbin faced off onstage. He’s pretty sure that Changbin chest-bumped him at one point in a move to establish his dominance. Yep. There’s a distinctly booby element to his fuzzy memories of that experience.
As always, however, he maintains, “Yeah and I won.”
“Like hell you did,” Changbin fires back. “I so clearly destroyed you in that last round!”
Purely for the drama, Jisung lifts his empty lemonade glass, only to slam it back down. “Oh, you want to go, old man? Let’s go right now! I’ll fucking wipe the floor with you, just you watch! What do you think you know about hip-hop?”
Despite Chan’s pleas, they don’t end up reviving their rap battle for a dramatic comeback. As much as Jisung is tempted to put Changbin in his place, tonight calls for a different side of him. Something vulnerable, a display of his sentimentality. When the time finally comes, he alights the stage to unveil his new song Human, a mid-tempo boom bap track that sits in conversation with the first song he performed at HALL OF FAME.
As the music starts to roll out of the speakers, he wonders, for a brief moment, whether he can go through with it. His thoughts anchor back to the table he’s just left and the baseball player who wished him luck with his characteristic puppy-like smile, who Jisung is starting to like so much that it should concern him.
Give a man an inch and he’ll want a mile. All Seungmin had to do was grace him with a few conversations and Jisung has started to crave so much more. And now he’s here under the spotlight, Seungmin and the rest of his friends watching him in anticipation, and it feels like so much is riding on this all of a sudden. The last time he felt like he had this much to prove, he was a freshman staring down the mic nervously for his first ever performance.
Then his cue arrives and the spirit of music takes over him. Hesitation flees. He launches into his rap, the words falling from his tongue as though the only reason why he was made is to be a conduit for them. A half-smile curling his mouth, he watches the crowd bob their heads along to his performance. In the distance, Jeongin and Felix sway their clasped hands in the air.
When he returns, it’s to a round of cheers. His friends pile onto him, ruffling his hair, punching his arm and, in Minho’s case, tugging at his cheek in congratulations until he begs for relief. Pride bubbling in his chest, Jisung bears their affections amidst pleased laughter. There’s nothing quite like unveiling an original song to public applause.
Once Chan has had his fill of clasping Jisung to his chest while pretending to sob, he manages to catch Seungmin’s eye. “What did you think?” he asks, half-hopeful, half in fear.
For once, Seungmin’s expression is unreadable. “I didn’t know you could sing like that.”
Jisung shrugs. “I mean, I dabble.”
Seungmin’s gaze roves over his face, as if on a hunt for hidden treasure. Jisung shifts under his inspection, not sure what he could be looking for. Then his expression cracks with a smile, like the sun breaking through an overcast sky, and Seungmin says, rather less dramatically than the rest of Jisung’s friends, “You did well. Did you say that was an original song?”
“Kinda, yeah.”
“Impressive stuff,” he says and brightens. “Looks like I was right. You really should be signed by a record label.”
Jisung laughs again, his hope shifting into bashfulness – and beneath that wave forms an undeniably smug bedrock.
If he were alone in his bedroom, he would’ve kicked his feet like a little kid and squealed into his pillow. Faced with the pressure of being in public and firmly within Seungmin’s sight, he does his best to play it cool. The time for screaming can come later.
“I was listening to your Soundcloud last night,” Seungmin says in place of a greeting.
Accosted in the middle of tying his shoelaces in the quad, Jisung squawks and topples onto his ass. He looks up to Seungmin’s laughter and wonders whether there’ll ever be a day when he manages to be around the guy for more than five minutes without embarrassing himself. The night at HALL OF FAME was a strong contender until Jisung was goaded into a tequila battle and ended the night puking his guts out while Seungmin kept guard by the toilet door. He’s been trying to scrub it from his memory ever since.
At present, he struggles upright from his ungainly sprawl. “I meant to do that.”
“I’m sure you did,” Seungmin grants generously. “Very sexy of you.”
Even when it’s delivered as a joke, the concept of Kim Seungmin calling him ‘sexy’ is enough to turn Jisung bright red.
“I try my best,” he says, attempting to play it off.
“And you do it swimmingly. Kind of like your Soundcloud actually. Are you really not signed to a label?”
“I would’ve told you if I was,” Jisung says. Then the rest of the reply catches up to him and he says, verging on horrified, “Wait, what? You’ve been listening to what?”
“Your Soundcloud,” he repeats. “Chan-hyung mentioned your username the other night, remember? I figured I’d check it out.”
In full honesty, Jisung isn’t sure how to feel about that. Granted, his Soundcloud is public and has a modest following who keep up with his releases. It’s also an archive of his musical journey, containing the rough scraps of his early ventures into song-making, all the way up to his most recent release. The thought of Seungmin listening to his most amateur songs, including the try-hard diss tracks he used to pen as an angsty teenager, is mortifying. On the other hand, it’s flattering to know he went out of his way to seek out Jisung’s music in the first place.
“Please don’t judge me too harshly,” he says. “I’m still learning.”
Seungmin rolls his eyes. “Don’t be such a doughnut. I told you, it’s really good. Your recent stuff especially is pretty much right up my street.”
He can’t help the way he perks up. “Really?”
“Really. I think Volcano might be my favourite.”
Oh sweet lord. He has a favourite. He’s listened to Jisung’s songs enough to be able to rank them in order of preference. Maybe this isn’t mortifying after all; maybe it’s the greatest day of Jisung’s life.
“That’s my favourite too.” He beams. “I’ve tried to top it, but I’m still yet to hit gold.”
“You should sing it live for me some time,” Seungmin says. “Maybe we should go to noraebang and I can hear it in person.”
“Great idea, but I doubt they’ll have my songs in the selection.” Jisung laughs, though he appreciates the sentiment. “Maybe in another ten years.”
Seungmin echoes his laughter with that honey-mouthed smile Jisung has fast started to associate with him. Every day, his blooms to new heights, fed by every second they spend near each other. A text here, a nudge to the shoulder there. The day Seungmin requested to follow his social media accounts, Jisung swear his soul ascended to the pearly gates in his elation.
Life is too short to agonise over the development despite the fact that he never intended for it to evolve this way. He’ll just have to deal with the inevitable heartbreak later. For now, all he cares about is how fluffy Seungmin looks in his hoodie and jeans.
He tugs on the drawstrings of his hoodie now as he says, “I don’t know if you’ve heard already since we announced it a while back, but we have a game against SeoulTech this weekend.”
“I did hear. How are you feeling about it?”
“Same as usual, to be honest,” Seungmin says. Fuck, he’s so cool and unflappable. Jisung could never. “Are you planning to come and watch? Or will you just obsessively follow the highlights about me on social media afterwards?”
“I told you, I’m not a stalker!” Jisung protests, hot at the ears. Never mind the fact that he has been down that rabbit hole more than once. Dead or alive, the confession will never be extracted out of him. He folds his arms and begrudgingly reveals, “I’m coming to the game.” I always do, he thinks but doesn’t add. “I’ll wave at you from the stands.”
“My hero.” Seungmin pretends to swoon. At Jisung’s insulted whine, he eases up and says, somewhat more seriously, “There’s going to be an after-party at P.A.C.E in the evening. You should come, it’ll be fun.”
He isn’t exactly opposed to the idea, but the sheer confidence is insane. “Are you guys that sure you’ll win?”
“I mean… we’ll be spending the night in P.A.C.E either way. Hopefully, it’ll be with a fresh win on our backs, but if it’s just because we have to stop Yohan-hyung from drowning in his tears, that works too. We might as well do it on the team’s tab.”
Jisung laughs. He’ll never admit it, for fear of more accusations of stalking being flung his way, but he’s heard all about the baseball captain’s dramatics whenever they lose a game. Last year, the reel of Kim Yohan standing fully dressed in a shower, staring vacantly at the tiles while water poured over his head, went viral. To this day, it’s used as a reaction meme across Korea’s student population.
“Fair enough,” he allows. “Okay then, sounds like a plan! Me and Jeongin will be there.”
“Cool,” Seungmin says. And then, in the same way he always does, he signs off with, “I’ll see you around?”
Jisung nods. “See you.”
Not wanting to be the one to cut their interaction short, he waits for Seungmin to peel away first. Still playing with his drawstrings, he slopes off, melting into the crowd of students that are streaming out of the nearby law building. Just one more hoodie bobbing in a sea of them. As soon as he disappears from view, Jisung turns to head towards the performing arts block – only to stumble knee-first into the nearby bush when he trips over his undone shoelaces.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Game day rolls around and as per his promise, Jisung makes the journey over to the baseball stadium. Since he’s been to every local game upon moving out to university – drawn there partly by school spirit and partly by the shape of Kim Seungmin’s ass in his baseball uniform – he would’ve gone anyway, but it’s nice to think that he’s been especially invited to attend.
Despite his complaints, Jeongin never fails to accompany him. The lure of the associated social media dump is too much for him to resist and today is no different. As they shuffle into the stands, he makes a show of groaning about how Jisung is heartless for dragging him out of bed to watch a bunch of jocks run around on a field. His complaints conveniently ignore the fact that he’s head-to-toe in university regalia, his cheeks painted in stripes of their team colours. Hypocrite, thy name is Yang Jeongin.
“I suppose I have to get used to it.” He sighs as they sit down. “Once you finally get off your ass and ask Seungmin out, we’ll have to come to all of the games. Even the away ones.” He shudders.
Jisung rolls his eyes and shoves a fistful of popcorn between his teeth. “Stop acting like you don’t like baseball. You literally know more of the rules than I do.”
“I can’t. My pride won’t be able to handle it.”
“You’re a loser,” he states. A second later, he registers Jeongin’s comment in its entirety and splutters, “And I’m not going to ask Seungmin out! What are you even talking about?”
“You’re not?” he says mildly. “You like him well enough to. I don’t think it’s anything like me with the Buzzcut Book Bandit anymore; this feels like the real deal.”
“For the love of all things holy, please stop calling Hwang Hyunjin the Buzzcut Book Bandit now that you know his name. He’s allowed to use the library, just like the rest of us. And it doesn’t matter how much I like Seungmin, I’m still not going to ask him out! I’m not that much of a masochist. Why the hell would I set myself up for rejection like that?”
His masochism extends to embracing his crush and nothing further than that. Yes, he’ll happily indulge in delusional scenarios where Seungmin smashes a baseball into the stands, only for Jisung to catch it effortlessly and impress him into jogging over to kiss him in full view of their university’s non-existent jumbotron – but he’s not so far gone to attempt to turn that into reality. Greasy Rat Jisung still haunts him all of these weeks later. He doesn’t think he’ll ever fully recover.
“You seriously think Seungmin’s going to reject you?” Jeongin says in disbelief. “I’m confused. Are you present for the conversations you two have?”
Jisung scowls. “Where the fuck else would I be?”
“I dunno. So far up your own ass that you can’t tell he’s clearly into you too?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffs around a fresh helping of popcorn.
A few stray kernels spray in front of him in his scepticism and land on Jeongin’s lap. Grimacing, Jeongin pointedly swipes them back towards Jisung. He accepts them sheepishly. That was kind of gross of him, he has to admit.
“You’re the one being ridiculous,” Jeongin insists. “Are you seriously telling me that you haven’t caught onto it yet? Why else would the guy go out of his way to speak to you so much?”
“You go out of your way to speak to me, you toad. Do you have a crush on me too?”
“No. I only do it because it’d be too much effort to find another best friend. Unfortunately, I’ve accepted that I have to live with the consequences of my misguided middle school actions for the rest of my days.”
“Hey!”
“But Seungmin?” he continues as though Jisung isn’t shooting him a betrayed scowl. “He has zero obligation to hang out with you. Let’s be real, he could’ve left things at the bus stop when you were in your Drowned Rat Era. And yet he’s made a point to invite you to this game as well as the baseball team’s after-party. Why would he do that if he didn’t have a thing for you?”
“Because we’re friends now,” Jisung suggests. “And we’ve upgraded from a hi-bye basis.”
Jeongin looks at him like he’s stupid. “Because he likes you, idiot. And he wants to see more of you.”
“I really don’t think he does. I mean, it’s a nice thought to have, but like… let’s think about it logically. He’s seen me in such fucking horrible, unattractive states. First, there was the whole greasy rat business. Then my Drowned Rat Era. Since then, he’s seen me throwing up my lunch, breakfast and dinner after I nearly had to get my stomach pumped from that tequila competition during HALL OF FAME. I don’t think any of that exactly screams boyfriend material.”
He shrugs. “Maybe he’s into pathetic men.”
“And maybe you’re just delusional.”
Sighing as though he’s Atlas bearing the weight of the world, Jeongin rolls his eyes skyward. “Think whatever you want, man. But in a few weeks’ time when you have a hot baseballer boyfriend, don’t think I won’t be petty enough to say that I told you so. Because I did fucking tell you so and I will be holding this over your head for as long as I can. Make no mistake about that.”
“Okay so you need some serious help,” Jisung informs him. “Maybe you should go away and unpack that with a professional.”
Unfortunately, he can’t be that beacon of assistance for him since he’s arguably in the same boat and self-aware enough to admit that. That being said, he appreciates Jeongin’s completely misplaced confidence in his ability to pull. It’s sweet to know he cares.
In the meantime, there’s always popcorn to enjoy. And Kim Seungmin’s ass as he strolls onto the field with the rest of the baseball team, his uniform clinging to his legs. The moment he steps into view, Jisung straightens up, his eyes unabashedly fixed on the prize. He fucking loves game days.
Tragedy strikes and crowns SeoulTech as the winners of the match. Within three hours, a new video of Kim Yohan already circulates through social media, capturing him on the ground, staring forlornly at the sky while the rest of his team mills around, looking as equally defeated.
Jisung’s dreams of impressing Seungmin by snagging a baseball out of the air don’t come to fruition, but he does head down after the game to commiserate with him in person. Although Seungmin’s performance was one of the standouts of the day, it can’t be easy to accept the defeat. Maybe it’s even worse considering he tried his hardest. For once, Seungmin’s smile hardly reaches his eyes, still reeling from the loss, but he thanks Jisung all the same and reassures him that the after-party is still on.
“We’ll unpeel Yohan-hyung in time for it,” he says. “He could do with the pick-me-up. Literally.”
“Just leave me be,” Yohan moans in the background as Lee Felix tries to lift him up by the armpits, his pompoms discarded to the side. “I deserve to wither away here for the rest of my life. I can never look Choi Byungchan in the eyes ever again.”
When Jisung walks into P.A.C.E later that night, Yohan is still stewing in his misery, an empty soju bottle by his forearm and half of the baseball team accompanying him for their sad boy shots. At least this time, he happens to be vertical while he’s wallowing. Clearly, Felix was successful in the end.
Then Jisung catches sight of Seungmin and all thoughts of Yohan, Lee Felix and whatever tragedies befell them fly out of his head. His mouth runs dry. It shouldn’t be possible for someone to be so damn handsome, but Seungmin accomplishes it with such ease, such effortlessness, that Jisung might’ve resented him for it if he weren’t so swept off his feet. He isn’t even dressed up in anything groundbreaking. Black jeans, a deep V-neck t-shirt and a thin leather jacket thrown on top; dozens of guys turn up to clubs in a similar fashion. But none of them happen to be Kim Seungmin and that’s where their mortal failings lie.
The triangle of his exposed chest, framed by a thin silver necklace, is positively obscene. Jisung thinks he might need to find a chair before he passes out right here in front of everyone.
“Is there a reason why you look so gormless?” Jeongin asks, straightening the hem of his shirt. He follows Jisung’s line of sight and then smirks. “Never mind.”
It takes several seconds for Jisung to snap out of his daze. He elbows Jeongin, flushing. “Shut up!”
“I didn’t even say anything,” he says.
He doesn’t need to. Amusement is written all over his face for everyone to read. Double-spaced, size twelve, Batangche Regular font.
“Shut up anyway.”
Jeongin’s mouth twitches like a bug. “Found something interesting to look at, have you?”
“I said to shut up!”
“It’s okay, Sung,” he coos. “Sometimes when a boy and a boy grow up, they can develop special feelings for – ow! Ow, ow, okay I get it, stop hitting me!”
Jisung doesn’t let up the assault, moving on from his punches to wrestling Jeongin into a headlock. Embarrassment cooks him from head to toe, so potent that his face could function as a frying pan. Sunny side up right on its way! With a side of Jisung’s last strips of dignity to garnish it.
Laughing, Jeongin manages to escape his hold just as Felix and Seungmin, having spotted the kerfuffle from across the floor, reach them.
“Should we be concerned about that attempt at murder?” the latter asks.
“Yes,” Jeongin says at the same time that Jisung sniffs, “He’ll be fine. Unfortunately.”
While Felix helps Jeongin fix his hair, Seungmin turns to Jisung. His hands hover around Jisung’s elbow, so close that he can feel the phantom brush of his fingers. “Thanks for coming by the way. It’s nice to see another friendly face after the shitshow that happened earlier.”
“No worries,” Jisung says. He tries not to let his sympathy tip into pity as he adds, “You did really well today, Seungmin. I know it wasn’t the result you hoped for, but at least you know you gave it your best shot.”
He gives a rueful grimace. “Yeah, I guess. I definitely have a lot left to improve on though.”
The remark seems to be a pattern for Seungmin. Never satisfied with what he does, no matter how stellar his performance has been. Always on the hunt for improvement, determined to do better, be better, be the best. It’s understandable and admirable to see such passion in action, but Jisung wishes he wasn’t so hard on himself. Talent drips from every pore of Seungmin’s body. Surely he has to know that?
“You played well,” he repeats, firm. “Don’t talk yourself into thinking otherwise.”
Seungmin studies him in reply, a heaviness lurking in his gaze. Usually, this would be the moment that he’d crack a joke to brighten the mood: tease Jisung for being a fan or laugh his compliment off, veer it back towards him somehow. Tonight, however, he just looks.
Not wanting to back down, despite how intimidating it is to be so squarely under his attention, Jisung maintains his gaze, making sure his conviction shines through. Seungmin did well today. That is a fact. Jisung will not hear otherwise.
After several seconds, Seungmin’s expression finally relaxes, though the intensity of his gaze doesn’t ease up. “Thanks Jisung,” he says, so soft that his voice almost melts into the music. “That’s… that means a lot.”
“No worries.”
The bravado flees him then. Unable to hold his stare for any longer, Jisung drops it. Unfortunately, that’s no better. His eyes fall directly onto the triangular sneak peek of Seungmin’s chest and whatever remains of Jisung’s sanity gives up the fight less than five seconds in. Seungmin is even more distracting up close. And is it getting really hot in here or is it just him?
“So,” he exclaims, wrenching his eyes away and taking a step back. “Should we get a drink then?”
Seungmin accepts the change in conversation readily. “Sure. C’mon, we’ll add you to our tab.”
His hand closes around Jisung’s elbow as he steers the way forward. Panicking, Jisung looks over his shoulder at Jeongin, who’s already weaving past the tables after them while Felix chatters his ear off. He sends a meaningful glance down at the curl of Seungmin’s fingers on Jisung’s arm. Reddening, Jisung whips his head back to face the front. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.
The night passes in a haze.
As the hour gets later, P.A.C.E gets busier. More and more students that Jisung recognises stream into the club, beckoned forward by a night out in the town and cheap drinks to facilitate it. Soon, he gets swept away from Seungmin’s side, captured by fellow performing arts students. Every so often, they come together again, falling into conversations that are subsequently sidetracked by people coming over to mourn the baseball team’s loss with Seungmin or to whisk Jisung away for another drink.
On the conservative side of midnight, Minho turns up with a gaggle of tipsy classmates, all ready to kill it on the dancefloor. Their arrival steers Jisung to the centre too, dragged there by the dual forces of Minho and Jeongin, who convince him to jump up and down to the DnB setlist, hollering along to each song like he wants to tear out his vocal chords.
At some point during the night, he takes a breather off to the side with Jeongin, slurring about how pretty Seungmin is while Jeongin glares a hole into Hwang Hyunjin’s buzzcut a few tables away.
“He’s – hic – perfect, Innie,” he insists. “I should – I should write a song about him. I should write ten songs about him.”
“You should,” Jeongin agrees. “It’d be so romantic.”
“So romantic!” Jisung yells, shaking a fist in the air. He slumps back, lovesick to the very bone. “I wish I could be romantic with him. But just look at me. He’s Prada and I’m a pleb.”
Jeongin wrestles his attention away from an oblivious Hwang Hyunjin and turns to look at him. Solemn hands are placed on Jisung’s shoulders, squeezing the muscles tight as he says, “Bro. Pleb or not, you can’t just wish. You have to do.”
The advice strikes true. Jisung absorbs it, blown over by how right Jeongin is for once. How inspiring. Truer words have never been uttered. Jisung can’t just sit around and drool like a dog after Seungmin, not when he could be busy wooing him instead. Not when other people could be wooing him too while Jisung’s back is turned.
“But.” An important thought occurs to him. “Writing ten songs for him will take a long time. Like at least three days. I want to be romantic now.”
His genius best friend is already equipped with the answer. “So serenade him. Baseball players love that. I saw it in High School Musical once.”
Serenading. Of course! How did Jisung not think of that before? Nothing screams romance like dedicating a song to someone, like belting it from the heart with every inch of emotion Jisung has to give. And it’d be like a call back to their first meeting. The power of music brought them together once. Who’s to say it can’t do it again?
Then another important and terrible thought arrives. There’s no way to serenade Seungmin in this club. P.A.C.E isn’t built to accommodate such grand, sentimental gestures; it’s made for dance battles of the inebriated kind. How can Jisung tackle this problem, he wonders? Does he find Seungmin and drag him to the nearest noraebang place, sit him down and force him to listen to Jisung’s passionate entreaty? Scour the club for the man and sing to him in this fine establishment anyway, loud enough to be heard over the music? Stand on a table? Unplug the speakers? Give up now and accept defeat?
“You can’t give up now,” Jeongin says, appalled, when he voices this. “What happened to romance? To happily ever after?”
“The logistics, Innie,” Jisung says sadly. “I can’t do it here. There’s no way for him to hear me if I try.”
“Bro. Just use the DJ, man, he has a mic. Even if he doesn’t let you sing, he’ll definitely say it’s ok to dedicate a song to Seungmin, I just know he will.”
The DJ? The DJ!
Faster than a snake, Jisung whips his head around in search of the man himself – and there he is, perched on a little stage off to the side. Headphones on, fiddling with his equipment while he bops his head to the beat. Strobe lights flash around him, frantic enough to require a warning. Short of Kim Seungmin himself, Jisung has never seen anything better. The answer to all of his prayers stands mere metres away.
Determination running through his body like electricity, he shoots to his feet.
“I’m going in,” he declares.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Much to Jisung’s horror, he wakes up the next day with most of his memory intact.
A club full of strobe lights. A bellowed confession for all to bear witness to. Supermassive Blackhole shaking the very foundations of the building while Jisung lost the battle against his nausea.
Mortification crashes over him with the force of a tsunami. Agonised, he’s helpless to do anything but curl under the assault and muffle a scream into his pillow. He’s never going to leave his dorm room again. For the rest of his degree, he’ll rot under these covers and emerge only to sit his exams. Perhaps by the time graduation arrives, Seungmin will have forgotten all about him and will regard him as nothing more than a blip in his sophomore year of uni. There can be no other way.
Half an hour into his attempts at self-suffocation, Minho stumbles in to dump an armful of bottled water on Jisung’s floor and makes the gentle request to be left alone for the rest of the day unless Jisung is on the verge of death.
Twenty minutes after that, Jeongin texts him a gif of the Edward Cullen nose meme with the caption: you and Kim Seungmin.
Fifty minutes later, Seungmin calls, asking if he’s free to hang out.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d be functional right now,” Seungmin says as the restaurant owner places twin bowls of haejangguk between them. They smile their thanks and duck their heads into polite bows. Waiting until she retreats, Seungmin snaps his chopsticks apart and pinches the air like a crab. “You drank a lot last night.”
Jisung winces. A barrage of images snaps through his mind in quick succession: Seungmin’s exposed skin glistening from the humidity of the club,, drinks sliding across the bar, his nasal laughter, a confession shouted into a microphone for the entire room to receive. He can’t remember if they saw each other after he staggered off-stage. If life is kind to him, he wasn’t around to hear Jisung bawling on top of the DJ podium. Please let that be the case.
“I think I got a bit carried away,” he admits.
Seungmin pushes a serving of hangover soup closer to him, non-judgemental. “It happens. C’mon. Eat up so you can feel better.”
Usually after a night out, Minho orders haejangguk to be delivered to their dorm and they play Rock Paper Scissors to determine which loser has to go down to the lobby to collect it. Being out and about in broad daylight so soon is somewhat of a novelty for Jisung. Only insanity would’ve caused him to pass up the opportunity to be with Seungmin, however, so here he is: freshly showered and squirreled away in a hoodie and sweatpants (both clean and fresh this time), inhaling his soup while he pretends like his temples aren’t pounding like a kickdrum. Not wanting to risk worsening his headache, he forgoes his contact lenses for today,
They spend the next few minutes bent over their food. The local trot radio station keeps them company, as well as the restaurant lady lurking behind the counter. The atmosphere is… nice. Relaxing. Sure, Jisung has to pause every so often to pull back and allow the steam to dissipate from his glasses, but the soup is just what he needs. He feels grateful for Seungmin’s call all over again.
“How come you wanted to meet up anyway?” he asks once he’s had his fill of basking in the comfort of their companionship.
Seungmin looks up from his soup, dabbing at the corners of his lips with a napkin. The gesture is so fucking endearing that Jisung has to suppress a smile. He’s so used to the rabid ways that his friends devour their food that it’s rare for him to see such manners at the table.
“Just wanted to hang out, I suppose,” Seungmin says. “Last night was nice, but it got kind of crazy. I felt like I barely saw you.”
Jisung’s heart convulses. The concept of Seungmin wanting to see more of him, of Seungmin missing him, is intoxicating. This is just the type of scenario his brain likes to cook up when he’s bored and procrastinating on his coursework.
“It was busier than I thought it would be,” he says, pushing past it. “I didn’t expect to recognise so many people. Maybe they heard that the baseball team were going to be there?”
“Maybe,” Seungmin allows, considering this with his characteristic head-tilt. “Anyways, I thought we might as well make up for it by fighting off our hangovers together. Not many people know about it, but this place does the best haejangguk on this side of Seoul.”
He can say that again. While Minho’s orders to the dorm are convenient, the hangover soup he gets lacks the pizzazz that this one has spades of. Groaning in appreciation, Jisung reaches for his spoon and ladles a generous collection of broth for sipping. He smacks his lips together, approval in the pop.
“Yah, I’ve seriously been missing out. This is so good.”
“Right?” Seungmin says with the smugness of someone who’s successfully introduced a cool new thing to a friend.
“No seriously,” Jisung says, needing to impress upon him just how revolutionary the haejangguk is for him. “I usually just have a cheap batch ordered to the dorm, but this is seriously making me consider crawling out of bed to come here more often. Where has this been all of my life?”
He tips another spoonful of broth between his lips.
Which happens to be the very moment that Seungmin, sudden mischief wrapped around the corner of his mouth, says, “Bella, where the hell have you been, loca?”
Jisung chokes so hard that soup comes out of his nose.
Laughter explodes from Seungmin like a firework display. He tosses over a napkin for Jisung to snatch up, creasing up as he watches him wipe around his mouth and nose. Complete and utter mortification descends upon the table, just as potent as it was that morning when Jisung woke up with memories of his confession blaring through his mind. He takes back everything he said. This is the worst. The worst. He’s never regretted leaving his bed more than in this moment. He should never have answered Seungmin’s call.
By the time he’s finished, his nose stings. He takes a desperate gulp of water in the hopes of assuaging it. Across the way, Seungmin’s amusement lets up.
“Everything ok?” he asks kindly.
Nothing will be okay ever again.
Jisung emerges from his glass, beet red. Lowering it, he directs his words to the table. “I think I might need to flush myself down the toilet.”
Another laugh escapes Seungmin, winging towards the ceiling. “That’s a bit drastic, don’t you think?”
“I’ve embarrassed myself too much around you,” Jisung insists. “I have to draw a line under it somehow.”
“I think you’ll survive.”
“I will not. Death by Twilight meme; I never knew my end would come this way.”
As soon as the quip falls out of his mouth, Jisung stills. A Twilight meme. Over the past several weeks, he and Seungmin have had many conversations. Not a single one of them has referenced teen pop culture from the 2000s. What are the chances that he would decide to do so now, less than twenty four hours after Jisung dedicated one of the most iconic songs from the movie’s soundtrack in his name?
Horror fighting him every step of the way, he drags his eyes away from the table and meets Seungmin’s gaze. He’s waiting patiently on the other side for Jisung to catch up. Arms folded, the vestiges of mirth lingering around the lift of his cheeks. His eyes are kind. Knowing.
“You heard about the whole… DJ thing,” Jisung says. It isn’t a question. He already knows the answer.
Seungmin supplies it anyway. “I was there to see it in person. Like five rows away from you.”
Great. Fan-fucking-tastic.
He winces. “Right.”
“I tried to say something last night, but by the time I made it over to you, you were puking your guts out into Hwang Hyunjin’s bucket hat.”
Jisung has no memories of going anywhere near Hwang Hyunjin, but he imagines that Jeongin would be pleased to hear about his rival’s suffering (no matter how one-sided said rivalry is). Still wincing, he sends a silent apology over to the poor guy for defiling his clothes. He’ll offer to dry-clean them when he next sees him around.
For now, however, he has to face the music. Has to address the elephant in the room. As well as the expectant look on Seungmin’s face while he waits for Jisung’s embarrassment to cool off and allow him to speak.
He swallows. “In my defence… I was really drunk.”
Seungmin tips his head to the side again. Puppy-like. Endearing as fuck in the way he always is. “Drunk and talking out of your ass?” he asks.
Jisung can’t lie. “No, it was the truth. But the delivery was a bit… If I was in my right mind, I wouldn’t have exactly said it like that. I’m sorry for embarrassing you, especially in front of all of your friends and teammates. It wasn’t cool.”
“You’re my friend,” comes the rebuttal, “and I wasn’t embarrassed.”
His recollection of the particulars of his confession might be patchy at best, but Jisung remembers enough to know that can’t possibly be the truth. For fuck’s sake, he called Seungmin his baseball boy-crush baby boy. Out loud. How is that not humiliating for all parties involved?
“You don’t need to spare my feelings,” he begins weakly.
“I’m not,” Seungmin says. “I mean it. If I was embarrassed, I would’ve told you.”
“Still…”
He rolls his eyes. “For the love of – Jisung, I wasn’t embarrassed by it because I liked it, okay?”
“You did?” he asks, mystified. “Why?”
“Because I like you, you dolt. Why else?”
“You do?” he repeats. “Why?!”
Grimacing as if in pain, Seungmin deadpans, “I’m beginning to ask the same question myself.” When Jisung is no less lost, he takes pity on him and asks, “Do I really need a reason? Can’t I just like you and get on with it?”
“I mean, you could, but I’m still not convinced I’m not dreaming this all up.”
Can he be certain this isn’t some fever dream induced by his hangover? The first clue should’ve been the fact that he found the energy to leave his bed in the first place. Usually, Jisung’s recovery period from such intense nights out lasts into the late afternoon – how can he be sitting here in this hole-in-the-wall family restaurant, receiving a confession from Kim Seungmin as if it doesn’t defy every conceivable law of physics? He pinches his thigh discreetly under the table. Fuck. Maybe he really is awake.
Rolling his eyes, Seungmin returns to his haejangguk, chopsticks in hand as he fishes for kimchi in his bowl. “As flattered as I am by the disbelief, it’s real. I like you. I thought I was being obvious about it.”
He did?
That pesky miniature shade of Jeongin that pops up in Jisung’s head whenever he’s being obtuse once again springs to existence to do a celebratory jig. Didn’t he tell Jisung he’s going to lord Seungmin’s feelings for him over his head once they came to the light? At the time, Jisung thought he was delusional. Perhaps he’s the one with a lax grip on reality instead. Because what the fuck does Seungmin mean he was being obvious about it? When? How?
He casts his memory back across the past several weeks. Try as he might, he can’t pinpoint anything in particular. Seungmin has just been – well, Seungmin. Cheeky, handsome, popping up in Jisung’s life again and again despite the way he flails like a cartoon lunatic whenever he’s caught by surprise. Smiling that goddamn brazen smile of his that shakes Jisung’s insides around like they’re being jumbled about in a centrifuge. He always seems so unflappable. Nothing like Jisung whose command over his senses fails to live up to professional standards whenever Seungmin is on the scene.
“I thought you were just being friendly,” he says belatedly.
Seungmin snorts. “I am. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t flirting while I was at it.”
Still bent over his soup, he lifts his head to fire a half-smirk across the table and Jisung’s sanity packs up its bags. Fucking hell, it should be illegal to be this attractive. It just isn’t fair.
“Yes, but you’re you,” he tries to explain. He flaps his hands in the air towards Seungmin, gesturing to, well, all of him and then back at himself. “You’re Kim Seungmin. You’re all cool and handsome and smart and you have the prettiest singing voice in the world. And I’m, like, bedraggled as fuck and fighting off allegations that I don’t know what hygiene is whenever I see you.”
Seungmin laughs. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m being serious,” he insists. “I feel like I’m always a mess and embarrassing myself whenever I see you. So no offence or anything, I’m not insulting your tastes, but I don’t see why you would like me. If that makes sense.”
Earlier in their conversation, Seungmin brushed off the sentiment by asking if he needed a reason to. Now, in the face of Jisung’s bafflement, he realises that he’s genuinely confused by it. The chopsticks are abandoned. He straightens up, determination setting his jaw like steel. No longer is he simply Seungmin, Jisung’s friend and fellow sophomore; this is King Seungmin, the guy whose narrow-eyed hunger for the win has earned him a spot in the mouths of students all over the city.
“You keep talking about me as if I’m some cool superstar. I’m really not. I’m just some guy.”
“You’re pretty cool,” Jisung argues.
Seungmin brushes it off. “I do plenty of non-cool things.”
“Like what?” he challenges.
“I dunno.” He shrugs. His eyes drift in the direction of the ceiling as he tries to think of something. “I collect the stickers from Pokémon bread?”
“Everyone does that.”
“I also stick them into a journal and label it with where and when I found them.”
Okay. So maybe not everyone does that.
Jisung kind of digs it though. He can almost picture Seungmin at a desk, bobbing along to music while he painstakingly pastes his stickers into a notebook. Does he treat it with the same determination that he regards his pitches with? In the short time they’ve known each other, Jisung has never seen Seungmin do anything by halves. If so, that’s kind of cute.
But Seungmin is on a roll now. “I journal every night by the way. And every Sunday I set out my schedule for the next week, down to the time where I’m going to spend time with friends or go for a walk. And I don’t think I’ve ever skipped a lesson or lecture in my life. When I was younger, I used to be the one to remind the teachers that there was homework. And when I was nine- “
“Okay, I get it, I get it,” Jisung interrupts, though he’s laughing as he says it. Is Seungmin planning to sit here and list out every uncool thing he’s ever done? “You’re not perfect. You’re just some guy.”
“King Seungmin is something that social media came up with,” he says. “It doesn’t reflect who I really am.”
The sentiment is inspiring, but it misses the mark. “It isn’t all social media,” Jisung says. “I think you’re cool because of what I’ve seen up close. The way you joke around, the way you care for your friends, how much you care about everything you do. You seem so confident and sure of yourself. It’s… really nice actually. And maybe that’s not part of the whole ‘King Seungmin’ persona, but it still puts you a league above everyone else.”
A smile tugs at each corner of Seungmin’s mouth. Those pesky braces of his glisten under the light and capture Jisung’s heart for the millionth time. Helpless to do anything else, Jisung smiles back.
“I think,” Seungmin says, walking the right side of smug, “you just happen to have a crush on me.”
Heat blossoms on the tops of Jisung’s cheeks. “I might do.”
“In which case, we should do something about it,” he says. Reaching across the table, he tugs Jisung’s hand into his: fingers overlapping, his thumb stroking the peaks where Jisung’s knuckles emerge. His hand automatically curls into the gesture. Then he looks down at the clasp, dumbfounded. Still smug, Seungmin continues, “Take me on a date this weekend. If you do, I’ll tell you all the reasons why I like you, okay?”
Despite the fact that they’ve been discussing his supposed feelings for Jisung for the past several minutes, the proposal still catches him off-guard. He blinks, his jaw dropping. Seungmin meets it with an even wider smile. He doesn’t waver, even as seconds pass and Jisung is too broken to say anything.
Finally, he splutters, “Are you serious?”
“As a lawsuit.”
“I – um, I.”
A painfully long sequence of stammers stumbles out of Jisung’s throat. Seungmin hears them out patiently, his amusement deepening with every syllable.
And then, in a flash of clarity, Jisung thinks: why the hell not? Maybe he has looked like an unfortunate rodent in Seungmin’s presence on more occasions than one. Maybe he has a consistent pattern of embarrassing behaviour that shows no signs of letting up. Maybe he entered this crush wanting it to be nothing more than a nice way to pass the time and ended up falling into it way too deep. But in all honesty, who cares? Seungmin likes him. He’s seen the good, the bad and the ugly and he still wants to find out more. Why should Jisung’s insecurities have any say in what happens next?
“Okay,” he exclaims. It comes out louder than intended – but then again, he’s already yelled his feelings into a mic for dozens and dozens of people to bear witness to. His eagerness makes no difference now. “Let’s do it! Let’s go on a date.”
A tension he didn’t realise was in Seungmin’s shoulders floods out of him. Relief apparent in the smooth landscape of his brow, he finally relaxes. “Sounds good. How does noraebang sound to you?”
“Like you’re trying to trick me into serenading you for real,” Jisung says. “But I dig it.”
“Maybe you can finally perform Volcano for me,” he suggests. “I’m still waiting on that live performance, remember?”
For Seungmin, he would do anything.
“Deal.” Jisung nods. And then, because Seungmin’s resultant smile is so wide and so happy and makes him feel a dozen butterflies, he can’t help but add, his hand flipping into the ‘rock on’ sign, “Word.”
A laugh breaks free of him. “Word,” he agrees and answers Jisung’s gesture with one of his own.
Storm clouds roll forward on the horizon, an ominous, ever-encroaching threat. Ahead of their approach, a wind starts to whip through the stadium, bitingly cold. Shivering, Jisung tucks his hands into the pockets of his baseball jacket and ducks his nose into the collar. The scent of Seungmin’s cologne lingers in the seams, belly-warming and familiar.
“If it starts to rain before this game is over, I swear on my dead cat’s grave that I’ll never attend one ever again,” Jeongin grumbles, squinting skyward.
Jisung pays him no mind. He’s made this threat no less than five times already today.
No, his attentions are focused on something much more important. A laser-like focus in his eyes, he stares down at the baseball diamond, anxiety curling in his gut as his anticipation rises with equal force. The rest of the stands appear to share his sentiment. The crowd collectively holds its breath as they watch Seungmin stroll up to the batter’s box. Once there, he rolls his neck and shoulders, flexes his grip around his bat and gets into position.
From his vantage point in the first row, Jisung can see his resolve in high definition. The familiar set of his jaw, the press of his mouth. Eyes focused and narrowed on the pitcher, calculations zipping through his mind. Phones rush to capture the moment, snapping picture after picture as the moment drags on.
In an explosion of movement, the baseball hurtles through the air with the force of a speeding car. Seungmin swings back – and bam! Cracking like a gunshot, the ball is sent ricocheting into the distance and he lurches into a sprint.
A shout on his lips, Jisung leaps to his feet. The rest of the crowd jumps up with him, roaring their support. With every second, it grows louder and louder. By the time Seungmin skids into the final base, it’s deafening. A home run. A fucking home run. The game – the championship – is theirs. Jisung’s shouts morph into nonsensical shrieks. Jeongin, having forgotten all about the rain, joins in, wrestling him into a hug out of sheer joy. Down on the field, Seungmin’s team does the same, piling onto him as one massive, sobbing lump.
“We won!” Jisung shouts. “Innie, we fucking won!”
“If you don’t kiss that man for bringing the trophy home, I swear to fucking god!”
Laughing, Jisung looks back over to the field where Seungmin is inching his way out of the puppy pile. Elation looks good on him. The look on his face when Jisung manages to make it down to the field is even better. Peeling away from his teammates, he jogs over to stand in front of Jisung, so close that he has to tip his head back slightly to meet his eyes.
“You wore my jacket.”
Heat simmers around Jisung’s neck. He tries to shrug it off, but the smile he has to bite back gives him away. “I was cold. Figured I might as well be in the team spirit while I kept warm.”
Seungmin indulges his posturing with a laugh. “It looks good on you though. You should wear it more often.”
He reaches out to smooth the collar down, a gesture that feels oddly territorial, and Jisung’s stomach does a stupid little flop at the thought. Seungmin smiles as though he knows exactly what kind of effect he’s had on him – and he probably does, the self-satisfied fucker. Ever since their first noraebang date, Jisung has been enlightened to just how much of a little shit Seungmin can be when he’s given the chance. It’d be a lie to say he hates it. Quite the opposite in fact. Maybe he really is a masochist.
A fact that Seungmin proves now when he cocks an eyebrow and says, “So are you going to reward me with a kiss for that performance or what?”
The heat worsens. “Or what,” Jisung huffs.
He belies that statement too as soon as he snatches Seungmin by the shirt and yanks him in. As smug as ever, Seungmin laughs into the kiss when they meet before he eases into the swing of it. His arms slide beneath Jisung’s jacket – or rather, Seungmin’s jacket with Seungmin’s name on it that Jisung has proudly claimed as his own – to cup his waist. The moment he tilts his head to the side and runs his tongue across the seam of Jisung’s mouth, Jisung relinquishes his bruising control. In moments like this, he wonders whether he was made to be kissed. Seungmin certainly makes him feel so. Is it any wonder why Jisung crumbled so quickly when he was asked to become exclusive?
Boyfriends with Kim Seungmin. Once, it was a fantasy he dipped into during moments of boredom. Then it became a pipedream he could never aspire to. Nowadays, it’s a fact as normal to him as his own name.
Kim Seungmin thinks he’s cool. Kim Seungmin likes Jisung to sing him to sleep. Kim Seungmin wants to be his boyfriend. Kim Seungmin is Seungminnie, Jisung’s eternal boy-crush and the guy he’s lucky enough to embrace after Seungmin’s won them the championship game of the baseball season. And Seungminnie is a fucking phenomenal kisser.
They part before they can tip over the line into obscenity. Even then Jisung remains close, muttering into Seungmin’s shoulder, “Congratulations by the way. You did amazing.”
Seungmin skims a kiss across Jisung’s temple and answers him in the language he knows best. “Skrrt.”
Laughing, Jisung finally pulls away, though Seungmin doesn’t let him go too far. He tangles their hands together and swings them in the space between them, keeping him tucked by his side.
As he tugs Jisung to the rest of the team, Jisung takes a moment to admire how far they’ve come. To think he could’ve ever doubted Seungmin’s feelings. To think he might’ve passed this up. He’s so glad his brain shut up for once and let him take the plunge. He’s so glad that Chan stumbled across Seungmin belting his heart to IU at noraebang. And most importantly, he’s glad that Changbin gave him that cataclysmic fuck-ass fever that kickstarted it all.