Chapter Text
🐧
It’s early, too early for most students to be out. The sky has the pale clarity of a page newly turned, its soft blues just beginning to deepen with gold at the edges, sunlight sifting through the still air in a hush. The campus grounds are quiet save for the faint crunch of leaves underfoot and the rhythmic sweep of a groundskeeper’s broom somewhere off near the science hall. The air carries a slight chill, not quite biting, but enough that the warmth of a hot drink feels like a comfort, a shield.
Kai walks with his hands in the pockets of his coat, a charcoal-grey wool that hangs loose on his narrow frame. He doesn’t rush – he never does – but each step is certain, quiet, as though the world might stay still if only he’s careful enough not to disturb it. A breeze picks up and shivers through the trees, rustling the burnt-orange and ochre leaves still clinging to the branches. Some drift down slowly around him. He doesn’t look up. He’s used to them now, these small moments of beauty he lets pass without touching.
There’s a corner cafe just past the art building, the kind of place not many students know about. It opens early and closes before noon, owned by a retired couple who seem to have decided that slow mornings and gentle jazz are enough of a life now. Kai likes it for that. He likes the quiet, the lack of fluorescent lights and overstretched Wi-Fi. The coffee isn’t remarkable, but he doesn’t go for their coffee anyway. The man behind the counter, Mr. Nam, recognises him by now, and has since concocted a special drink just for him; hot chocolate with mint syrup, a hidden menu only he’s allowed to order. They don’t speak much, but they don’t have to, their bond transcending any conversation they could ever have.
This morning, like the ones before, Kai steps inside to the familiar chime of the doorbell. Warmth envelops him, and he closes the door gently behind him. Mr. Nam is already mixing up his drink, nodding to him without needing to ask. Kai gives the faintest of smiles, then reaches into his coat for his wallet. He places the exact change on the counter, adds a quiet ‘thank you’ and steps back into his usual corner seat to wait.
The cafe smells of roasted beans and toasted sugar. A small speaker hums with something soft and instrumental, filling the space without demanding attention. Kai stands near the window, watching the passersby. A student on a bicycle coasts by, scarf trailing in the breeze. A pair of joggers cross the plaza, their breath puffing in small clouds. A crow lands near the bench outside, hops twice, then takes off again.
When the cup is set down on his table, Kai collects it wordlessly with a smile, to which Mr. Nam responds with another polite nod. He cradles the warmth between his palms as he exits, letting the steam rise and touch his face. The wind tugs gently at his fringe, and he turns up his collar, eyes lowered.
The library isn’t far. It’s built in clean lines and old stone, wrapped in ivy that turns red and gold this time of year. The windows are tall and narrow, framing views of the campus in slices. Kai knows exactly where he wants to sit; second floor, east wing, the window seat near the corner where the light hits gently and there’s a view of the lake.
He walks slowly, unhurried, the hot chocolate still too hot to drink. A few other students pass him on the way – some hurrying with half-zipped backpacks, others in quiet pairs. A girl from his music theory class passes by and offers a brief wave. Kai meets her eyes for half a second, nods with a polite smile, and keeps walking. He can’t recall her name. She seems kind, but she talks a lot, and Kai never knows how to respond when the silence stretches awkwardly between her thoughts and his lack of them.
He steps into the library, greeted by the soft hush of turning pages and the low murmur of morning staff. He takes the stairs two at a time, not out of urgency, but habit. His seat is empty, as it always is this early, and he settles into it with a quiet breath.
The view is just as he left it yesterday, trees like brushstrokes, the lake with its mirror-still surface, a breeze skimming faint ripples across the water. He sets his hot chocolate down beside him, opens his notebook and begins to write. Not anything deliberate, just lines. A stanza, maybe. A verse, a chorus. His pencil moves lightly, absently, tracing thought without direction. The page is already full of half-formed songs; some complete with a music score, some without.
There’s a peace in being here, tucked away in this small square of quiet. Kai doesn’t need noise. Doesn’t need many people. He finds his rhythm in solitude, in the familiar pattern of his days, and classes don’t start for another hour. He’ll go eventually like he always does, always on time, always prepared, but for now, he just lets the silence settle. He watches as the sun climbs higher, the light spilling gold onto the floor beside him. The hot mint chocolate cools slightly, enough to drink. He takes a small sip, the warmth unfurling through his chest.
Someone else enters the library floor, shoes soft against the carpet, the sound distant. Kai doesn’t look up. He’s used to the presence of others as background, like music played low, not meant for words. Sometimes he wonders if people notice him. Not in the self-conscious way, but as a passing thought. A brief glance in a lecture hall, a nod in the corridor. He doesn’t mind being overlooked. He finds comfort in it, even. There’s no pressure there, no expectation.
Still, there are fleeting moments when he watches groups of students laughing together in the cafeteria, huddled around a phone or sharing notes with easy banter, and something stirs in his chest. Not quite longing, not quite envy, but something softer, more resigned. As if he’s pressing his palm to a window, watching something happen just beyond the glass, but those moments pass. He knows who he is, he doesn’t need the noise, he prefers the quiet.
A gust of wind rustles the trees outside, and more leaves fall, dancing briefly before settling. Kai doesn’t even notice the faint smile that touches his lips. His phone buzzes faintly on the table, startling him. He glances at the screen. A message from Yeonjun reads, are you skipping breakfast again? It’s followed by an obscene amount of eye-roll and angry emojis.
Kai exhales through his nose, something like amusement flickering through him at the thought of the elder knowing him so well. He types back a short reply, i got my trusty hot mintchoc with me ^w^
The reply is immediate, that’s not real breakfast, dummy!!!
He puts the phone face-down and takes another sip of his hot mint chocolate. Yeonjun is one of the few people who never tries to pull too hard. He pushes, gently, sometimes annoyingly, but he never yanks Kai out of his rhythm. It’s something Kai appreciates in a quiet, unspoken way.
Kai and Yeonjun’s friendship is the kind that stretches far beyond the bounds of language, rooted in a kind of knowing that doesn’t need explanation. They’ve been side by side since nappies and juice boxes, since scraped knees on schoolyard pavement and summers spent chasing fireflies along the Han River. Yeonjun has always taken the lead, the more confident of the two, the one who knew how to talk to adults and didn’t flinch at confrontation. Though, even as a child, he always turned back to make sure Kai was following. If Kai hung back at a birthday party, overwhelmed by the noise, Yeonjun would sit with him by the wall, two paper plates balanced on their knees, eating cake in a comfortable quiet. If a classmate teased Kai for his quietness, Yeonjun would appear out of nowhere, stepping in with a sharp glare and an arm thrown protectively across Kai’s shoulders, scaring all the younger kids. They grew up like that, with Yeonjun shielding, Kai grounding, the two of them fitting together like a lock and key.
Over the years, Yeonjun became the one Kai looked to first in everything. When school got hard, when his parents argued and eventually divorced, when Kai lost his grandmother and didn’t know how to put the grief into words, Yeonjun was there. He’d press his chin into Kai’s shoulder and whisper something dumb until Kai laughed through his tears. He was the first to hear Kai’s lyrics, scrawled into the margins of notebooks and napkins, the one who noticed when Kai hesitated before pressing play on a new demo. “You’re brilliant,” he’d say without blinking, like it was a fact, like it was the easiest thing in the world to believe, and because Yeonjun said it so simply, so certainly, sometimes Kai believed it too. In those moments, Yeonjun’s confidence felt like a shield Kai could borrow, just until he found his own voice.
Still, there were days when the closeness felt too heavy in Kai’s chest, guilt blooming in the spaces between Yeonjun’s kindnesses. He watched Yeonjun stride through the fashion department with swatches of fabric tucked under his arm, eyes gleaming with vision and confidence, and part of him wondered if his friend could’ve shone even brighter without him always in tow. Sometimes he’d sit alone in a practice room, writing verses that never left his lips, and feel a twinge of something sharp and aching. Maybe I’m holding him back, Kai would think, his voice catching in his throat whenever he imagined what life might be like if Yeonjun didn’t have to worry about him so much. He never said it aloud, of course. That would’ve made it real.
Yeonjun never saw him that way, though. To him, Kai was never a burden, never something to be tolerated or taken care of. He didn’t just support Kai because he needed support. He did it because Kai mattered, because Kai’s songs held truths that Yeonjun couldn’t articulate in sketches or fabrics, because when everything felt too loud or too fast, Kai’s presence grounded him. When Yeonjun’s own doubts crept in – about whether his designs were good enough, whether he was being taken seriously in an industry so competitive – Kai was the one who sat beside him and listened. No expectations, no judgement. Their bond wasn’t one-sided; it was built on years of leaning on each other without keeping score. Yeonjun might’ve led the way more often, but he never would’ve gotten as far without Kai’s quiet strength beside him.
Even now, at university, nothing’s really changed. They’re older, busier, their paths occasionally diverging with shows and recitals and deadlines, but they always find their way back to each other. Yeonjun still sends Kai good luck texts before performances and shows up with extra snacks during exam week. Kai still listens to Yeonjun’s late-night rants about critique panels that “clearly don’t get innovation” and reminds him to breathe when he gets too caught up in perfection. They still walk home together when they can, Yeonjun’s shoulder brushing against Kai’s as they fall into step like nothing’s changed, and maybe nothing has. Maybe, for all the ways they’ve grown, they’re still just two boys sharing a quiet corner of the world, refusing to let go of the thread that’s always tethered them together.
Outside, the sky is brighter now, the colours deepening. The campus is beginning to stir properly. More students cross the quad. The silence grows thinner, but it doesn’t break. Kai packs his things slowly, slipping the notebook into his bag. He folds his hands around the empty cup for a moment longer, then stands, tucking the chair in behind him. His movements are measured, quiet, as if reluctant to leave the calm behind.
The first class of the day is a theory lecture. He sits at the back – his usual seat near the middle being taken by someone else – near the window, where the light hits the desk in soft angles. He listens without speaking, takes notes in neat handwriting. When the professor asks a question, Kai knows the answer, but he doesn’t raise his hand. He never does. Others are faster to speak, and he’s content to listen.
After class, he walks to the main plaza, where the trees are denser and the wind picks up fallen leaves in brief, elegant flurries. Students gather in small knots, some still yawning, others scrolling their phones. The scent of warm bread drifts from the student centre cafe. Yeonjun finds him easily, he always does. Tall, confident, with a kind of chaotic charm that draws people in. He’s talking before he even reaches Kai, some story about a new design he had thought of, and a groupmate with an annoying lack of vision. Kai listens, eyes soft with his mouth quirking at the edges. He doesn’t say much. He doesn’t need to. Yeonjun fills the space, and Kai, in turn, gives it weight by simply being there.
They walk the campus path together, under the turning trees, steps in sync without trying. The breeze lifts Yeonjun’s fringe, and he huffs, pushing it back with a dramatic sigh.
“You need a haircut,” Kai says, voice quiet but amused.
Yeonjun turns, mock-affronted. “And you need to stop drinking only chocolate for breakfast.”
Kai shrugs. “It’s enough.”
Yeonjun rolls his eyes but says nothing more. The conversation shifts again, back to trivialities; homework, weekend plans, a fashion show someone’s organising. Kai listens, sometimes he answers, but mostly, he’s content to let the words wash over him, grounding him in the moment. All around them, the autumn morning unfurls with patient grace. Leaves fall. Breezes sigh. The sun continues its slow climb across the sky, casting long, soft shadows. Kai walks through it, quiet, steady, small in the way water is as it moves across a pebble, gracing the world not through force, but through gentle, persistent presence.
The literature building stands tall and square, its facade weathered with age and layered in ivy, leaves curling into deep red veins across the stone. It has a kind of quiet dignity, tucked beside the main courtyard like an old scholar watching younger generations pass. A breeze winds through the nearby trees, stirring the air with the soft rustle of drying leaves. He has his songwriting class in this building, a class he dreads and anticipates at the same time.
Kai waits just outside the entrance, standing by the wide columns that flank the stairway. His empty cup is crumpled in one hand, his bag slung loosely over one shoulder. The day has warmed slightly, the chill of early morning giving way to a softer, golden warmth. He watches students come and go – some with books cradled in their arms, others speaking animatedly as they pass – but he doesn’t engage. He stands still, comfortable in his own silence, until a Yeonjun’s voice cuts through the breeze.
“By the way,”
Kai turns, just slightly, as Yeonjun digs through his totebag.
“Don’t give me that look,” Yeonjun says, catching Kai’s hesitant smile as he hands him two pastries in a paper bag. “That damn hot chocolate is nowhere near enough for breakfast.”
Kai takes the bag wordlessly, the warmth spreading through his fingers. He murmurs a soft “Thanks,” just barely audible, but Yeonjun hears it anyway. He always does.
“You know, normal people eat actual food before class,” Yeonjun mutters, mock-scolding as he falls into step beside him. “Something with nutrients. Protein. Chewing involved.”
Kai hums in response, taking a small bite. The pastry’s a little bigger than he usually chooses. Yeonjun’s doing, no doubt. He never lets Kai eat the smaller one out of the display rack, always giving him the biggest one.
They walk together toward Kai’s lecture hall. The path is scattered with students but not yet crowded, and Yeonjun makes a subtle habit of moving just slightly ahead, like a shield without drawing attention to it. It’s something Kai has grown used to, this protective orbit Yeonjun exists in. Yeonjun turns back towards Kai, pastry in one hand and two stacks of paper in the other instead of one.
“Let me guess,” Yeonjun says as they near the hall. “You did Jinah’s assignment again.”
Kai doesn’t answer, but the silence says enough.
Yeonjun sighs. “Hueningie, come on. You need to start telling people no.”
“She just needed help,” Kai says softly.
“She always just needs help,” Yeonjun groans exasperatedly. “And she doesn’t even ask! She just… assumes you’ll do them.”
Kai shrugs, eyes downcast.
“It’s not about being nice,” Yeonjun continues. “It’s about not letting people walk over you. You should only work hard for yourself. Let them fail.”
Kai doesn’t argue. He never does. He lets Yeonjun grumble, letting the irritation burn out like a short candle. It’s always like this; Yeonjun speaks, Kai listens, and somewhere in the space between, they understand each other.
The building’s wide glass doors open with a soft whoosh, and the murmur of students grows louder as they step inside. Fluorescent lights replace sunlight, casting a cooler glow over the pale walls. They pause near the staircase.
Yeonjun looks at him, expression softening. “Seriously though… if anyone’s bothering you, tell me.”
Kai meets his gaze, faint amusement in his eyes. “What would you do?”
“Beat them up. Obviously.”
Kai huffs a laugh. “Yeah, as if.”
Yeonjun grins, satisfied to have drawn that rare sound from him. “You’re lucky I like you, you know.”
“I know, see you later, hyung!”
Yeonjun waits until Kai disappears up the stairs before turning to leave.
After class, the sun is high overhead, casting sharp shadows across the campus paths. The sky is a clean, cloudless blue, and the air smells of fallen leaves and the faint sweetness of ginkgo fruit baking under the sun. They meet again without needing to text. There’s a patch of grass near the east courtyard, just far enough from the crowd, just close enough to hear the chapel bell echoing faintly in the distance. Kai’s seated with his knees drawn up, notebook in his lap. He’s writing again, pencil dancing lightly along the page, waiting for Yeonjun to finish his class.
By the time Yeonjun finally steps out of his last class, the sky is already steeped in pale amber, streaked with faint lavender clouds that bleed into the edges of the horizon. The air has cooled just enough for Kai to pull his sleeves down over his hands as he waits on the bench beneath the ginkgo tree, watching the shadows stretch across the courtyard. The last golden leaves flutter above him, catching in the folds of his hoodie.
His bag rests at his feet, and the paper pastry wrapper – now empty save for a smudge of chocolate filling – has been folded neatly into quarters. He presses his thumb against it absently, tracing the creases as he listens to the breeze and distant chatter of students passing through the courtyard. It’s always louder this time of day, full of tired laughter and careless footsteps, but Kai’s corner of the bench feels comfortably separate from it all. A small pocket of quiet.
Yeonjun spots him before Kai notices, boots scuffing the pavement as he jogs the last few steps across the courtyard. “You actually ate both?” he asks, dropping his bag beside Kai with a soft thump.
Kai looks up and blinks against the light. “You said I’d regret it if I didn’t.”
Yeonjun huffs out a half-laugh. “And was I right?”
Kai shrugs, the edges of his mouth curving slightly. “Maybe.”
The bench dips as Yeonjun flops down next to him, long legs stretching out in front. He smells faintly of fabric glue and detergent. Probably spent the last hour finishing some part of that coat project he wouldn’t stop muttering about all week.
“I have a feeling you purposely avoid buying breakfast just so I’ll buy it for you,” Yeonjun says offhandedly, nudging Kai’s ankle with the toe of his boot. “You just try to act like you don’t eat breakfast.”
Kai scoffs, breaking out into laughter. “Yeah, right. Whatever you say, hyung.”
“See?!” Yeonjun points out dramatically. “You’re not even denying it because you know I’m right!”
Kai cackles in place of a response, but Yeonjun doesn’t seem to mind it. They joke together for a little while, watching the slow migration of students heading out of the courtyard, backpacks slung low, phones held to ears, arms linked with friends. Then Yeonjun straightens and turns toward him, tapping his fingers against the wooden slats of the bench. “Wanna get Korean BBQ?”
Kai blinks, not expecting the sudden shift. “Now?”
“I’m starving. You’ve had, what, two pastries and air today? We need to fix that.” Yeonjun nudges him again. “Come on. My treat.” A short pause. “Again…”
Kai rolls his eyes and nudges Yeonjun’s shoulder. He should probably finish his demo track, or at least polish the lyrics he’s been quietly working on all week, but he knows he won’t, anyway. Not when the tempting offer of free grilled pork belly is being hung over his head right now.
“Let’s go,” he smiles.
Yeonjun grins, fond as always, and tugs lightly at Kai’s sleeve. “Look at you, milking me of all my money. You better thank me for filling you with pastries and grilled pork belly and helping you forget about whatever minor crisis you’ve been brooding over all day.”
Kai rolls his eyes, but he smiles anyway.
They walk in step down the paved path that curves toward the eastern gate. The leaves crunch underfoot, crisp and dry, the wind tugging at the loose threads on Kai’s hoodie. He keeps his hands tucked into his sleeves as they pass under the archway of trees that line the campus edge. Every so often, their shoulders brush, not by accident, but not intentional either. Just something natural that’s never needed acknowledging.
Up ahead, near the old gate, a group of students is clustered together on the steps, laughing too loudly, voices bouncing through the cool air. Kai recognises them, it’s hard not to when some of them are in the same major as he is. Beomgyu’s – the president of the student council – hair is unmistakable in the fading light, the dyed ends catching the last rays of sun as he throws his head back, laughing at something Soobin is saying. They’re surrounded by a few others from the music department, their energy loud and golden in a way Kai has never quite understood.
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t let himself look for more than a second. It’s not that he dislikes them, he just doesn’t know how to be around people like that. People who seem so naturally open, magnetic like gravity bends toward them. Kai looks away, gaze dropping to the pavement. His grip on Yeonjun’s sleeve tightens slightly. Yeonjun, beside him, keeps walking and doesn’t even glance their way. Beomgyu glances up and makes eye contact with him as they pass, but no one says anything. No one interrupts them. The noise behind them fades quickly, the way most things do when Yeonjun is around.
“You okay?” Yeonjun asks, his voice quieter now.
Kai nods once. “Yeah.”
He doesn’t say more, and Yeonjun doesn’t press. The world around them begins to glow as the sun dips lower, street lights flickering on one by one. Their reflections stretch long across the pavement. A breeze rustles through the trees, and Kai watches a single leaf drift down, twisting slowly before landing on Yeonjun’s shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches up and brushes it off gently.
“What’ve you been working on?” Yeonjun asks as they cross the street. “Music-wise.”
Kai exhales softly. “A new demo. It’s still rough. Just a verse and a chord progression.”
“Do I get to hear it?”
“…Eventually,” Kai says.
Yeonjun grins. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
They reach the restaurant not long after, a narrow spot tucked between a convenience store and a stationery shop. The glow from the windows spills out onto the street, warm and inviting. The smell of grilled meat and sesame oil floats in the air, sharp and familiar.
The ahjumma at the counter waves as they step in. “Ah, the quiet one and his fashion boyfriend,” she calls with a wink.
“He’s not my boyfriend, ahjumma…” Kai ducks his head, face warming, but Yeonjun only winks back.
They slide into their usual booth in the back. It’s a little cramped, but Kai likes the way the hum of the restaurant feels at this hour; busy, but not overwhelming. The sizzle of nearby grills blends with the chatter of tables full of friends and couples, the clink of metal chopsticks, the soft patter of K-indie playing from the overhead speakers.
Yeonjun reaches for the water jug and pours two cups, setting one in front of Kai. “We’re getting samgyeopsal and galbi,” he declares. “No arguments.”
Kai raises an eyebrow. “You always say that before I even say anything.”
“That’s because you’d sit here eating plain rice and kimchi if I didn’t intervene,” Yeonjun says, grinning.
He’s probably right.
Kai leans back as the first cuts of pork belly hit the grill, the sound of sizzling meat curling around them. The warmth seeps into his skin, and for the first time that day, the tightness in his chest begins to ease. Whatever had felt heavy or strange about Beomgyu’s group, or the awkward silence he’d carried through lecture, fades in the noise and comfort of grilled meat, barley tea, and Yeonjun’s steady presence.
Here – across from Yeonjun, in this little booth filled with steam and smoke and soft music – everything feels manageable and understandable. His world may be small, but it’s his. And in moments like this, it’s enough.
🧸
The student council room is alive with noise.
It’s a mix of rustling papers, hurried footsteps, and laughter bouncing off the high ceiling. Sunlight streams in through the windows, catching on glossy flyers and half-empty coffee cups scattered across the long table. At the centre of it all stands Beomgyu, one foot propped on a chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, grinning like he owns the place.
He probably does, in a way.
"Okay, listen up. No one's going to the festival in mismatched shirts this year," he says, gesturing with the half-eaten pastry in his hand like it’s a gavel. “I’m not supervising another photo op that looks like a chaotic family reunion.”
Laughter ripples through the group. Someone throws a balled-up napkin at him. He catches it easily, bows dramatically, then drops it into the bin without looking. Cheers erupt from the table.
“Show-off,” someone mutters, and Beomgyu just winks.
Despite the laid-back performance, he's efficient; assigning booth duties, making sure the flyers are done, and confirming time slots with the audio-visual team. It’s the kind of chaos he thrives in. His voice threads through every corner of the room, confident, light, always a little teasing. Everyone listens when Beomgyu speaks. Not because he demands it, but because he makes it seem fun to do so.
Someone near the back raises a hand. “Beomgyu hyung, what about the band performance?”
Beomgyu tilts his head, brushing hair from his forehead. “We’re in. I’ve got something new I’m working on.”
That’s enough to earn another round of excitement, he always draws a crowd. Not just because he’s good, but because people like watching him and like being close to his spotlight. A few more minutes of discussion pass before the meeting starts to wind down. People begin standing, stretching, gathering their things. Beomgyu stays seated on the edge of the table, one leg swinging absently as he picks at the last of his pastry. That’s when Soobin slips in, quiet but confident as always, barely making a sound as he crosses the room. He appears beside Beomgyu and offers him a drink from the vending machine, cold condensation trickling down the bottle.
Beomgyu accepts it without needing to ask. “Knew I could count on you.”
Soobin shrugs, eyes soft. “You talk too much. You always forget to hydrate.”
“Someone’s gotta do it,” Beomgyu says, unscrewing the cap. “Imagine if I didn’t talk. This place would die of boredom.”
Soobin huffs a laugh but says nothing. They step out of the council room together, the air immediately cooler and fresher than inside. The buzz of campus life surrounds them again, with people spilling into the quad, booths being set up, music playing from someone’s Bluetooth speaker nearby. The sun’s low now, casting long shadows across the stone path. They walk side by side, unhurried. Beomgyu greets people as they pass; upperclassmen, juniors, people from different departments. His presence is magnetic, and he wears it well. His uniform shirt is half-untucked, collar loose, yet somehow he still looks polished, like a magazine ad come to life.
Near the edge of the quad, the sun is slipping lower, dyeing everything in warm gold and long shadows. There's a group gathered around the low table by the old gate, half-draped in fairy lights and half-lost in the shade of the tree above. It’s the usual crowd. Familiar faces, loud voices, the soft clink of takeaway cups and laughter that never quite sounds real. Beomgyu spots Doyoon first, then Minjun, and a couple of others from the music department sprawled across the benches like they own the place.
“Hey, Beomgyu!” someone calls out as he approaches. “Where’ve you been, pretty boy? Missed you at class.”
Beomgyu grins, tugging Soobin along beside him. “Trying to keep my beauty sleep sacred. You guys are hell on my skin.”
Minjun scoots over and wraps around him the moment he gets close. “You’re too pretty to be real, you know that? You sure you don’t wanna fuck a second time?”
Beomgyu lets the comment roll off like water. He leans one arm on the table, all lazy confidence, and shoots Minjun a smirk. “Complain to my parents. And no thank you, I don’t double dip.”
“You’re annoying,” Minjun pouts, but it’s a joke with teeth, and they both know it.
Beomgyu drops into the seat beside him, flashing a peace sign as if it’ll ward off the lingering tension. Soobin takes the spot beside him with a sigh. The conversation picks up fast; festival logistics, a rumour about midterms getting scrapped, someone’s Tinder horror story. Beomgyu slides back into the rhythm like it’s nothing. He knows how to keep a crowd laughing, how to play his role. He tells a story about some guy who accidentally sent a love letter instead of an assignment to a class group chat, and the table dissolves into cackles.
Then Doyoon speaks.
“Hey, speaking of unfair,” he says, and Beomgyu immediately feels the shift. The way Doyoon’s voice slides into that teasing register, the one that’s always a little too sharp to be harmless. “We were talking earlier. About who Beomgyu hasn’t pulled yet.”
Beomgyu huffs a laugh, slouching back in his seat. “What kind of cursed list am I on now?”
Minjun tilts his coffee toward him with a smug grin. “You might’ve hooked up with half the damn campus, me included, but there are still a few people you haven’t cracked.”
There it is. That flicker behind the flattery. That bite under the praise. Beomgyu’s learned to smile through it. “I’m flattered you guys keep track.”
“You should be,” Doyoon says. He’s leaning in now, elbows on the table, eyes sharp with mischief. “You know who’s always by himself? That kid, Kai. You’ve got a couple classes with him, right? The one who looks like he’s about to apologise for breathing.”
Beomgyu frowns, brow creasing. “Who?”
“Kai, Huening Kai,” Minjun says. “Halfie. Headphones on all the time. Tall. Big eyes. Kinda like a deer in headlights.”
Something clicks. Beomgyu snaps his fingers. “Oh. From Composition and Ensemble? Yeah. He’s... quiet.”
“Exactly,” Doyoon says, practically beaming. “Quiet. Shy. Probably untouched. The perfect challenge.”
Beomgyu snorts. “You want me to talk to him?”
“Not talk,” Doyoon grins. “Sleep with him. One million won says you can’t.”
For a moment, there’s silence. Then the table erupts. Laughter, whistles, someone choking on their drink. Minjun watches him with narrowed eyes, like he already knows Beomgyu won’t walk away. Like he’s banking on it.
Beomgyu laughs along, hand waving dismissively. “You’re insane.”
“I’m generous,” Doyoon says. “Six months. No rules. Just make it happen. Unless you’re scared.”
It’s bait. Obvious, messy bait. But Beomgyu can feel everyone’s eyes on him now. Waiting. Soobin’s expression is tight beside him, like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to start a war.
Beomgyu plays it cool. “You don’t think I could do it?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Soobin says, quietly but firm. “He’s not like the others. Don’t drag him into this.”
Beomgyu turns to him, brow lifting. “Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t deserve to be someone’s bet,” Soobin says. “He keeps to himself. He’s not looking for this kind of shit.”
Beomgyu’s silent for a beat. The memory surfaces uninvited; Kai in class, bent over his notebook, headphones snug over his ears, like he’s building a wall around himself. Wide eyes that never quite meet anyone else’s. Someone small in a room full of noise. But then Doyoon smirks, and Minjun raises a brow, and the pressure creeps in like it always does. The golden boy. The one who doesn’t flinch. Beomgyu feels the weight of it pressing down, making it hard to tell where pride ends and something uglier begins.
“Fine,” he says, too quickly. “You’re on.”
The cheer that goes up is deafening. Doyoon slaps the table like it’s a game show win. Minjun whistles and smirks at him, pressing a kiss against his cheek that feels more like a form of mockery. Someone throws their napkin in the air. None of it settles the churn in Beomgyu’s chest. He’s just starting to force a grin when movement on the path nearby catches his eye.
Two boys walking past the edge of the quad. Beomgyu only vaguely registers Yeonjun, tall, sharp-featured, a bit of a rumour himself. But the other– Kai. He’s right there. Beomgyu’s breath catches, the rest of the table fading to a dull roar in his ears. He watches, frozen, as Kai walks beside Yeonjun, eyes fixed ahead until they’re not.
Their gazes meet.
Just for a second. Not long enough for anyone else to notice. But long enough for something to lodge itself deep in Beomgyu’s gut like a stone.
Kai’s eyes don’t narrow or flick away. He just… looks. Like he sees Beomgyu and doesn’t think much of what he finds. Beomgyu swallows hard, stomach twisting. He feels exposed, like the air’s shifted and someone’s pulled a curtain back. He tells himself it’s just shock, just the weird timing of it, but the truth is louder and meaner. It feels like guilt. Not guilt like when you lie to your mother or ghost a friend for a hookup. No. This is something raw and unfamiliar. Like he’s just signed a contract he didn’t read the fine print on, like he’s already done something wrong, even though nothing’s started yet.
Kai looks away first, and Yeonjun glances over too, briefly, before the pair disappear down the path. Beomgyu exhales slowly, but the ugly feeling stays. He turns back to the group with a smirk pasted on like a fresh coat of paint. The noise swells again around him; Doyoon laughing, Minjun egging him on, Soobin tense and silent. Beomgyu reaches for his drink, swirls it in his hand, and leans back like everything’s fine, but Kai’s eyes linger behind his own, dark and steady, and the feeling in Beomgyu’s chest won’t go away.
Soobin exhales sharply beside him, not quite a sigh, but close. Beomgyu doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t look at anyone, really, just lifts the bottle of juice Soobin gave him earlier, takes a long sip, and tries to ignore the strange twist in his stomach. He laughs along with the rest of them, but the sound feels a little too sharp in his own ears.
The walk back to their apartment isn’t long. On most nights, it feels like nothing; a smooth, familiar stretch of concrete between campus and luxury, but tonight, it drags. Every step feels deliberate, weighed down by something thick and unsaid. The street’s quieter than usual, the buzz of student life now reduced to the distant murmur of a city easing into dusk. Streetlamps hum softly overhead, casting pools of pale orange across the pavement. A breeze stirs through the trees lining the road, shaking loose the scent of spring flowers and exhaust fumes.
Beomgyu kicks a loose pebble down the path, watching it skitter ahead in short bursts. His hands stay stuffed in the pockets of his double-breasted blazer, expensive and crisp even this late. The chill in the air doesn’t quite reach him, but something else does. The memory of too many eyes on him, too many voices laughing, egging him on. It still clings to his skin, invisible and suffocating.
Beside him, Soobin walks in that infuriatingly even way he always does, shoulders squared, steps measured. Calm, like someone trying to keep from boiling over. Beomgyu can feel the tension radiating off him like static, can tell from the tight set of his jaw that he’s holding back.
“You’re really gonna do it?” Soobin asks, finally breaking the silence. His voice is low, cutting clean through the soft murmur of the city night.
Beomgyu sighs. “You’re starting this now?”
“You agreed to seduce someone for a million won, Gyu. I’m not letting you play it off like it’s a joke.”
Beomgyu slows his pace just enough to glance at him. Soobin doesn’t return the look. His gaze stays fixed ahead, sharp and unreadable, like he’s not just walking beside Beomgyu but walking away from him.
“It is a joke,” Beomgyu mutters, throwing on a shrug that feels more like armour than indifference. “They’re not actually expecting me to go through with it.”
“You said, ‘You’re on’!” Soobin snaps. “You literally agreed to it!”
Beomgyu’s mouth twists into a smile, but it feels fragile. “I don’t see the problem. I talk to Kai, maybe flirt a bit. No one’s getting hurt.”
Soobin stops walking. Just like that, he is two steps behind Beomgyu now. Beomgyu notices a second too late. He turns, blinking at the empty stretch of pavement between them. The streetlamp overhead flickers slightly, light dancing across Soobin’s cheekbones as he stands there, jaw tight and arms crossed. There’s something in the way Soobin plants his feet, like he’s bracing for impact.
“No one’s getting hurt?” Soobin repeats incredulously. “You’re not just flirting with Kai, Gyu. You’re going to sleep with him just to keep playing this game with Doyoon and Minjun.”
Beomgyu opens his mouth and closes it. His tongue feels too thick all of a sudden. “It’s not like that.”
Soobin lifts an eyebrow, expression flat. “Then what is it like?”
He’s used to Soobin being blunt. Used to the way he pulls no punches, the way he sees straight through Beomgyu’s charm and cocky swagger. But now? Now it feels like Soobin’s looking through him, like glass and Beomgyu hates it.
He exhales, slow and heavy, his breath curling faintly in the cool air. The wind’s picked up a little, tugging loose strands of hair into his eyes. He pushes them back with one hand and mutters, “Look. I’ve talked to Kai before. Not properly, but still. He’s chill. Keeps to himself. I’m not gonna hurt him.”
“You don’t even know him,” Soobin snaps, and there’s a sharpness in his tone that cuts through the quiet of the night. Beomgyu flinches, just slightly, but enough. “He’s not some challenge you can win and walk away from.”
The words hit harder than they should. Not because they’re loud – Soobin never needs to be loud – but because they’re right, and Beomgyu’s not sure he can lie his way around that. For a moment, there’s just the sound of their footsteps and the wind rustling the trees. A leaf skitters past Beomgyu’s ankle, brittle and orange and curling at the edges, like something that’s lived its whole life only to be stepped on and forgotten.
“Why do you care so much?” he asks finally, defensive without meaning to be. “You’ve never said two words to him either.”
Soobin doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, his voice is even but firm. “Because I care about you, dumbass.”
That lands heavier than anything else so far. It hits somewhere behind Beomgyu’s ribs, a quiet pressure he’s not used to feeling. Not when it’s sincere like this. Not when it’s coming from someone who actually knows him.
“And I’ve seen this pattern before,” Soobin goes on, jaw tight, eyes focused straight ahead like he’s trying not to watch Beomgyu crack under it. “You keep pulling this... Beomgyu thing. Getting dragged into something reckless because people expect you to be the guy who doesn’t care. The guy who always says yes. Who’s always game. Who always wins.”
Beomgyu looks away. The streetlamp casts their shadows long and distorted on the pavement, stretching them out like strangers. He wonders which one is his, where the performance ends and whatever’s left of him actually begins.
“I’m not dragging him into anything,” he mutters, almost too soft to hear. “It’s not like I’m gonna break his heart.”
Soobin lets out a breath through his nose, half exasperation, half disbelief. “Beomgyu. You’re literally agreeing to sleep with someone for money. You know how insane that sounds, right?”
Beomgyu bristles. “It’s not like that.”
“It is exactly like that,” Soobin presses. “You agreed to sleep with someone over a stupid bet. A million won, like that’s enough to justify it.”
Beomgyu clenches his jaw. “It’s not about the money.”
“Then what is it?” Soobin throws back, eyes flashing as he stops in his tracks. “We’re rich, Beomgyu. You don’t need a million won. We live in a penthouse. You order imported espresso pods and forget about them. Your parents send you money every month. You’ve got guitars more expensive than most people’s rent. What the hell are you trying to prove?”
“I don’t know!” Beomgyu snaps, louder than he means to. His voice echoes faintly down the quiet street. He scrubs a hand over his face, frustrated. “Maybe it’s about showing I can. Maybe it’s about not backing down when people expect me to be fun, or bold, or whatever the fuck I’m supposed to be.”
Soobin steps closer, his voice dropping but his gaze unwavering. “Or maybe it’s about the fact that you’re scared of being boring. Of being normal. Of being someone without a headline. So you keep chasing this version of yourself that’s cool and invincible and always wanted, even when it means crossing lines you shouldn’t.”
Beomgyu exhales slowly through his nose. His hands are clenched in his pockets now, tight enough his knuckles ache. He wants to argue, wants to tell Soobin he’s overreacting, that it’s not that serious, but deep down, under the sharp edges of ego and habit, something uncomfortable twists.
“Look,” he says finally, voice quieter, rougher. “I’ll be careful. I’m not gonna lead him on. I’ll talk to him, maybe flirt. If he’s not into it, I’ll back off.”
Soobin gives him a long look. “And if he is?”
Beomgyu doesn’t answer right away. His heart skips hard enough to notice.
He brushes it off with a breath. “Then we’ll see what happens.”
Soobin shakes his head, disappointed. Disappointed in a way that digs deep, like gravel under skin. He doesn’t say anything else. Just turns, starts walking again, each step heavy with something unsaid. Beomgyu watches him go for a second, that twisting feeling still lodged in his chest. He doesn’t follow right away. He stands there in the glow of the streetlight, watching Soobin’s back disappear into the distance, jaw tight. His palms are cold, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like they’re trying to find something solid to hold on to.
Then, before he can stop himself, he calls out, “I’m doing this for you too, you know.”
Soobin halts mid-step.
Beomgyu catches up, voice quick now, almost tripping over itself. “Yeonjun hangs out with Kai all the time. If I get closer to Kai, you get a reason to talk to Yeonjun. Don’t pretend that hasn’t crossed your mind.”
Soobin turns around, eyebrows lifting in disbelief. “Are you serious right now?”
“I’m just saying–” Beomgyu starts, but Soobin cuts him off with a laugh. It’s not a kind one. It’s sharp around the edges, bitter in a way that makes Beomgyu flinch more than anything else tonight.
“You’re actually trying to spin this like it’s some kind of favour?” Soobin says, incredulous. “Like seducing someone over a dumb bet is some noble plan to help me get with Yeonjun?”
Beomgyu opens his mouth, but Soobin keeps going, his voice rising.
“Don’t use my crush as your excuse,” he snaps. “You think I’m that desperate? That I need you to manipulate someone just so I can have a chance with Yeonjun?”
“It’s not manipulation,” Beomgyu insists, defensive again, even though a part of him knows that’s exactly what it is. “It’s just... helping things along. Kai and Yeonjun are close. If I get in with Kai, you’ll naturally–”
“Oh my god,” Soobin groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You actually believe this, don’t you? You think this whole bet is some clever two-for-one! Seduce Kai, help Soobin, win a million won and everyone lives happily ever after.”
“I didn’t say that,” Beomgyu mutters, but the words sound flimsy even to him.
“You didn’t have to,” Soobin says, voice low now, cutting. “You’re not doing this for me. You’re doing this because you’re bored. Because people expect you to be that guy. Because you want to win. And now, when it starts sounding gross – even to you – you’re dragging me into it, hoping it’ll make you feel better.”
Beomgyu takes a step back, the sting of the words tightening in his chest. “That’s not fair.”
“No, Beomgyu. What’s not fair is using someone else’s feelings as leverage for your own bullshit,” Soobin says, arms folded now, every line in his body tense. “You don’t care about Kai. You don’t care about Yeonjun. You’re just trying to rewrite the narrative so you don’t have to feel bad about being exactly what Doyoon and Minjun think you are.”
Beomgyu swallows hard, but it’s like trying to breathe through sand. His thoughts scramble, defensive instincts flaring, but none of his usual lines fit. None of his easy comebacks land. There’s nothing slick or charming he can say to erase the look on Soobin’s face.
“Yeonjun’s never even looked at me like that,” Soobin says quietly after a beat, the edge in his voice dulled now, replaced with something more vulnerable. “You think I haven’t noticed? You think I haven’t already told myself it’s never gonna happen? You don’t need to play matchmaker, Beomgyu. Especially not like this.”
“I just thought–” Beomgyu begins, but Soobin shakes his head.
“No. You didn’t think. You never think. You just act and expect everyone else to clean it up after.”
That one cuts deep. Too deep. Beomgyu’s mouth opens, but no words come out.
Soobin takes a breath, steadies himself, and looks at Beomgyu, really looks at him. Not the version he plays in front of others. Not the image. Just him. And Beomgyu hates how naked that makes him feel.
“You want to go through with this? Fine,” Soobin says, voice flat now. “But don’t pretend you’re doing it for anyone but yourself.”
Then he turns again, walking off without waiting for a response. This time, Beomgyu doesn’t follow. He stands there in the hush of the street, watching the space Soobin leaves behind, the wind catching at his sleeves like it’s trying to tug him back into the world. But he stays still. He hates how quiet it is when Soobin’s not beside him. He hates the way his chest feels like it’s collapsing inward, like he’s hollowed himself out with his own excuses. And most of all, he hates that Soobin might be right.
🧸
Despite the gnawing in his gut – persistent and dull, like something he could ignore if he just distracted himself hard enough – despite Soobin’s warning still echoing in some corner of his conscience, Beomgyu decides he’s going to do it anyway. Maybe that makes him a bad person. Maybe not. He’s not really in the mood to psychoanalyse himself at seven in the morning.
He tells himself it’s just a bit of fun. A stupid dare, like the hundreds of others they’ve tossed around over drinks and late-night games. Nobody ever actually gets hurt. People flirt, people play around, it’s practically part of the university experience. A rite of passage. Besides, one million won for something so simple? It’s laughable how easy it sounds. If Kai is anything like the impression he gives off – quiet, soft-spoken, probably the kind of person who apologises when someone else bumps into him – this could be over in a week. Two, if he’s patient. And Beomgyu’s never really had a problem with patience when the reward’s worth it.
Still, that unease doesn’t go away.
It sits low in his stomach like something sour, something half-digested. He wakes up before his alarm, mind already spinning, and instead of rolling over and going back to sleep like a sane person, he’s pulling on a hoodie, shoving his hair under a cap, and heading out the door before the city’s properly awake. If he wants to pull this off, he needs to understand his target first. Observe. Learn the routine. Get ahead of the curve.
Not in a creepy way, obviously. Just… strategic. Tactical. Like research.
He only has one class with Kai today, a shared elective slotted into the late afternoon. It’s not ideal. So, he decides to get a head start, catch Kai somewhere before that, when he’s off-guard. People are more honest when they think no one’s watching.
By 7:45, Beomgyu is already posted up near the edge of campus, leaning against the worn brick wall across from a little cafe that barely anyone seems to notice. It’s tucked between a convenience store and a stationery shop, the kind of place you’d miss if you blinked while walking past. A single wooden sign swings gently above the door: J’s Coffee , painted by hand and faded by years of weather. He’s heard of it before, some older students mentioned it’s run by a retired couple who know their regulars by name. The vibe is more of a secret sanctuary than a trendy hangout place, and he can see why.
Headphones looped around his neck but playing nothing, Beomgyu scrolls aimlessly through his phone while keeping half an eye on the door. A breeze tugs at the edge of his sleeves. The city feels different this early; softer and less rushed. The kind of quiet that doesn’t last long.
At 8:06 sharp, Kai appears.
He doesn’t stride. He sort of… drifts. Small steps, head bowed slightly like he’s listening for something underground, hands buried deep in the sleeves of his jumper. Beomgyu straightens instinctively, pushing off the wall and adjusting his stance in that casual way he’s mastered, the “oh, fancy seeing you here” look. Not that Kai notices. He walks right past without a glance.
Kai slips inside the cafe. A few seconds later, Beomgyu crosses the street, hovering near the stationery store, hovering over a shelf selling an array of pens and pencils. From this angle, he can just barely see through the smudged window.
Inside, the scene unfolds with uncanny precision.
The old man behind the counter doesn’t even speak. He simply looks up, meets Kai’s gaze, and then turns to grab a cup already prepared. No greeting. No questions. He just places the drink on the counter, and Kai accepts it with a soft bow of his head and a quiet thank-you that’s more breath than sound, placing just the right amount of change on the counter. Then he turns and walks out the way he came, same small steps, same quiet presence, like he’s barely disturbed the air around him.
Beomgyu stares.
That’s it?
No order. No awkward wait. No decision-making. Just silent routine and unspoken understanding. Apparently, Kai is that much of a regular. Even the cafe owner knows how to read him.
Beomgyu exhales sharply, a soft curse slipping past his lips. So much for striking up conversation over his drink. He watches as Kai walks away, cradling the cup in both hands like it’s holding more than just warmth, like it’s his armour against the world. Beomgyu doesn’t follow immediately. He waits a beat, then starts moving at a distance, not close enough to be noticed, not far enough to lose him. Just floating somewhere behind him like he’s part of the background.
He spends the morning like that. He watches Kai move through the campus with the same quiet consistency. From the cafe to the library, always the same seat, tucked in the farthest corner by the window, where the light is soft and the air smells faintly of dust and old paper. Kai pulls out a worn spiral notebook and starts scribbling with a pencil. Not notes, exactly, or at least not the kind Beomgyu recognises. From this distance, he can’t read the page, but the movement is too fluid for anything academic. Maybe lyrics. Maybe poems. Maybe just shapes.
There’s no laptop. No music. No headphones this time. Just the faint scratch of pencil against paper and the slow rise and fall of Kai’s shoulders.
A classmate stops by at one point, waving. Kai looks up, offers a gentle smile and a small nod. The classmate chats for a bit and Kai listens, responding once or twice. Then they leave, and Kai doesn’t reach out or try to continue the interaction. He just returns to the page like the interruption never happened.
Beomgyu watches all of this unfold with a strange kind of stillness settling over him. He’s done this before; scoped people out, figured out how to slip into their lives with the right blend of confidence and charm. Usually, it’s easy. People like attention. They like to feel seen. With Kai, it’s different. There’s a quiet to him that feels purposeful, not fragile. Like he chooses to be overlooked.
It messes with Beomgyu’s rhythm.
By the time Kai leaves the library, Beomgyu checks the time and sees it’s barely noon. Hours to go until class, and he still has no plan. No conversation starter. No mutual friend to lean on. No social media trail to follow, or at least the last time he checked. Beomgyu sinks into a nearby armchair with his phone, thumbing it open on instinct. Out of curiosity, he searches Kai’s name again – he already tried once the night before and came up with nothing – and the results are no different. He decides to search for Yeonjun’s account instead, slapping himself in the forehead when he finds Kai’s account tagged within the first two posts. Why didn’t he think of this sooner?
Beomgyu clicks on his username, eversokaindly, and subconsciously smiles at how fitting his username had been. The posts are sparse but thoughtful. Moody photos of Seoul’s skyline at dusk. Warm coffee cups on rainy mornings. Glimpses of lyricbooks and bookstore shelves, a soft blur of city lights through the bus window. And selfies, some of himself but most with Yeonjun. Kai with flushed cheeks and his hair tied back in a loose bun, peace signs thrown lazily at the camera. Kai tucked under a blanket with a cat on his chest and a caption that reads, “aqua won’t let me move, help!! >﹏< ” Kai smiling sleepily into the lens, eyes crinkled, with a caption that just says “(∪ ｡∪)｡｡｡zzZ”
Beomgyu stares, because it’s not what he expected at all. He’s cute – really cute – and not just in the way he uses expressive emoticons unironically. There’s warmth in his smile, a kind of softness that doesn’t quite come through in person. Online, he seems more open and more playful. He uses emoticons, the kind with stars and squiggly eyes, the kind that make Beomgyu’s heart skip a beat, completely against his will.
He lingers on one post in particular – Kai at a cafe table with a messy pile of notes and a mystery drink in a chipped ceramic mug, captioned, “waiting for yeonjunnie hyung and it’s getting colder by the minute (๑•﹏•)⋆* ⁑⋆*”
Beomgyu bites the inside of his cheek, surprised at the way it makes something warm stir in his chest. It’s stupid. It’s just an Instagram account, but it feels like… more. Like a version of Kai he wasn’t supposed to see yet. One that’s a little sillier. A little softer. The kind of person who might laugh at bad puns and hide his face behind his hands when he’s embarrassed.
He locks his phone, suddenly too aware of the fluttering in his ribs.
What is he even doing?
He’s supposed to be strategising, planning, finding a way in, but the more he watches, the more he reads, the more it feels like trying to hold water in his hands. Beomgyu flops back against the library chair, hoodie pulled up around his ears. Outside, the trees shift in the breeze, gold and red leaves dancing across the pavement. It’s a beautiful day. He should be more excited. He should be planning his next move, but all he feels is that weight in his chest again. Not guilt. Not quite. Just… uncertainty. His phone buzzes.
Soobin hyung
you’re really doing this?
Beomgyu stares at the message. Then locks his screen without replying.
He thinks about Kai. The Kai with a penchant for emoticons, Kai who frequents the cafe so much he doesn’t even have to order anymore, Kai who’s so utterly unaware… He ignores the nagging feeling deep inside his chest.
Yeah, he’s doing this.