Chapter Text
The bass vibrated straight through the floorboards, rattling the cheap plastic cups stacked haphazardly across the kitchen counter.
Nano’s parties were notorious for three distinct things: ridiculously expensive imported liquor, zero noise complaints because the sprawling estate sat well beyond the campus perimeter, and the fact that practically every student with a shred of social clout was packed into the living room.
Jun, by every logical metric, did not belong within a five-mile radius of the front door.
He stood near the edge of the kitchen island, clutching a lukewarm cup of ginger ale like a lifeline. He was dressed in an unremarkable grey hoodie, dark denim that had seen far too many overnight study sessions in the science library, and worn canvas sneakers. While everyone around him drifted in bespoke jackets, sheer mesh, and designer cologne, Jun looked like a misplaced teaching assistant waiting for office hours to begin.
"Stop hovering like an uninvited ghost, Jun," Pepper groaned, leaning back against the refrigerator. As the student director responsible for the technical rigging and backstage machinery of the university's largest stage productions, Pepper carried a permanent air of exhausted authority. He took a swig of his beer and nudged Jun’s shoulder. "Drink something with actual alcohol. You look like you're waiting to be audited."
"I could be halfway through my third fluid dynamics problem set right now," Jun muttered, pushing his dark-rimmed glasses up where they sat crooked on the bridge of his nose. "You swore we were staying forty-five minutes. It’s been an hour and twelve."
"Because forty-five minutes is a social misdemeanor," Thame cut in smoothly, sliding in beside them. Thame was a campus celebrity in his own right—a rising vocalist whose acoustic sets routinely packed the arts pavilion, carrying himself with effortless, golden-boy ease. He slung a heavy arm over Jun’s neck, nearly sloshing his plastic cup. "Look around, genius. The entire university roster is in this room, the vibe is immaculate, and you’re literally running calculations in your head. Live a little."
"I live when I get eight consecutive hours of REM sleep, Thame."
"You're hopeless," Pepper sighed, though his sharp eyes tracked the movement across the living room with mild amusement. "At least look alive. If you’re going to be a wallflower, appreciate the view."
Jun followed Pepper's gaze toward the center of the main lounge, and the faint, dull headache pulsing behind his temples immediately flared.
Sitting dead-center on the plush velvet sofa was Dylan.
To say Dylan was popular was an understatement; he was practically an institution. Rich, untouchable, and possessing a sharp, devastating beauty that made people lose their train of thought mid-sentence, Dylan was the undisputed prince of the university social ladder.
Tonight, he was dressed to remind everyone exactly where they stood beneath him. Over a soft, high-necked cream under-layer, Dylan wore an oversized black jacket densely encrusted with thousands of midnight sequins that caught the strobe lights with every slight shift of his shoulders. His hair was a cool, honeyed ash-brown, parted down the middle so feather-light strands fell across his forehead, framing feline, heavy-lidded eyes and a delicate ear lined with glittering silver cuff piercings. His lips—naturally full, painted with a faint berry tint—were curved into a faint, condescending line.
Surrounding the sofa were half a dozen varsity athletes and wealthy juniors, practically tripping over themselves to offer him fresh drinks or laugh far too loudly at whatever dry, cutting comment Dylan tossed their way. Dylan looked entirely unimpressed. He rested his chin against the pale arch of his curled fingers, exuding the kind of spoiled, dismissive boredom that only made the room clamor for his attention even harder.
Everyone wanted him. Half the campus was in love with him, and the other half envied him so fiercely it bordered on obsession.
"See that?" Thame murmured, nudging Jun's ribs with an elbow. "Now that’s an anomaly. Gorgeous, arrogant, and vicious enough to draw blood with a single glance. Bet you don’t have a formula for why he’s so mean."
"He is simply demonstrating textbook over-validated social hierarchy behavior," Jun stated flatly, deliberately tearing his gaze away from the glimmer of Dylan's sequined shoulder under the chandelier. "He knows people stare, so he weaponizes their validation to maintain dominance. It's statistically predictable."
"Predictable, he says," Pepper snorted into his beer, shaking his head. "You're unbelievable, Jun. The prettiest, most untouchable boy in school is sitting ten feet away, and you're cataloging him like a lab specimen."
"I'm treating him like someone who exists in a completely different social tax bracket and ecosystem," Jun countered reasonably, taking another defensive sip of his soda. "Which is why we should slip out the back before anyone realizes we don't belong here."
Before Pepper or Thame could answer, a piercing, two-finger whistle cut straight through the heavy bass.
Nano scrambled atop the glass coffee table, waving a half-empty bottle of tequila with a manic, drunken grin. The music abruptly cut down to a muffled pulse, leaving the crowded room buzzing with sudden, rowdy anticipation.
"Alright, listen up, you animals!" Nano yelled, sloshing liquor onto the floorboards. "Standard drinking games are officially dead for the night. We're clearing the hallway closet. It’s time for Seven Minutes in Heaven, and nobody gets to chicken out!"
A chaotic chorus of whoops and whistles erupted across the living room. Red Solo cups were raised high, beer splashing over sneakers as people began clearing a path toward the wide corridor leading to the ground-floor coat closet.
Jun immediately took a step backward toward the kitchen exit. "That’s my cue. I’m leaving."
"Not a chance," Thame laughed, his grip tightening like a vise around Jun’s shoulder as he dragged him forward into the fray. "You've spent four straight semesters dodging campus culture, Jun. Consider this mandatory sociological fieldwork."
"It’s not fieldwork, it’s a petri dish of communicable diseases," Jun hissed under his breath, desperately trying to plant his sneakers against the hardwood floor.
Pepper was right beside him, grinning maliciously as he steered Jun by his other elbow. "Come on, genius. It’s a rite of passage. If you get shoved in there with an engineering major, you two can discuss truss bridges in the dark. It’ll be great for your soul."
"I don't need my soul improved by a cabinet!"
Before Jun could wrench himself free from the grip of his two traitorous friends, they were dumped right into the front row of the circle forming in the wide hallway.
At the center of it all, Nano slammed an empty, wide-mouthed glass decanter onto a low side table. "Rules are standard! You drop a personal token in the jar—keys, rings, lighters, whatever. The first person draws blind. Whatever you pull out, that’s your partner for seven minutes. Door stays locked from the outside. What happens behind the coats is between you, God, and the soundproofing!"
The energy in the hallway was already fever-pitch, but it spiked into near-delirium when Dylan lazily rose from the velvet sofa.
The glittering sequins of his black jacket caught the amber lighting, sending sharp flecks of light dancing across the walls as he glided toward the circle. He looked impossibly sleek, the honey-ash fringe brushing against his brow, one hand casually resting in his trouser pocket. Every varsity athlete, wealthy heir, and social climber in the room instinctively straightened their spines, tracking Dylan's every step with hungry, undisguised anticipation.
Getting locked in the dark with Dylan was the golden ticket. Dylan was untouchable—he never went home with anyone, never gave out his private number, and cut down suitors with a flick of his wrist. The mere thought of having him trapped in a small, private space for seven uninterrupted minutes had half the guys in the room practically foaming at the mouth.
"You playing, Dylan?" Nano called out, his grin widening like a hyena's.
Dylan stopped at the edge of the circle, his plump, berry-tinted lips curling into a slow, haughty sneer. "Only because watching everyone fail at making a good impression is the only mildly entertaining thing in this house."
He reached up, the multiple silver cuffs on his ear catching the light as his pale fingers slipped a heavy, engraved silver ring off his thumb. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it into the decanter. It landed with a sharp, resonant clink.
A collective breath hitched in the room.
"Get in there, Jun," Pepper whispered, shoving Jun’s back so hard he stumbled a half-step into the center. Before Jun could protest, Pepper expertly reached into Jun’s hoodie pocket, snatched his cheap student ID lanyard, and dropped the metal clip right into the jar.
"Pepper, you bastard—" Jun snapped, rounding on him.
"Too late, nerd! Entry is finalized!" Nano bellowed over the cheering crowd. He shook the glass decanter vigorously, mixing the keys, rings, and lighters. "Since our guest of honor blessed us with his presence, Dylan draws first!"
The crowd leaned in, dead silent. Dylan stepped up to the table with effortless poise, not even bothering to glance at the sea of eager faces practically begging for eye contact. His heavy-lidded gaze was bored, almost pitying, as he reached his slender hand deep into the glass mouth.
His fingers stirred the metal contents for a brief, excruciating second before he pulled out an item and held it up between two manicured fingers.
Dangling in the air was a worn blue polyester lanyard, attached to a laminated plastic card bearing the university crest, a terrible passport photo, and the bold print: FACULTY OF ENGINEERING - JUN.
The room dropped into absolute, stunned silence.
For three whole seconds, nobody breathed. Then, a collective, agonized groan tore through the room like a wave.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" an athlete in the back barked.
"Who the hell is that?" someone else muttered, craning their neck. "The nerd in the grey hoodie? That lucky bastard!"
Dylan’s bored smirk vanished instantly. His brow knit together, his sharp feline eyes scanning the laminated card, then slowly flicking upward to where Jun was frozen in place, blinking behind his glasses. Dylan looked down at the frayed blue lanyard, then back at Jun’s faded sneakers and oversized sweatshirt, his expression shifting from mild disbelief to pure, icy offense.
"This is a joke, right?" Dylan drawled, his voice carrying clearly over the murmurs of the room. "Who let the TA into the game?"
"No refunds, prince!" Nano cackled, clapping his hands together. "The decanter has spoken! Hallway closet, right now! Seven minutes starts the second the latch drops!"
Before Jun could open his mouth to decline—to offer his turn to literally any of the drooling athletes currently glaring daggers into the side of his skull—Thame and Pepper gave him an enthusiastic shove from behind.
"Have fun, nerd," Thame wheezed, practically weeping with laughter.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Pepper added, pushing him forward.
Dylan was already being ushered toward the narrow oak door by a rowdy chorus of partygoers, his sequined jacket brushing against the doorframe as he was shoved inside with an indignant hiss. Jun was pushed in right after him, his shoulder colliding with Dylan's side.
"Wait, I really don't think—" Jun started, turning around.
Slam.
The heavy clunk of the outside latch engaged with a harsh, final thud.
This wasn’t a walk-in wardrobe. It was a literal recessed hallway cabinet—a narrow, built-in wooden compartment stripped of its shelves, barely four feet deep and ceiling-low. There was no standing upright; the moment they were shoved through the double doors, they tumbled together onto the dusty baseboard.
Jun hit the bottom first, his broad frame wedging uncomfortably against the rear paneled wall. With his long legs folded, knees bent up toward his chest to avoid knocking into the doors, he took up more than half the available floor space. Dylan was shoved in right behind him, his palms catching Jun’s heavy denim-clad thighs to keep from cracking his forehead against the wood.
The doors clicked shut. Outside, the muffled roar of the bass rattled the frame, accompanied by drunken laughter and someone drumming their fists against the veneer: "Seven minutes, pretty boy! Make it count!"
Inside, it was pitch-black, suffocating, and scented overwhelmingly of Dylan’s expensive perfume mixed with the coarse smell of aged cedar. The only light was a faint hairline sliver beneath the cabinet base, catching the glittering edge of Dylan’s sequined jacket.
Jun immediately flattened his back against the rear wall, holding his hands up defensively in the dark, palms open.
"Look," Jun exhaled, his voice practical, measured, and entirely unbothered by the cramped quarters. "I know this isn't an ideal situation for you. My friends thought it would be amusing to sabotage me, and clearly, you didn't intend to share a cabinet with a stranger. We have very limited kinetic clearance in here. So let's just sit completely still until the timer elapses. I won't touch you, you don't have to touch me, and we can both exit the moment Nano releases the latch. Total physical disengagement."
For two agonizing seconds, the only sound was the faint hum of their breathing.
Then came a sharp, icy intake of air.
"Excuse me?" Dylan’s voice cut through the dark. It wasn't the bored drawl from the sofa; it was razor-sharp, tight with wounded disbelief. "What did you just say?"
Jun adjusted his glasses where they sat crooked on his nose. "I said I'm not going to touch you. I'm being respectful."
"Respectful?" Dylan scoffed. The rustle of thousands of midnight sequins hissed in the tight compartment as Dylan shifted his weight forward on his knees. "You're being respectful?"
"Yes. In situations involving involuntary spatial confinement with an unacquainted peer, establishing clear physical boundaries is the standard protocol to prevent discomfort—"
"Shut up," Dylan snapped.
In the confined box, there was nowhere to move except forward. Dylan didn't just crawl closer—he scrambled directly onto Jun.
The weight hit Jun all at once: Dylan swinging his knees around Jun’s waist, straddling his thighs and settling squarely into Jun’s lap. The narrow walls gave them zero margin for error; Dylan’s chest pressed flush against Jun’s grey hoodie, his thighs bracketing Jun’s hips, the sequined sleeves scraping the cabinet's wooden sides with a dry, electric shiver. Even in the dark, the faint gleam of Dylan’s silver ear cuffs caught the floorboard light as he hovered inches from Jun's nose.
"Do you have any idea who I am?" Dylan whispered, his tone venomous, dripping with offended vanity. "There are forty guys out in that hallway who would give their right arm just to have me look in their direction. Half this campus is trying to get into my bed. And you're sitting in a closet acting like breathing the same air as me is a chore?"
"I didn't say it was a chore," Jun reasoned, his breath hitching slightly at the sudden, solid heat settled on his lap, though his tone remained stubbornly clinical. "I simply stated that you clearly had no interest in being paired with me. Statistically, you were visibly insulted when you pulled my ID card. Why would I attempt to initiate contact under those conditions?"
"Because it’s me!" Dylan snarled. His hands came up, grabbing two tight fistfuls of Jun’s oversized hoodie, hauling himself up higher until his face was practically brushing Jun's cheek. "You’re supposed to try! You’re supposed to lose your mind that you got lucky! Are you blind, or are you actually telling me you're not attracted to me?"
Jun stared into the dark, feeling Dylan's pulse racing right against his sternum.
"Physiologically speaking," Jun said evenly, "facial symmetry and high contrast features naturally trigger aesthetic appreciation, so objectively, no one would claim you lack appeal. But proximity doesn't mandate sexual engagement, Dylan."
Dylan let out a choked sound of pure outrage. "Did you just call me objectively symmetrical? You arrogant, plain-faced nerd—"
Dylan gripped Jun's collar harder, practically grinding down into his lap to force a reaction, furious that this quiet boy in a grey sweatshirt wasn't instantly crumbling under his touch.
Dylan didn't wait for another dry, textbook rebuttal.
He leaned down, cutting Jun off by crashing their mouths together in a kiss that was all sharp teeth, bruising pressure, and wounded pride. It wasn't tender; it was a deliberate conquest. Dylan took full advantage of the leverage he had perched on Jun's thighs, his small, sharp hands sliding up from the worn cotton of Jun's hoodie to tangle fiercely into the short, thick hair at the nape of Jun's neck, tilting Jun's head back against the rear wall to keep him pinned.
A muffled, surprised hum vibrated in Jun's throat. His hands, which had been raised defensively to avoid touching Dylan, instinctively dropped, catching the narrow wooden floorboards on either side of his hips to anchor himself against Dylan's sudden, aggressive weight.
Dylan parted his lips, deepening the kiss with a needy, possessive hunger, sucking on Jun's bottom lip until it stung. The cool metal of Dylan's silver rings dragged against Jun's jaw, leaving electric lines in their wake as he rolled his hips down—deliberate, slow, and devastatingly firm—grinding his pelvis flush against Jun's lap through the thick friction of their jeans.
Jun's entire body went rigid. The breath tore from his chest in a choked, uneven gasp against Dylan's mouth, his fingers curling tight into the dust of the cabinet floor.
Dylan felt the shift instantly. A dark, vicious little thrill bloomed in his chest. Emboldened, Dylan broke the kiss just enough to trail his open, damp mouth along the rough edge of Jun's jaw down to the sensitive dip beneath his ear, his hips maintaining that steady, friction-heavy roll. Every slide of denim against denim was agonizingly hot in the enclosed box, the air growing thick, stifling, and heavy with the sharp scent of cedar and their mingled, hitching breath.
Underneath him, Jun was losing his battle with logic. The broad chest beneath Dylan's hands began to heave, the heat radiating off Jun's skin scorching through his sweatshirt. A low, gravelly groan scraped up from Jun's throat—a sound entirely devoid of academic calm—as his hips twitched upward on pure, involuntary reflex, meeting Dylan's rolling rhythm with a blunt, undeniable hardness of his own.
Dylan's breath caught, a shiver wracking through him at the feel of it—the solid, unmistakable evidence of Jun's body betraying every clinical word he'd just spoken. His own hips stuttered, then pressed down harder, a hungry, desperate grind that pulled a broken sound from deep in his chest.
"Fuck," Dylan breathed against Jun's skin, the word hot and wet, before his mouth found the corded tension of Jun's neck. He licked a stripe up the salty column of his throat, then bit down—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make Jun jerk beneath him, a full-body shudder that Dylan felt everywhere.
That shudder seemed to crack something open inside Jun. The last fraying thread of his restraint snapped clean.
Jun's hands finally left the floor. They landed on Dylan's hips, fingers digging into the sequined fabric with a grip that was almost bruising—then slid lower, palms flattening over the curve of Dylan's ass, squeezing hard enough to pull a sharp, startled gasp from Dylan's throat. Jun's breath was coming in ragged, uneven pants now, his chest heaving against Dylan's, and when Dylan rolled his hips again—a slow, filthy drag that had them both gasping—Jun's head fell back against the wall with a dull thud, exposing more of his throat.
But he didn't stay passive. Not anymore.
Jun's hands began to move—roaming, greedy, sliding up under the hem of Dylan's sequined jacket and the thin shirt beneath, palms hot and rough against the bare skin of Dylan's waist. His fingers dug into the dip of Dylan's sides, thumbs pressing hard into the sharp jut of his hipbones, and Dylan whimpered—actually whimpered—into Jun's mouth, his hips jerking involuntarily at the contact.
"God—" Jun's voice cracked, raw and wrecked, but it wasn't a protest anymore. It was a confession. "Dylan—"
Dylan pulled back just enough to look at him, and the sight sent another bolt of heat straight to his groin. Jun's glasses were completely askew, one lens catching the dim amber light. His lips were parted, swollen and slick, his pupils blown so wide they'd nearly swallowed the dark brown of his irises. A faint red mark was already blooming on his neck where Dylan's teeth had been.
But it was Jun's hands that made Dylan's breath stutter—the way they were moving now, no longer hesitant, no longer defensive. They slid up Dylan's ribcage, fingers spreading wide, and when Jun's thumbs brushed deliberately over the hard peaks of Dylan's nipples through the thin fabric, Dylan's entire body jolted like he'd been electrocuted.
"Ah—fuck—" The sound tore out of Dylan's throat, high and needy and completely undignified. His back arched, pressing his chest harder into Jun's palms, and his hips ground down in a sharp, desperate circle.
Jun made a low, rough sound—something between a groan and a growl—and did it again. His thumbs circled slowly, deliberately, dragging over the sensitive buds until they were peaked and aching, until Dylan was shaking above him, his breath coming in short, broken gasps.
"Jun—" Dylan's voice was barely a whisper, stripped of all its earlier venom and arrogance. His fingers tangled tighter in Jun's hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat again, and Dylan attacked it with his mouth—sucking, biting, laving his tongue over the frantic pulse point until Jun was shaking beneath him, his hips jerking up in short, desperate thrusts that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with raw, animal need.
Jun's hands never stopped moving. They slid down Dylan's sides, fingers hooking into the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer, harder, and Dylan moaned into Jun's neck—a high, needy sound that he couldn't have stopped if he'd tried. One of Jun's hands slipped around to the small of Dylan's back, palm flat and hot, pressing him down into the grind, while the other found Dylan's hip again, gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints.
"Tell me again," Dylan panted against Jun's neck, his own voice shot to hell, his hips never stopping that maddening roll. "Tell me again how you're not attracted to me."
Jun's answer was a groan—low, guttural, torn from somewhere deep in his chest—and his hands sliding up under Dylan's shirt again, this time pushing the fabric higher, baring more skin. His palms dragged up Dylan's stomach, over his ribs, and when his fingers found Dylan's nipples again—bare this time, no fabric between them—he rolled them between his thumb and forefinger with a rough, unpracticed urgency that made Dylan cry out, his head falling forward against Jun's shoulder.
"N-no—" Jun's voice was wrecked, barely coherent, his hips bucking up helplessly. "I'm not—I can't—"
"You can't what?" Dylan breathed against his ear, then caught the lobe between his teeth, tugging sharply. His own hands slid down Jun's chest, nails dragging over the cotton of his hoodie, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat beneath his palm. "Can't stop? Can't think? Can't remember all those big words you were just using?"
Dylan pulled back slightly, his chest heaving, his fingers reaching up to hook under the bridge of Jun's crooked frames. With a deliberate, teasing flick of his wrist, Dylan pulled the glasses clean off Jun's face.
Jun blinked, stunned, his vision blurring in the close dark as his bare face was left completely exposed.
Dylan let out a soft, breathy sound that was entirely too fond, his thumb smoothing over the high, sharp edge of Jun's cheekbone.
"Look at you," Dylan murmured, his voice a sultry, wrecked purr. "Hiding behind textbooks and wire frames all semester... you're actually dangerous, nerd. You're so damn handsome like this. Completely different from that boring nerd pretending he didn't want to touch me."
Dylan pocketed the frames into his own trousers, leaning down until their lips were barely brushing, his breath hot and taunting against Jun’s parted mouth. "So tell me, pretty boy. Still want to recite formulas?"
Jun stared up at him through the dim amber glow, his chest expanding in one massive, trembling inhale. Every wall of logic, every ounce of academic restraint, and every rule he had lived by collapsed into absolute ruin under Dylan's smirk.
"Fuck it," Jun rasped.
Before Dylan could even process the words, Jun surged upward and completely devoured him.
It was nothing like the earlier kisses—no hesitation, no defensive postures, no calculated restraint. Jun’s hands slammed into Dylan’s waist, yanking him down hard, his mouth crashing over Dylan's in a desperate, bruising hunger that knocked the breath clean out of Dylan's lungs. Dylan melted into it with a broken moan, hands frantically fisting into Jun's hoodie as Jun took total, ruthless control of the space, kissing him breathless until the cabinet rattled on its hinges.
His hands slid down to Dylan's ass, gripping with bruising force, pulling Dylan's hips down into a rough, relentless friction that had Dylan keening straight into his throat. Jun's mouth broke away only to trail hot, open-mouthed teeth along the pale line of Dylan's jaw, biting down on his collarbone until Dylan let his head drop back with a ruined cry.
"That's it," Dylan gasped, his voice trembling and wrecked. "That's—fuck, Jun—"
Jun's answer was a low, possessive growl against his skin, his hands roaming everywhere—under the shirt, over the curve of Dylan's hips, slipping into the waistband of his jeans. When Jun’s mouth latched onto Dylan's sensitive skin again, sucking hard enough to leave a deep, undeniable brand, Dylan's hips jerked so violently the cabinet shelf creaked.
"Jun—Jun, wait—" Dylan's voice cracked, his hands flying to Jun's thick hair, desperately tugging him back. "Wait, we—fuck, we can't—not here—"
Jun stilled beneath him, chest heaving like a furnace, eyes dark, blown, and completely dazed. Without his glasses, his bare face was raw, devastating, and thoroughly debauched.
"Not here," Dylan repeated, his voice shaking even as a victorious, trembling smile pulled at his lips. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Jun's, their breath mingling in the sweltering, dark heat. "But don't you dare think this is over."
Jun swallowed hard, his large hands still locked possessively around Dylan's hips as if refusing to let go.
"Okay," he rasped. "Okay."
Dylan smiled—slow, sharp, and utterly triumphant—and pressed one last, biting kiss to Jun's swollen mouth before pulling back.