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â„ Best Friend/Neighbor!Chris x Reader (f) â 2.4k
â„ Hurt/comfort, mutual pining, smut with feelings
â„ He knows you. A lot more than you know.
He knows when you have the blues.
Your car enters the driveway across the street. You kill the engine and turn off the headlights, but youâre not leaving the car. Youâre not looking for something eitherâhe observes no movement from his kitchen window. Youâre just sitting there, perfectly still and your eyes probably closed. Over time, heâs managed to break it down into three levels, but he needs to see your face to determine which one it is.
Level one is code sky. Either because itâs Sunday night, or there is some minor annoyance you refuse to let go of. Nothing a good nightâs sleep wonât solve.
Level two is code azure. Someone with a high social rank is involved. A family member, a close friend, or worst case scenario, your boss. You will need to extensively talk it out, and he will knock some sense into you. Problem solved.
Level three is code midnight. Something drastic has happened. He has observed only two instances in five years, immediately praying to every deity he knows to never witness it again.Â
He knows when you have the blues. All shades of it.
â„ Read the full story here.
(No ads, no signups, clicking is enough â for content protection only)
fluff. chan x fem!reader.
no content warnings. unless you're repulsed (??) by sickly sweet boyfriendf!chris. in which case, look away.
"You alright?" he asks, ducking below the table to join you. You're sucking on the tip of your finger as you shoot evil eyes at the deceptively violent shard of broken glass. You'd thought you were being careful.
His fingers wrap around your wrist. "Told you to wait," he scolds. It's gentle.
That's how he was with you.
"Lemme see," your boyfriend says, pulling your finger from your lips with his delicate grip on your wrist. He inspects the tiny spot at the tip of your pointer finger until it beads red again. Then he wraps his lips around it.
"Do you think I'll live?"
His eyes lift to yours before they crinkle a little with amusement. Then your finger is freed. "Just," he says. "Lucky for me." His thumb strokes against your wrist in barely-there brushes. It's mindless; a common habit.
You've forgotten about your near-death experience by the time you're both under the covers, ready for sleep an hour or so later. Instead, you're focused on the tiny kisses he's pressing to your palm... then to each fingerâsoft, warm lips to your chilled skin.
His frequent treatment for your chronic cold hands often started this way. Like he could kiss the cold away in the same way someone might kiss a grazed knee for a child.
When he's done, you turn overâletting him tuck himself against your back the way he always does. His breath tickles your neck, another offering of warmth.
You grasp his hand to your chest, locking his arm around you.
"All good?" he asks, voice heavy as sleep closes in.
It seemed to come naturally to him, the checking inâthe taking care. He was a giver, your boyfriend. Receiving came a little less naturally. He'd often duck his head when you offered him some of that gentleness in return, averting his eyes. It helped to whisper the words into the darkness at moments like this.
"I love you," you breathe, his knuckles brushing your lips. "So much."
His lips curve against your neck. And then, one last oh-so-gentle kiss.
jade iâm gonna throw up this is insane u are insane how did i go completely batshit within the span of these words alone? i love the way u write tenderness and care so very much :( i love the way u write in general. thank u sm for thisâand thank u sm for the accompanying visuals as well i havenât stopped thinking about this chris since first seeing him
HARD LAUNCH | minho
drabble. established relationship.
âDo you guys have french fries?â
âMinho.â you hiss, nudging his shin beneath the table.
He cocks an eyebrow before turning back to the waitress. She smiles softly, laughing at the two of you.Â
âWe do, yes.âÂ
âWonderful,â Minho grins, âWeâll have a side order of those too.â
âPerfect. Iâll put that in for you guys and check back soon.â The waitress says happily, collecting the menus and scurrying off to tend to another table.
As soon as sheâs out of earshot, you groan, covering your face with your hands.Â
âWhy would you do that?âÂ
Minho chuckles, shakes his head probably. You wouldnât know since you canât see him.
âDo what?â
Still using one hand to cover your eyes, you pull the other away, pointing an accusatory finger in his direction. âI told you Iâd be fine. Whyâd you have to ask for french fries? Thatâs so embarrassing.â
âLiterally nothing.â you mumble, returning your other hand to your face. It only serves to muffle your voice more. âThis is humiliating. Weâre in a nice restaurant and you ordered french fries because of me. Oh God. Iâm going to hide in the bathroom.â
A good choice, you think. Minhoâs in god damn slacks for crying out loud. Every second that passes is another second that your pity order of french fries is probably spending in the deep fryer, right next to the lobster tail and shrimp tartar that everyone else has a mature enough palate to eat.Â
Before you can move to get up and make a beeline for the toilet, you feel Minhoâs fingers wrap around your wrists, pulling until your hands give way to your face. You crack one eye open and then the other, his amused expression coming into view.
âWhatâs worse than ordering french fries is me knowing youâll be hungry if there isnât something familiar for you on the table.â he says pointedly, like your reason for feeling embarrassed is unnecessary. âBesides, who said I didnât want any?â
âMin, look around,â you say, turning your head to glance at the room, âThe napkins are cloth. Cloth! Nicer than my bed sheets. We canât be seen eating french fries in a place like this. I told you Iâd beââ
ââfine. Because as long as youâre here I can do anything.â Minho recites, word for word, cutting you off.Â
Heat rushes to your cheeks immediately, spreads like wildfire when Minho smiles and leans on to his forearms. His button up tightens over his shoulders, hugs his arms, sleeves rolled up to the elbow.
âJust like how youâre doing this for me, let me do something for you.âÂ
You and Minho have been seeing each other for four months now, but even at that, youâre still not used to his straightforwardness.Â
Seeing Minho has been nothing short of a dream. What started as just interacting at parties because of mutual friends eventually gave way to him asking for your number, and then hanging out separate from your friend group, until one day he plucked up the courage to ask you out. Since then, the two of you have been inseparable, always spending every free moment together. Laughing, talking, even sometimes just existing in the same space. Itâs nice. So, so nice.
âShouldnât I be the one blushing right now?â Minho teases.
âShut up.â you say, tearing your gaze away from him.
He laughs again before reaching out and placing a hand on top of yours. Soft. Minho is unbelievably soft.
Itâs the thing you love the most about him. But more than that, more than the delicate skin of his fingers or the brush of his lips against yours, you love the softness of his eyes.
Minho is hard to crack, his emotions shrouded most of the time. Not that he wants to be, but because thatâs just how he operates, or so youâve learned.Â
But despite all of that, his eyes are a dead giveaway. When heâs looking at pictures of his cats, or staring at you from across the room, or right now as steaming plates of some of the finest cuisine Seoul has to offer are being placed in front of him.
âHoly shit.â he whispers, staring in awe as the waitress walks away from the table.
âIs it rude for me to take a picture? Like, would anyone get offended?âÂ
Minho scoffs. âBabe, I would be offended if you didnât document this right now.â
âOkay, okay,â you laugh, pulling out your phone.
âDo I get to be in it this time?â
You look up to find Minho pouting across the table. Another thing about your relationshipâ nobody knows yet.Â
Youâve been teasing about the possibility of a boyfriend for two months now, you and Minho only having made it official about a few weeks ago. The most anyone has been able to see are carefully positioned photos where only his hand or other inconspicuous parts of him are visible.
Itâs not that you donât want people to know. Itâs just hard with his job and all. Privacy reasons.
"For someone who likes to claim that people won't give me a hard time because of your fame you sure do seem eager to test that theory."
Minho smiles mischievously. âWell, yes. But Iâm also waiting because I want to show you off.â
You busy yourself with opening your camera app to stop the heat creeping up your neck. âYeah, yeah. You big flirt.â
Minho laughs but obliges, scoots back to let you get a good few pictures of the food.Â
Photos arenât enough to do it justice, though. So you opt for a video, scanning the table with your camera, only the bottom half of his torso visible across the table. A silk white button up only three-fourths of the way buttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows.
Minho watches silently, his face unreadable. And then, at the last second, he dips his head down so fast you donât even realize whatâs happening until his face is fully in the shot, a shit-eating grin pushing his eyes into crescent moons.
âMin!â you laugh, ending the recording.Â
He chuckles, straightening back out. âPost it.â
âAre you insane?â
âNo, but Iâm going to be if you donât post it and then eat with me.â He nudges the plate of french fries towards you. âCome on.â
âYou really want me to post it? Youâre sure?â
Minho smiles. Soft. âNever been more sure about anything in my life.â he says, neither of you willing to address the weight of his words.
He grabs your hand, plants a kiss on the back of your knuckles. The resulting flip of your stomach is enough to give you the courage to hit post and tuck your phone away.
Whatever happens, youâll deal with it later. Together.
â stars flare brightest in the absence of light, and you see his clearer than day.
wordsă»6.4k
pairingă»han jisung x female reader
genresă»college!au, friends with benefits to lovers, snowed in trope, smut, MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS THAT INTERACT WILL BE BLOCKED, angst, ANGST, you have been warned, hurt/comfort, i can't write normal fluff to save my life, happy ending!!!, semi-slow burn
warningsă»depictions of insomnia, recurring nightmares, graphic violence, character death (in the nightmare), fears of abandonment and falling in love, alcohol consumption, humans helping each other heal. smut warnings under the cut
playlistă»stay - acoustic by jonah bakeră»all of me by big gigantică»babydoll (speed) by ari abdulă»oasis by exoă»volcano by han
a/nă»hi, here's my second installment of winter falls. writing this was immensely challenging and twice as meaningful, so feedback would be greatly appreciated. thank you to my may for being so fucking instrumental in piecing together this rollercoasterâthis one is for you, i love you. thanks to my sahar for everything, always and forever. and thanks to all of you for being here. happy new year âĄ
smut warningsă»spitplay, unprotected piv, please practice safe sex!!!, car sex, dirty talk, jisung's dick game is kinda crazy, squirting, lots of aftercare
Every time Jisung closes his eyes, he sees somebodyâs back.
Itâs leaving. Traipsing somewhere he canât follow. He tries to chase itâhe always does, he never learnsâbut the premise doesnât so much as surface before the ghosts circling around his ankles go for his throat instead. They snare him by the shoulders, force him to his knees, slam his forehead into the permafrost hard enough to break bone. They make sure the next time he tries to move will be the last.
So he remains, keeled over in the cold, until tearwater clings to his lower lashes in small icicles. Until bloodstained snow coats his lips like the manifestation of a curse. Until the back has disappeared.
Who does it belong to? Heâs left to wonder. Where is it going?
Why canât I follow?
Then he wakes up.
No longer does he lay awake for hours afterwards, scouring the dreamâs every frame for his answers.
Now, he tosses and turns in clammy sheets until his exhaustion wins.
Now, he welcomes sleep like a miracle granted by some pitying god.
You see him.
Through a living room packed with red-faced partygoers and dissected by oscillating strobe lights, albeit, but you see him anyways.Â
Jisung can barely make out the rest of your faceâhe blames the lighting, or the soju, or bothâbut your eyes alone turn him to glass. Not a fancy vase through which the world distorts, but a simple pane that puts him and his ghosts on full display.
He hopes you like horror movies.
Felix knows you, because of course he does, and Jisung has never been happier to call the extroverted Australian his friend than when you come over to say hi. You stumble out of the crowd all smudged makeup and sweaty skin, your figure hugged by a short black dress with two diamond-shaped openings just above your hips, your glossy lips curved in a drunken smile. Jisung immediately wants it against his mouth.
Instead, it disappears behind his friend as you pull him into a quick hug. A few wisps of your hair dust over Jisungâs arm, momentarily replacing the smells of grease and vodka with cherry blossoms and vanilla.
âLix, hey!â
âDarling, itâs good to see you! Feels like itâs been ages.â
âI know, right? How are you? How is everything?â
âGood, thank you. Just happy the semesterâs over.â
âIâll drink to that.â Then you go to lift your drink and discover thin air in its place. âOr I wonât. Whoops.â
This prompts Jisungâs first contribution to the conversationâand his first effortless laugh in a long while.
âEventful night, huh?â
He meets your gaze from all of two feet away this time, and his knees buckle under him. That gaze, fuck. So clear and true, like a prism of glass refracting light into a rainbow. He would let you refract him a thousand times over if he had any light to give.
âMaybe,â you giggle. âSeems Iâm a little too happy the semesterâs over.â
âWanna not get a drink to celebrate?â
Your expression flickers. Not in a bad way, more like you hadnât expected him to ask so soonâor for yourself to have your answer so quickly.
A strobe light catches right under your eye and refracts the color in your blushing face. A rainbow.
âIâd like that.â
He tilts his head towards the kitchen. You give Felixâs elbow a light squeeze before moving past him; he gives Felix a glimpse of his growing smile before falling into step behind you. The blonde shakes his head, throws back the rest of his beer, then swivels at the sound of someone calling his name from across the foyer.
Felix will get drunk enough to forget the sight of you leading Jisung up the stairs, two bottles of pink lemonade tucked under your arm. Nothing stronger, as promised.
Jisung asks his question an entire minute after he intends to. âWhere are we going, by the way?â
âSomewhere I can see your pretty face without having to squint,â you reply, and his stomach tumbles like a schoolboy with a valentine.
You donât stop at the second floor. Instead, you nudge open a door Jisung swears just materialized to his left and emerge into the night air.
Itâs warm for December, but heâs still met with chilly winds licking down the sides of his neck. Thatâs not the only reason he shudders, though. Below his feet, he finds a metal platform akin to that of a fire escape. Above his head, a staircase that looks one forceful step away from dropping off the side of the building.
You turn towards it.Â
In a hurry, he sputters, âIâm, uhâIâm not sure about this.â
Jisung heaves a sigh. It seems saying no to you is an impossible task.
Youâre right, though. The iron rungs are surprisingly rigid beneath his feet, and the two of you make it to the roof with no trouble. He does stumble when you pull him up onto the gravel, but itâs intentional, a purposeful blunder to have you closer. To snag another glimpse of that blush, another trace of that floral vanilla.
âSorry,â he whispers almost directly upon your lips. And that earns him all three.
The next hour evades him for the most part, and Jisung is pissed about it. Heâs with the woman of his dreams under a sky so clear itâs almost lustrous and heâs too shitfaced to recollect when he gave you his hoodie to wear; what you said that made his lungs capsize with how hard he laughed; how you ended up so close to each other, your legs strewn over his lap, his hands tracing over your thighs.
Thankfully, he remembers a few things. He remembers how frighteningly easy you are to talk to; he remembers your habit of smacking his stomach when you get flustered; he remembers you getting flustered a lot. He remembers the timbres of your different laughs and how your stunning features crinkle with each. He remembers feeling like a pane of glass in front of you, just like he had downstairs, and he remembers liking it, somehow. Liking the way you see through him, the way you allow him to just exist as he is. Liking the way you acknowledge his ghosts with such nonchalance, inviting them over for tea and biscuits.
He wants to remember everything about you.
Itâs not often he wants to remember anything.
Eventually, your conversation comes to a natural close. In its absence, Jisung notices that the alcoholic sludge in his brain has largely diffused; with it, the rumbling bass of the party below. The full moon hangs at its highest point, blanketing the two of you with anticipatory silence, nudging you towards the only topic youâve yet to breach.
He meets your gaze again, from all of two inches away this time, and his insides twist.
âYouâre still drunk, arenât you?â
You blink at him, not following. Then he leans his forehead against yours, lets his eyes flicker to your mouth with such unbridled want that youâre instantly dizzyâand no longer confused.
Regret pools in your eyes moments before they close. âYes, I think so.â
Your lips are so, so close that he can feel the air shift between you when they move, can feel the soft warmth emanating from them. Jisung pulls away before he does anything stupid.
You do the stupid thing for him.
You push his shoulders to the plaster behind him, push yourself onto his lap with a swing of your body and a slotting of your legs on either side of him.Â
The plush of your thighs hugging his hips, the curves of your breasts pressed against his chest, Jisung tries to stare up at you, perplexed, aroused. But youâre so close that he canât, so he settles with whispering upon the underside of your chin, âwhat are youââ
âGimme your lemonade.â
The authoritative words come out in a slurred haze, and he all but hastens to oblige.Â
You pluck the plastic bottle from his wavering grasp. His empty hand hovers as if uncertain where to go. But matters as trivial as hand placement drop off his mindâs precipice as he watches you unscrew the cap, the slope of your neck illuminated by spindly moonlight, and without thinking he pushes his hands beneath the hem of yourâhisâhoodie.
The skin of your waist is warm and smooth where his fingertips are cold and calloused, the juxtaposition unimportant in your reciprocal desires to touch and be touched.
âOpen,â you murmur.
His jaw goes slack, firstly from pure disbelief. Then, obedience. The dark locks that obstruct his vision of you fall away as his head meets the brick half-wall behind him, as if the midnight breeze itself mandated their removal.
You pour some of the pink liquid past Jisungâs parted lips. Stray rivulets slip down his cheek and vanish beneath his neckline. You break eye contact to follow their path with dilated pupils and fluttering lashes. With unadulterated desire.
He swallows, gently, and feels the sweet substance surround his tonsils.
He swallows, forcefully, when you wrap your lips around the bottle, the plastic still slathered in his spit.
The swig you take is long, deep. Your throat bobs and your eyes close as if youâre savoring a finely-aged nectar. Then your lips are popping off the opening with a soft thwock, leaving a thick strand of saliva to suspend, suspend, suspend until the very second itâs about to drop, which is when you collect the residue with a deft swipe of your tongue.
âA placeholder,â you breathe, and Jisungâs head careens. A shared bottle. An indirect kiss.
âYouâre a monster,â he croaks.
You giggle and lean down, curling a hand around his cheek, pressing a wet kiss to his Adamâs apple.
âTomorrow, if weâre both soberâŠâ
One, two, three pecks up the length of his jaw.
â...and you still remember my addressâŠâ
A suckle to the lobe of his ear.
â...you can kiss me, for real.â
A trembling breath.
âAnd then some.â
Jisung moans, loudly.
Thankfully, he remembers a few things.
He shows up at your place shortly after sunset the next day. You swing open the door, your face already alight with your world-ending smile.
âHi.â
âHey.â
Then heâs kissing you like a man famished.
Jisung learns to love your back, that night. He loves its dips and curves, loves its rise and fall. Loves how it arches into him, how it looks drenched in his cum. Itâs the back of his dreams.
The back in his dreams keeps walking.
Jisung has never liked winter.
He has never liked its winds, whispering woefully as if mourning something unnamed and unseen. He has never liked its palette, whitewashing the world as if refracting a rainbow in reverse.
He has never liked cracking open his eyes and seeing the scenery of his nightmare outside his window. Nor does he like trudging over the sleet as if weighed down by the same ghosts that break him time and time again in his dreamscape. They love winter.Â
And this winter, he swears, is the bitterest yet. On the nights when heâs allowed to sleep, the nightmare comes in such sharp relief that he thinks heâd rather anything else, the ghosts meaner, the blood redder, the silhouette slower. Itâs an act of mercy when heâs still awake by the time bleached sunlight perforates the curtains, resting upon his salted cheeks and balled fists.
This winter, it is not just dislike that he feels towards the gray windsâitâs hatred. A maelstrom of loathing so large and dark that Jisung no longer knows where itâs headed or what itâs directed to. Or who.
When winter break comes to an end, heâs probably the only person whoâs happy about it.
His friends certainly arenât, looking like a line of angry nutcrackers with their folded arms and thunderous faces standing outside Greem Cafe.
Jisung calls out a greeting as he jogs towards them, and cue the grumbling.
âWhat is there to smile about? Enlighten us.â Thatâs Hyunjin. âI have to deal with four finals and three essays in the next five days and this guy is smiling.â
âHeâs accepted his fate, I reckon.â Thatâs Felix. âWe should do the same, boys. Let ourselves down easy, yâknow?â
âNo, no, heâs smiling because he remembered to bring me his chem notes.â Thatâs Jeongin. âYou did, right? Please say you did.â
Jisung is stunned into silence. âCan I not be happy to see my friends?â
He turns towards the blonde with puzzled eyes. Heâd been under the impression the study session would comprise just them four.
âWho?â
Felixâs response falters on his tongue when he catches sight of something in the distance, and his face changes in a way Jisungâs seen before.
âLook behind you.â Felix shuffles past him, raising his voice to shout, âyo!â
Jisung glances away from the newcomer as quickly as he sees her. Itâs not until his eyes pivot to the fire hydrant across the street that he processes her identity.
In one second flat, his mind clutters full. He thinks back to that party, when all it took was the sight of your smile for him to theorize you were the most exquisite thing ever made. He thinks back to the next evening, when he kissed you and verified his hypothesis. He thinks back to what followed and would continue to follow in the few days that remained before break: entwined tongues and emblazoned hickeys, whitened knuckles and whiny praise, snapping hips and shaking bedframes.
This winter, Jisung swears, is the bitterest yet.
But seeing you, the scarf wound multiple times around your neck doing nothing to hide your gorgeous smile, feels like catching a fragment of summer in his frozen hands.
âThank god,â Felix groans before embracing you. Collapsing on you, more like. âIâm saved.â
You reach around to pat the boy on the back, your eyes brimming with laughter. âLower your expectations, please. I did well on one exam.â
âYou aced the midterm. That automatically makes you a rocket scientist,â Felix corrects, his voice muffled into the shoulder of your coat. A few beats of silence pass. Then, âthis is comfy.â
âOkay, okay, letâs go get some caffeine in you,â you giggle. âWe have a lot of ground to cover today.â
Felix straightens up sleepily. And sadly. âSuperb.â
Jisung hangs back as you introduce yourself to Hyunjin and Jeongin. He doesnât even notice his growing smile until youâre standing directly in front of him and for the first time in three weeks thereâs the smell of cherry blossoms in the air and a rainbow shining on his face again.
âHi,â he offers.
âHey,â you reply.
Hyunjin is the one to shatter the prolonged silence that follows. âAre you guys betrothed?â
It takes Jisung two and a half hours to talk to you again. At that point in the afternoon, Felix is napping on the second practice test youâve given him; Hyunjin has downed three shots of pure espresso and is currently viewing his screen with concerning intensity; Jeongin is at another table on a quiet Zoom call with his chemistry T.A., Jisungâs notes clutched to his chest like a life vest. And youâre leaning back against your seat opposite to him, scrolling through your phone in what he presumes to be a well-deserved study break. As good a time as any.
He opens up his texts with you. His fingers fly across the keyboard.
Jisung:
do you have plans after this?
Your eyes stutter to the top of your screen, linger there for a moment, and lock onto Jisungâs from across the table.
He presses his lips into a thin line to suppress his smile. You let yours spill over in full form, and with it comes a soft giggle that would be worth getting his number fucking blocked just to hear one more time.
Three gray dots appear before elongating into a prompt response.
Y/N:
I was gonna ask you the same thingâŠ
Heâs the one who laughs this time. Fuck, youâre cute. Youâre so cute.
Jisung:
can i take you to dinner?
Y/N:
Yes, Iâd love that :)
Y/N:
When should we leave?
Jisung:
9?
Y/N:
Sounds good~
Jisung:
cool
Jisung:
itâs a date
Y/N:
Itâs a date!
Y/N:
Excited đ
With that, you put your phone face down and return to work, though your lips remain privately upturned. Jisung wants to kiss them again.
He also wants to turn you into a mess on his cock again.
Or both.
He doesnât get much studying done after that thought surfaces.
Jisung:
me too <3
When nine oâclock rolls around, you and Jisung begin cleaning up your work stations in near-perfect simultaneity. Thereâs confusion written all over Hyunjinâs and Jeonginâs faces as they watch you swing your backpacks over your shouldersâbut Felixâs expression is a blank slate as he sips from his macchiato. Your ingenuity isnât the only reason he invited you today.
He steps into the freezing night feeling warm all over.
âYou know what I realized?â You say as you walk towards his SUV.
âWhat did you realize?â
âWeâve never had a sober conversation before. Can we change that tonight?â
Jisung has broken hearts before.
Thereâs no euphemistic way to describe his tendency to abuse the sensitive organs, to wring them out and throw them away like irrelevant trash. To juggle and drop them with a sheepish laugh like theyâre nothing more than props in a circus act.
He doesnât do it to save himself or his partners from getting hurt or any self-ingratiating bullshit like that. Itâs for himself, all for himself. All to unload his balls and his mind for fifteen blissful seconds.Â
Thereâs blood on his hands. He never cared to wash it off.
Except you are the one asking for his heart this time around, a dash of hope in your smile as you do so, and he thinks it would be his lifeâs greatest honor to be discarded by you.
âSure,â he answers.
He doesnât even last until heâs inside the car.
Your back meets the door to the passengerâs seat, guided there by his hands on your hips. From millimeters away he watches your surprise morph into understanding, then darken into lust.
âI like when we donât talk, though.â
Itâs the most annoying thing in the world to remove so many layers in such a cramped space.
Combined, your clothing forms a tower high enough to block out the driverâs window completely. An unnecessary blockade.
The glass fogs up anyways.
âFuck, Ji, yes, right there, oh my god.â
You have your legs spread open and the back of your neck digging into the cupholder on the door. Itâs not comfortable. Youâre too busy getting fucked open to care.
Jisung detaches his lips from your neck to ask, âhere, baby?â
The head of his cock hits that gummy spot again, harder, sweeter. You convulse, your hand scrambling for purchase in his raven locks.
âYes, yes, yes, donât stop, please.â
Please. The word plays over in his fuzzy mind.
It seems saying no to you is an impossible task.
His cock slips out of you and you lament the loss of contact with a high wail.
âW-whyâdâwhereâd you go?â
He canât help but chuckle at how incoherent youâve become. He cradles the back of your head with a tender hand and lowers your upper body onto the leather seat, adjusting himself to your new elevation.
âRight here, beautiful. Didnât go anywhereâpromiseââÂ
He expels the final word through gritted teeth as he slams into you again, and the new angle is glorious. Your bodies keen in flawless harmony. Profanities tumble from his lips in a steady stream before they turn back into syllables.
âWould never go anywhere. Would never leave without making this pretty pussy cream like it deservesâholy fucking shit, baby.â
You clench around him at his words and then heâs setting a new, relentless rhythm, rocking the whole vehicle with every hearty smack of his hips against yours, your wet walls squeezing him so dreamily he thinks he sees nirvana with every thrust.
Youâre enjoying it just as much, if the bubbles of spit in the corner of your mouth are any indication, and Jisung is viciously proud to be the cause. Unbelievably lucky to feel your breasts jiggling under his chest and your nails digging into the back of his neck.
âGood?â He whispers, and you nod blissfully.
âSoâgood, Ji, so fucking good. Your cock is perfect, fuck, I canât evenâcanât even think.â
âYouâre the perfect one. Canât believe how well your cunt takes me, shit. Itâs like it was fucking made for this.â
âIt was,â you breathe, and he nearly shoots his load into you at this alone. âIt was, it wasâoh, god, I thinkâthink Iâm gonna comeââ
âDo it,â he rasps. âCome for me. Come on this cock and itâs yours.â
âR-really?â
âReally.â
âThen, I will. Iâll come on your cockâmake it mine. Need it so fucking bad, Iâm so fucking close, ohâpleaseââ
He anchors himself in place with a hand against the windowsill and the other travels down your body to rub fast, tight circles into your clit. You let out a wanton, prolonged moan, tilt your head back to expose him to your fluttering throat. And then youâre pulling his lips onto yours again, and the following kiss is sloppy beyond belief, the kind that can only antedate the happiest of endings.
âMy cock,â you sigh into his mouth. âMine.â
âForever,â is the breathy response he doesnât know if he means, the response he gives you anyways.
And then you curl your fingers in his hair. Clamp your teeth around his lower lip. Clench your thighs around his waist. Thereâs liquid everywhere. Tearwater spilling down the sides of your face. Release gushing all over his dick and pelvis and backseat.
He catches up the moment he realizes whatâs just happened. Pulls out of you. Presses his head against the roof of his car. Spits on his hand. Pumps his pulsating cock. Sends himself over the edge youâve just finished tripping over.
Eventually, he regains feeling in his limbs.
He opens his eyes, surveys the damage, and grins.
Your stomach is covered in ropes of white, your expression hidden behind your hands. You start shaking your head in profuse embarrassment the moment you feel his eyes on you.
âYou squirted,â he says.
âI know,â you almost yell, and his grin erupts into a laugh.
He lowers himself back over you, takes your wrists, and removes them from your blushing face. He doesnât think heâs seen you so flustered before and it has him palpitating in ways he never thought feasible.
Maybe he did mean the damn thing after all.
He pushes off the strands of hair clinging to your damp forehead and replaces them with a gentle kiss. âIt was sexy as fuck and youâre everything.âÂ
Thereâs a certain softness in your eyes when he pulls away. He hopes, for your sake, itâs all in his head.
His car is in need of aftercare most of all. You shrug on your clothes with considerable effort and get to work, all while sharing comfortable chatter and easy laughter.
Those things persist during your dinner date at a nearby Chinese restaurant and the drive back to your place, which Jisung knows well enough to no longer need his GPS. Those things persist until he kisses you goodbye on your doorstep, because he would have to be fucking crazy not to after you gave him the best night heâs had in so long.
After you reminded him that heâs still capable of comfort and ease, in spite of it all.
Snow comes a few weeks into the new year.Â
This winter, it falls late, and it falls hard, like a gust of breath expelled from drawn lungs at the very last minute. Held there as if lying in wait for something unnamed and unseen.Â
The gust of breath is too quiet to be heard over the one Jisung lets out against the shell of your ear. âWait here.â
He goes to roll off you. You donât let him just yet, darting your hand around his wrist and bringing his face back within centimeters of yours.
Han Jisung is beautiful. You knew it for the first time at that houseparty and youâve known it every hour of every day since. But itâs always clearest to you in the afterglow, when his bare skin is golden and sticky and his delicate lips bitten to bright fuchsia.Â
When his irises have gone black and you see stars, flaring in the absence of light.
You close the distance that remains between you. Your lips part with a content sigh. Your hands drift over the slant of his neck; his find home in the dips above your waist.
He breaks away once youâre both out of breath, and the pad of his thumb wipes lightly at your lower lip.
âEverything okay?â
âYes,â you reply shyly. âI couldnât help myself.â
The smile this brings to his face reminds you of a candleâs flame. Soft on the eyes and scalding to the touch when he presses it back against your lips. Once, twice.
âCan you wipe your cum off me now?â You whisper, and he laughs straight into your mouth.
The mattress lifts. His footsteps grow quieter. You shiver in his absence.
Only then do you notice the blizzard.
You stumble off the bed to throw your curtains aside. Snow descends from the sky like spools of unraveling yarn. The streetlights have been reduced to foggy specks, the parked cars to blurry heaps. Every sidewalk and rooftop in sight has already been slathered in ivory.
Jisung announces his return with a disbelieving whistle.
âAm I dreaming?â You murmur.
âWhen did that happen?â
âI have no idea.â
You donât even notice the wild smile on your face until you turn to him and catch his reaction to it. He looks like heâs asking himself the same question.
âCâmere,â he hums, and you oblige.
He laves the warm towel over your breasts and stomach, as well as the places his release has trickled since you flung yourself to your feet. All while supporting the small of your back with a touch fatally careful, an expression wholly adoring. All evidence of just how blurry the line between sexual escapade and lover has become in two short months.
Your ribcage fucking throbs.
âYou donât seem excited,â you say.
He finishes cleaning you off. You give him a distracted thank you, noticing the sudden shadow draped over his face like a netted veil.
âIâm not,â he answers, not unkindly.
âYou donât like snow?â
âNot really.â
âWhy?â
He circles around the bed to get dressed. You bend to pick up the clothes tossed aside earlier and drop them into your hamper, then slip into a clean pair of underwear and sweatpants.
âItâs a long story.â
Just as you reach for a top, a bundle of cloth travels in an arc across your bedroom and hooks itself around the crook of your arm. His T-shirt.Â
You glance at Jisung. Heâs already looking elsewhere, but his private smile makes its way onto your face as you slip it on.
âWell, I have time.â You sink into your mattress, now surrounded by his muted musk, his papyrus and petrichor. âWeâll be stuck here a while, after all.â
âStuck?â Jisung repeats, the lanyard of his car keys dangling from the pocket of his hoodie, his feet turned towards the door.
A pregnant pause commences. His intentions dawn, and you gape.
âYouâre not driving right now.â
He breaks eye contact.
âRight?â
That was the plan, you read in his expression.
You know better than trying to reverse a riverâs current by kicking up rocks. You know better than trying to curtail the flight of an albatross by clipping its wings.
You know better than asking someone who thinks he was made to leave to stay.
And you wonât.
âI have somewhere to be early tomorrow morning,â he stammers, the lines terribly rehearsed. âThe snowâs not heavy, Iâll beââ
âStay.â
Youâre not asking.
Jisung looks at you, startled, as you glide across the bed. You place your feet on the hardwood and circle your arms around his waist. Lace your fingers upon the hollow of his back. His pulse goes uneven at your abrupt proximity.
Akin to the drag of a feather, you mouth at his cheek, then the side of his neck.
âYou can stay, Jisung.â
He shudders at your words, and youâve got him.
Itâs oddly normal, the sight of him clambering into your bed in your clothingâa pair of old sweatpants and your favorite crewneckâlike this isnât the first time youâre sleeping together in your two months of sleeping together.
In fact, the only indication of anything unordinary is the floaty feeling in your stomach when your head hits the pillow and discover Jisungâs face only inches away. He drapes an arm over your waist, gathering you close. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck.
The inevitable question follows.
âCan I save the story for another time?â
âSure,â you return, keeping your voice small. He doesnât hear your disappointment this way. âShould we go to sleep, then?â
âWe should.â
Your foreheads touch. Your noses bump together. Your eyes cross, watching the adoration pull at his. You dimly register your hand threading in his fluffy locks, his thumb running over your cheekbone. Your lashes narrowly miss the surface of his eyes, and then he tips your face up by millimeters.
You donât remember when you fall asleep. You only recall the hour beforehand that you spend with Jisungâs lips traversing yours, like you are the ocean and heâs uncovering new waters with every bruise he prints against your throat, every suckle he leaves around your tongue.
In your dream, the roles reverse and you are the one exploring him, mapping out his constellations with wide-eyed wonder.
You wake to a black hole.
For the first five seconds, you see nothing. You hear nothing. You feel nothing. You only blink in the darkness, your mind kicking into groggy gear to ask the very good question of why youâre conscious again.
Instinct moves your hand across the mattress. Empty space greets you where Jisung should be. Unfounded dread shoves your back off the bed. You gasp, the sound seeming to echo in the cavernous silence.
Your eyes adjust enough to discern light in the crack beneath your door, and youâre wide awake.
The following events go by in a blur. You stumble out of bed and into your closet, fastening your fingers around the thickest piece of fabric you find. You fly into the living room, where the lamp by the couch is left on and the pair of worn black Converse on your doormat have gone missing.
The front door is cracked open, and through the narrow inches you spot someone hunched on the stairs outside, his dark hair dyed platinum by the awning lightâs fluorescence.
Your heart stills in relief, then quickens with anxiety.
Youâve tried wearing this crewneck in January enough times to know you canât. In fact, you suspect that it somehow soaks up the temperature, lets it seep in between its every seam until it becomes one with the bitter winds.Â
But he isnât shivering, you notice as you take a seat next to him, draping the puffer over both of your shoulders on your way down. Heâs simply staring off into the bleak storm, snowflakes sitting atop his head like a coating of ash, their color matching that of his frozen skin. Heâs becoming one with the bitter winds.Â
At first, you donât recognize the man in front of you.
Youâre well familiar with those ring-laden hands and the whetted jawline thrown into shadow, those remnants of cologne clinging to his frame. But you have never seen that gaze before, bloodshot and bleak and belonging to somebody new. Somebody who isnât completely here, straddling the partition between the realms of people and phantoms.
Then he lifts his eyes and you see stars, flaring in the absence of light. Your stars.
And you recognize him for the first time ever.
You drop your hand to your hip, and his fingers feel stiff and cold and perfect, sliding into the spaces between yours.
âWhy donât you like snow?â You ask.
Jisungâs eyes return to the swirling sleet, but he moves your interlocked hands to rest on his thigh, and you know that heâs with you.
Heâs been having this nightmare.
It takes place in a small clearing. Itâs winter, and everything is covered in snow. Not the gentle kind that you can catch on your tongue, but the unyielding kind thatâs hard and dense and covered in cracks, like a lake newly frozen over.
Somebody is in front of him, walking away. He can only see their back. He wants to chase after them. He doesnât want to be left behind. But there are ghosts nearby, and theyâll split his skull open on the permafrost and tie his windpipe into a pretty bow if he so much as dreams of pursuit. He always does. He doesnât know how not to.
Normally, the back leaves, and he can do nothing but remain. He can direct his loathing only to the snow into which he bleeds.Â
Normally, he waits for the dream to end with something bordering on boredom. Heâs seen this movie too many times. He fucking hates how it ends.
This time, though, the snow tastes like something.
After the flavors deliquesce upon his tongue, his head shoots up, his eyes blowing wide as they latch onto the retreating figure. He knows who it is.
His feet scrabbles against the ice with his attempts to rise to them. He lunges forward with frenzied resolve, and that is when the ghosts snap his neck.
He wakes up.
âCherry blossoms and vanilla.â
You blink, tearwater streaking from your eyes in silent, steaming trails.
âThatâsââ
My shampoo.
A broken sob escapes you in lieu of the rest of your sentence, and Jisung laughs, a flimsy facade that crumbles when he lifts his hand to dab at your moistened cheeks and itâs trembling.
âSilly,â he murmurs. âIâm used to it now.â
âI donât want you to be.â
âI donât want you to cry for me.â
âYou died.â
âAnd I would do it again.â
This response comes without an shred of hesitation.
You first realized you had something to confess, that night in the the back of Jisungâs SUV. Youâve kept it locked away for your sake and his, even moreso. You see how fear clings to him like an unshakeable wraith, and you refuse to feed the parasite.
Now, your confession explodes from its fortress in the center of your soul and rises up your larynx. You panic like an inept security guard letting their only prisoner bolt free. Is it really the right time? Do you know what to say? Have you really thought this through?Â
Too late. Itâs rushing to the point of your tongue already. You suppose youâll find out.
He saves you the trouble.
âHonestly?â
Your confession stills.Â
âI donât know if Iâm okay, and I wonât try to convince you otherwise. Youâd call my bluff. Youâre good at that.
âBut everything feels okay when Iâm with you. You see me. You allow me just to exist as I am. You make me feel human againâyou make me want to feel human again. You empty my mind.â
You feel as if youâve been ejected into space naked, griping for air where there is none.
âI never believed in having somebody to lose,â he utters, gently leaning his forehead against yours. âBut I would rather disappear than watch you go.â
You cradle his jaw with shaking fingers, trying and failing to quell the violence of your emotion.
âDonât go,â he exhales.
You kiss him.
It should feel the same as before. You reach for the slant of his neck, him the dips above your waist. You sigh into him, parting your lips, and he moves into you deeper, harder, dipping into your mouth with his tongueâs pliant swipe. But thereâs something new in the way you hold each other, in the seal of your mouth against his.
The line between sexual escapade and lover vanishes as if swept off the sand and into the sea. His stars come out of hiding at last and they bathe you in their residue, light your heart aglow.
Your confession resurfaces. It wants to stargaze also.
âI love you too,â you breathe.
The night comes and goes.
The two of you spend it entangling, sweating, your lips glued the expanse of his neck and the arcs of his shoulders, writing over the ghostsâ injuries with bruises of your making.
Only when the winds have faltered outside do you attempt to rest again. You are curled up in balmy bliss, utterly depleted. Jisungâs arms around your middle and legs threaded among yours bring you that much closer to slumberâs cusp.
You attribute it to your exhaustion when he mumbles something against you, and you have no idea what it means: âThank you for refracting me.âÂ
Your confusion is palpable in your silence. His laugh hits the nape of your neck with a gentle puff, and he kisses the spot just beneath your ear. âNever mind.â
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i'm sorry for getting back to this so late and thank u for the kind words bby! but u are not dumb at all pls it is confusing and i appreciate u asking for clarification <3 brief explanation below
in the fic, jisung has chronic nightmares and insomnia that derive from the fear of abandonment that his past trauma left behind. in these nightmares, he's being violently suppressed by formless ghosts that will kill him if he ever tries to chase after the back that's slowly walking away in front of him. when he realizes one night that the back in front of him is the mc's, he gets up to pursue her, and they "kill" him in his dreamâbut only in his dream; he is still very much alive in real life
but even though he's not actually a ghost, you're actually right on the money in that jisung himself feels more like ghost than a human; he's constantly tired, he's ceaselessly afraid, and life seems largely meaningless when it's so full of darkness. that is, until mc reminds him that there's still light within him, and we can assume that he'll be returning to the human realm in due time, now that he has her there to lead him back. i think the thematic "ghosts" are intended to reflect the experience of having the kind of mental illness that can make you feel less than human, which i've been through in the past.
i hope that makes sense! the fic was hard to write and definitely even harder to understand. please do lmk if there's anything else i can clarify âĄ
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â volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.
wordsă»15.2k
pairingă»volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)
genresă»college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. hyunjin is a huge flirt. mc #DGAF. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!
warningsă»mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.
playlistă»collision by stray kidsă»value by adoă»waiting for us by stray kidsă»eternity by bang chană»dreaming by smallpoolsă»fly high!! by burnout syndromes
a/nă»writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved âĄ
âNot a word out of you,â you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. âIâm serious.â
Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. âWhen did people stop saying good morning?â
Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âPlease, angel.â
âNo! Leave me alone.â
Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. âCoffee on me for a week.â
At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you.Â
When you finally humor him and turn around, youâre flinching like youâre in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashes if he wasnât so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.
âWhat the hell did you do?â
âTried to cut my own bangs,â you sigh. âIt didnât go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.â
Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. âYouâve seen Naruto?â
You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when heâs staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.
The air between you curdles like sour milk.
Things are awkward between you often, heâs realized recently. Whatâs more, he didnât think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailorâs knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh youâve given him since. Maybe thereâs more to it, maybe there isnâtâHyunjin doesnât think about it much. He doesnât like thinking in general.
You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere.Â
âOf course Iâve seen Naruto,â you quip, and everything is normal again. âWhy do you seem surprised?â
âBecause youâre so scholarly.â
âI am not scholarly.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.â
âI need to get my steps in somehow.â
âYou didnât know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look upââ
âGod, I learned so much about you that day."
âYour favorite social media platform is Quizlet,â he bursts, exasperated. âQuizlet.â
âIt is not.â An introspective pause. âOr is it?â
âI wouldnât be surprised.â Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. âThere is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I donât buy it.â
âHonestly, I thought youâd have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.â
He does, though. Matter of fact, heâs been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorerâs hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.
But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. Heâs reminded that itâs hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time, Vector resemblance and all.
He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.
âWatermelon,â he mumbles with a sickening smile.
You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. âYouâre getting soft.â
He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.
âI only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,â you say as youâre strolling out the building together, âand I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?â
âYour faith gets me out of bed in the morning,â Hyunjin deadpans. âIâll handle it, love. Text me your order.â
All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that heâd recognize anywhere.
âBody flicker jutsu,â you whisper, and then youâre scurrying off without another wordâbut you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quadâs busy thrum.
Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the courtâs sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.
âDonât look at me,â Minho says mid-stretch. âGodspeed.â
âThanks, cap.â Useless.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. Itâs all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the manâs propensity for violence. Heâs packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âYou can read, right?â
âYes, coach,â he sighs. Everyoneâs expectations for him are subterranean.
From: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Not good
See email from Hwangâs antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now heâs failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP
JP
Sent from my iPad
Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. âWrong email.â
âYep.â
From: Kim Kyeyoung «[email protected]»
To: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]»
Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin
To Director of Athletics Park,
I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kidsâ movie instead of his midterm paper.
It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him.
Regards,
Kim Kyeyoung
Professor of Anthropology
âThatâs bullshit!â
âWeâre in agreement there.â Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. âDo you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?â
âDoes anyone?â Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman. âNo way you just had that.â
âI had it delivered ten minutes ago,â Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. âAll student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.â
Hyunjin stiffens. âWhat the fuck? Iâve never heardââ
âIf any Department of Athletics personnel,â Bang continues, raising his voice, âhave reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.â
He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. âRead that name aloud for me.â
Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.
âHwang Hyunjin,â he says under his breath.
The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.
Then comes the yelling.
âThe Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?â
âIt was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! Howâs that for anthropology?â
âBAD!â Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. âVERY, VERY BAD!â
Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.
âYouâve never had trouble with school before.â He leans over his desk imposingly. âWhat the hell happened this semester? What changed?â
Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjinâs pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists havenât discovered yet.
He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.
âBeats me,â he fibs. âTypical junior year stress, maybe.â
âDoes any of it have to do with Piazza?âÂ
Hyunjin shudders.
It just might, actually.
Modesty has no place in the career heâs had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolution. Itâs a mouthful, he knows.
It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.
At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the worldâand current home to Hyunjinâs personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.
Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didnât ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.
Piazza replied within the week.
For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the teamâs social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazzaâs emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.
But thatâs the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because heâs laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldnât care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you canât contain your excitement. You, you, you.
He cards a hand through his air, regaining focus. âYou know how I feel about Piazza.â
âExpect the worst, hope for the best.â Bangâs chair skids backwards as he stands up. âI think itâs a good approach.â
Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.
âBut hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,â he says. âDo not let it, Hyunjin. Iâm not asking.â
Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin canât help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.
Bang lets go of him. âIâm not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.â
Hyunjin groans. âYeah, yeah. Iâm on it.â
A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.
âI thought you said your order was complicated.â
You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.
âWas it not?â You ask.
âIt was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.â
âWell, I wasnât sure if you could handle that much.â He flips you off as you squint at the cup. âSomeone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.â
âWhat? Really?â
âNo.â
He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; youâre still cackling by the time youâve straightened up again.
âWhy did you get this, anyway?â Hyunjin grumbles. âI thought you had a sweet tooth.â
âI do, but you donât.â
Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.
âThanks,â he says at last. âNice of you.â
âI know, right? Hated it,â you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.
You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âYo.â
Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. âI fully forgot you were in this class.â
âWell, Iâm due for my weekly appearance.â Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. âHey, Y/N.â
âHi,â you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.
You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the âI would relinquish all of my rights for youâ way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. Heâs funny, gorgeous, and talentedâa vocal performance major with a student-athlete contractâand you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks itâs hilarious.
You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. Youâre met with something far more worrisome.
Heâs thinking.
That canât be good.
Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. âCan this guy do his fucking job?â
âHe wouldnât have to if you didnât quit,â Seungmin answers. âIâll never forget you, Manager Hwang.â
âShut up.â You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. âOur captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League ruleâSeung, why do you look morose?â
âIâm mourning.â Seungmin does look morose indeed. âHyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the year. It was so funny.â
Hyunjin slides down his seat. âIt was the worst experience of my life.â
Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the larceny thing. You choose to digress. âCan I ask why?â
âHe had to be responsible,â Seungmin whispers. âFor other people.â
The top of Hyunjinâs head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. âPoor thing.â
âHardass refused to do it again this year, so now weâre recruiting.â Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. âI donât suppose you have four hours to spare every day.â
Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. âThis one? Team manager?â
âI can see it.â
âI can see killing myself, maybe.â
The next time you reach for him is to smack his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall, and Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.
âSeems like a great candidate to me,â Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, itâs pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.
Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. âI miss when you didnât come to class, Seungmin.â
Eighty minutes later, youâve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.
âSorry.â He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. âI couldnât unsee it.â
You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.
Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.
âI didnât like that at all,â you say.
âI donât care. I have something to tell you.â
âYou have a kid, donât you?â
âWhaâhuh? Who do you think I am?â
âThe one-night-standâs poster child. The champion of the contraception industry.â
âYeah, contraception industry. Itâs right there in the name.â
You canât argue with that.
âWhat do you have to tell me?â
A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjinâs face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that youâre about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you shouldâve saved the secret son bit for another time.
âIâm failing anthro.â
So much for a serious conversation.Â
âCome again?â
He repeats the mystifying statement.
âYouâre joking.â
The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair.
âYouâre failing anthro?â
âI just said that, yes.â
âYouâre failing anthropology?â
âMhm.â
âJust so weâre clearâyouâre failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?â
âYes. Iâm glad youâre having fun.â
This is the best day of your life. âI didnât even know that was possible.â
âYeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,â he mutters.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â Hyunjin clears his throat. âAnyways, I was thinkingââ
âWow! Congratulations. Thatâs a bigâoomfââ
Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.
âI was thinking,â he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, âyou and I can work out some kind of deal.â
You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. âI think I just ate some athletic tape.â
âHappens. You wanna hear the deal or not?â
âDoes it involve ingesting more sports equipment?â
âDo you want it to?â
âJust tell me the deal, boy.â
âAlright.â He takes a deep breath. âIf you help me pass this classâIâll set you up with Seungmin.â
Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: âIâm gonna need you to elaborate.â
âOn which part?â
âAll of them. Everything.â
Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. âAre you hungry?â
You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think itâs the prime minister youâre about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.
Heâs chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they donât know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that heâs drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager youâve had better company.
âYou like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.â He traces over the wrapperâs left corner. âAnd I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?â
âYes, definitely,â you mumble around a mouthful of bread. âPlease continue.â
âConclusion one: you should be my tutor.â He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. âYou also like my teammate, but heâs neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold ofâfor most people.â
âLet me guess. Not for you.â
âTen points to Ravenclaw.â His British accent is nightmarish. âSeung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.â
âTo dinner or to practice?â
âTo both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusionââ
He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.
ââyou should manage our team.â
âI knew it!â You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. âYouâre trying to swindle me! You canât pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?â
âItâs not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didnât do shit!â
âYeah? Who was your last manager?â
âMe!â
Oh, right. âBut you hated it!â
âI hate everything that isnât playing volleyball. Try again.â
You fold your arms over your chest. âYou said youâd kill yourself if I managed you.â
Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. âItâs true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seungâsââ
âSTOP!â A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. âStop right there. I get it. Stop.â
âItâs a good plan.â He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. âYou know it is.â
Youâre loath to admit that you do. âWhen did you even come up with all this?â
He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class.
âNo fucking wonder youâre failing.â
âWhat is this, mock trial?â
The owner of this voice is the third man youâve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighborâs cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. Thereâs a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like heâs enjoying the company of a court jester.
âSlamming tables like fuckinâ tariff lawyers,â the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âI could see it from all the way inside.â
âCaptain!â Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. âJust the man I was hoping to see.â
âReally? I thought youâd be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.â
âI would never.â
âYou did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.â He pauses for emphasis. âAs fast as possible.â
âWell, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.â Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. âAnd today, I bring you a new team manager.â
You stiffen. âI havenâtââ
âIs that so!â When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. âMusic to my ears. Whatâs your name, cutie?â
You catch Hyunjinâs eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungminâsâ
Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.
âY/N,â you grumble. âIâm looking forward to working with you.â
He shakes on it heartily. âLikewise. Iâm Minho. Welcome to the team.â
âYes, welcome to the team,â Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.
Heâs lucky that his proposal holds so much water. Heâs lucky that you donât plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.
You do kick him under the table, though.
The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You canât tell which is the bigger endeavor.
âIâm going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,â you tell Changbin.
The teamâs libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the universityâs sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and youâve already decided heâs the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.
âYou will not,â Changbin answers. âOne, because this wonât involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldnât ask you to help if it did.â
âYouâve misunderstood me,â you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. âI want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.â
âOh.â He opens the door with a frown. âOh dear.â
Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.
âI am going to get maimed,â Hyunjin tells Changbin.
âHave some faith, both of you,â Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages youâre looking for and begin poring over them like youâre cramming for an exam. âYouâll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.â
âStudied?â He repeats. âFor this?â
âIâm pretty sure Quizlets were made.â
âThree, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. âNow tape me.â
Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. âSee? What could go wrong?â
The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly âsprained his ass,â leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.
You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypressâlaundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesnât wear that insufferable cologne to practice.
âGo easy on me, yeah?â
While Hyunjinâs tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.
âI canât promise anything.â
With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.
A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. Itâs the first time youâve seen his fingers untaped; theyâre pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.
Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.
âYouâre not nervous, are you?â
âNo. Maybe a little.â You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. âFine, yes. Very.â
âBut you made Quizlets. Youâre prepared for anything.â
âThatâs what Iâm saying!â You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that heâs making fun of you. âI hate you.â
âActually,â he hums, âI think you care about me, love. Thatâs why youâre nervous.â
âNonsenseâI care about disappointing Changbin. Thatâs it.â
âAnd me. And hopping on Seungminâs dick. All these things donât have to be mutually exclusive.â
You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.
âHave you lost your mind?â You whisper-shout, your face on fire. âDonât bring that up here. Iâll maim you for real.â
The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you donât hate when that happens.
âMy bad, my bad. It slipped out. I wonâtââ
One incremental shift of Hyunjinâs body later, you find that youâre precariously, alarmingly close to one another.
So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath.Â
Things are awkward between you often, youâve realized recently. Youâre both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later youâll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.
Since youâve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. Youâre not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesnât go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as theyâre doing now.
Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.
âThank you,â he murmurs.
Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. âWhat for?â
He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.
âCaring about me.â
Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.
âNow stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.â
âOkay,â you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. âNo need to get violent.â
It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.
As youâre walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. âItâs not too tight, is it?â
âItâs perfect.â He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. âWant another taste?â
You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. âYou are truly grotesque.â
The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.
The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.
You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.
Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ballâs tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.
âOi, this isnât your backyard! Go pick that up!â Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.
Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. âCrazy bitch. What the fuck was that?â
âLower and faster. Further from the net too,â Seungmin returns. âHowâd it feel?â
The grin on Hyunjinâs face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. âLike we just won everything.â
He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. Youâve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjinâand you canât move.
It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.
A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you.Â
âHello?â He immediately starts laughing. âWhere the fuck are you?â
You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. âMy face is preoccupied at the moment.â
âOh, you have to show me. Please.â
You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.
âMotherfucker!â
He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.
âThank you,â he says earnestly. âIâll treasure this forever.â
âYouâll be punished, Hwang.â
âDonât threaten me with a good time.â
You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle.Â
âAaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.â
The first thing you did as Hyunjinâs tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the âtruly piteous timbreâ of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.
âYou shouldâve opened with that,â you grumble.
âI tried! Someone distracted me.â
âRead it before I change my mind.â
You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.
You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that itâs as if youâre leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.
Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldnât move for ten minutes.
With that, his attention span has run its course.
âBaby,â he interrupts gently. âLetâs stop here, okay? You seem tired.â
You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.
âI suppose I am,â you concede. âWill you keep working tonight?â
âI think so. I hit my stride.â
âText me if you have questions, then. Iâll respond when I wake up.â
âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjinâs face incurably quickly.Â
âI had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know,â you murmur.
âWhy is that?â
âWell, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime youâd experienced since preschool.â
âIt really is.â
âYou also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.â
âI really would.â
âAnd you once referred to academia as âVirgin Village.ââ
âDidnât you come up with that?â
âNo, hello? I live in that village.â
He grins. âI know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.â
âFuck you.â
âAh, donât threaten me with a goodââ
âWhat Iâm trying to say,â you cut in, âis that I didnât think you would take this seriously, but Iâm happy to be proven wrong.â
Hyunjin leans back. âWell, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.â
âReally?â
âNo.â
You pretend to punch him through the screen. Itâs so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.
âBut I do give a fuck about you.â
Thereâs nothing crazy about the statement. Youâre friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didnât. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a starâs final breath. And Hyunjinâs heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.
He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.
Then he opens his texts.
Hyunjin:
We have team bonding tomorrow btw
Hyunjin:
Donât forget
Y/N:
i forgot.
Y/N:
pick me up at 6:45?
Hyunjin:
đ«Ą
He picks you up at 7:53.
You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and heâs walking too close to your lawn.
âHis fault,â Hyunjin says before you start yelling.
Minho simpers at you through his open window. âHey, you! So glad you could join us!â
You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. âArenât you the captain? Why are you this late?â
âWhoa, okay. I wouldâve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.â
âYou did schedule it for earlier,â you say. âYou scheduled it for way earlier.â
âYeah, well, youâre fired.â
âYou canât fire me, Minho.â
âI can too. Tell âem, Hwang.â
âI want nothing to do with this.â
When you step through the doors of the arcade, youâre met with a surge of sensory input that you havenât experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that theyâve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.
âIâll go pay,â Hyunjin says. âHow much time do we want?â
âNo youâre not,â the two men answer in perfect unison.
You glance between them warily. âI donât mind watching, seriously. I donât even know how most of these games workââ
âThereâs Tetris,â Hyunjin cuts in.
You purchase an hour.
One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU menâs volleyball team, not to bond them. Youâve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like itâs a shot. Itâs a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.
But theyâre happy. Youâve picked up on it when theyâre on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as theyâre eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that youâre glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so specialâespecially because thereâs Tetris.
âHave you ever considered going pro?â Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.
You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. Heâs been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.
You donât respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.
âI already did,â you finally answer.
âSorry, what? You played professional Tetris?â
âIn middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.â You pause. âThen I got bored again and switched to chess.â
âHow do you look like this with these hobbies?â
Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. âI think Iâm washed.â
He looks at you like youâve lost your mind. âYou just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.â
âItâs a small pond,â you say, and an idea occurs to you. âDo you wanna try?â
âI get the feeling I donât have a choice.â
âThen youâre smarter than you look.â
âWell, you lookââ
His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.
âWhat was that?â
âUgly. I said you look ugly.â He cracks his knuckles. âNow letâs break some fuckin' blocks.âÂ
When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade.Â
He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy princeâand heâs with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.
Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.
Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjinâs chair. You canât watch. You canât think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.
âSeung!â Thatâs Jisung, you think. âYou made it!â
âYo, sorry weâre late.â Thatâs Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. âDinner took longer than I thought.â
âMin, are you sure Iâm allowed to be here?â You donât know who this voice belongs to and youâre not sure you want to. âI feel like Iâm intrudingââ
âHwang,â you say suddenly. âI have to go.â
He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. âAlready?â
âI forgot I had an important call to make.â You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. âSorry. Iâll see you on Monday.â
You have touched Hyunjinâs hands many times. Heâs asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment.Â
Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when itâs been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.
He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.
âDo you want to be alone?â
You have never been asked such a thingâyou have never asked to be asked such a thingâbut, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes.Â
âYes, please,â you whisper, and you pull your hand away.
When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting.Â
Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where youâve left your phone.
You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.
Hyunjinâs right; the team manager doesnât have to do much.
Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someoneâs waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything your schedule allows.Â
Last week, you could be found helping Minho put down the volleyball nets, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professorâs distinct âcabbage scent.â Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammatesâ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the teamâs water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. Youâd spent more time in the gymnasium in those ten days than you had in the last ten years.
Then came the arcade.
Five days have come and gone. You havenât attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. Youâve taken the best notes of your life. He doesnât mention the previous weekend; he doesnât mention much of anything.Â
In person, that is.
That Friday afternoon, youâre reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. Itâs from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.
Then you listen to it again.
And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.
As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you havenât the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.
Coach Bang is leaving the building just as youâre approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe itâs the shadowy landscape; more likely itâs the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.
âItâs been a while,â he greets.
âCoach,â you return, lowering your head. âI want to apologize forââ
âSave it,â he says, not unkindly. âThereâs nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.â
You manage a grateful smile. âIâll be back starting next week.â
âIâm glad to hear it.â He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. âI would give him some space, by the way.â
Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.
Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation.Â
Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when heâs picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where itâs plastered to his neck. Heâs alone.
You only catch sight of Hyunjinâs face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.
âI was told to give you space,â you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball heâs holding.
His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that theyâve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.
âIs this enough space?â
More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.
âDonât make me go further, please. Iâm not ready to die.â
Finally, this earns you a smile. Itâs not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.
The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You donât care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.
The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. Youâre worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.
Thereâs a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights.Â
âHow do you see under these things?â
âI donât,â he returns. âI complained about it to Coach once.â
âAnd?â
âHe made them brighter.â
âSounds about right.â
He spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjinâs way with words.
But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. Itâs not that Hyunjin has a way with words; itâs that heâs brave enough to break the silences that you canât, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you wonât have to.
This cannot be his burden alone.
You inhale. âWhatâs on your mind?â
Hyunjin doesnât answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes; the lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.
âI donât think I know how to put it into words.â
You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. âDonât think, just talk. Iâm here.â
The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.
âDo you remember Ishikawa Yuki?â
âYour role model?â
âHeâs currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.â He blows out a deep breath. âIâve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.â
The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. âHoly shit, Hwang.â
âHe emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, heâs excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldnât wrap my head around anything. I still canât.
âI am who I am because of that man, and nowâŠI have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why Iâm notânot happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he wouldââ
You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.
Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.
You stop thinking after that.
You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.
You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.
âDonât fight it.â You trace over the hill of his cheek. âHealing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.â
His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.
âYou donât have to continue if you canât.â
âSâokay.â Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. âI want to.â
You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before. Does he do the same?
âI used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feetâI blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.â He smiles at the memory. âBut every time I came close to quitting, Iâd go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and Iâd promise myself it would be me on some other kidâs screen someday.
âThat kid would tell everyone whoâd listen about how cool I am. That Iâm a secret superhero. That Iâm living proof humans can fly if they really, really tryâjust like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.
âThe other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proudâeven if it meant losing myself.â He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. âThatâs whatâs on my mind.â
Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.
The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; itâs long overdue.
âEvery time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,â you say. âHe is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.â
Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.
âJeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,â you continue, âeven for things related to schoolâwhich I still find hard to believe, Iâm not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.
âI know you think he canât stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. Itâs written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. Youâre like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.â
âThen thereâs me.â You pause to catch your breath. âWhen I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didnât like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone elseâs personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.
âBut I found a person. Someone who wouldnât know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearlyâyour body is not normal, by the way.â
Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like youâre flying.
âDonât get me wrong,â you say. âYour sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when Iâm around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.â
The next time you blink, you discover that heâs not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?
âThereâs so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.â You give him a watery smile. âThat kid will be spoiled for choice.â
When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: âI knew you cared about me.â
You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.
âHow the fuck are you still sweaty?â You choke out, and you think you like his cologne after all.
Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.
A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like youâve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead.Â
Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.
âCan you come inside, please? My RA will think Iâm doing some freaky shit again.â
You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. âWhat, exactly, does freaky shit entail?â
He smirks as the door falls shut. âYou want me to tell you or show you?â
You turn to Kkami, disgusted. âYour ownerâs a bit of a pervert, my dear.â
Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjinâs eyes narrow to slits.
âTraitor.â
Naturally, Hyunjinâs parents chose the eve of his final anthropology examâand the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his careerâto ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration.Â
âDo you want anything to drink?â He calls from the kitchen area.
You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. âWhat do you have?âÂ
âAlcohol.â He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. âAmericanos.â
He stops speaking.
âIs that all?â
âYes. Waitâand apple juice.â
âYou are about to be a professional athlete.â
âWhat the Italians donât know wonât hurt them. You want apple juice, donât you? I can see it in your eyes.â
âMaybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.â
Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.
âLetâs get this over with.â
At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.
At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.
You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then heâs kicking open the door.
Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a monthâs worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.
âHyunâKkami?â Seungmin swivels. âYo, what the fuck isââ
Hyunjin is already out the door.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.
âWhat is this thing?â Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass.Â
âKkami gets sad after throwing up,â he sighs. âHis blanket makes him feel better.â
Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. âHe ate too fast again?â
Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. âI donât get it. Nobodyâs gonna take his food from him.â
Seungmin laughs. âI didnât even know he was on campus.â
âI picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for workâthey say hi, by the way.â
âI say hi back. I miss your momâs cooking.â
âMe too,â Hyunjin says, smiling. âShe would love to cook for you againâsheâs always saying youâre too skinny.â
âShe really is.â
A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.
Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of themâa concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjinâs backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjinâs dissuading; half of Hyunjinâs fatherâs wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.
It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the netâs fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungminâs hitterâSeungmin, always Hyunjinâs setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.
At least, thatâs what Hyunjin used to think.
Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know?Â
Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he canât remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not âtalkedâ as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practiceââtalkedâ as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.
Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago.Â
âYeonwoo, right?â
He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what heâs trying to doâand forgives him.
âYeonwoo,â Seungmin affirms. âWeâre in the same songwriting intensive this semester.â
âAlso a singer?â
He shakes his head. âPiano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I donât think Iâve ever met someone so talented.â
âWow, thatâsâhi, old man. You done?â
Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkamiâs head as he hydrates.
âYouâve suffered,â he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.
âAs I was sayingâthatâs crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.â
âThanks. Itâs weird. Iâm happy.â
âYou deserve it. You really do, Kim.â They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. âWhen are you introducing us?â
âThe arcade wasnât enough?â
âDonât insult me.â
âWhenever you want, then.â
âDinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,â Hyunjin recounts. âIâm holding you to it.â
âBet.â
They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasnât already reassured by Seungminâs smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that theyâll be okay.
âWhat about you?â Seungmin asks. âAre you together yet?â
Hyunjin knew this was coming. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou know what I mean.â Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. âSomeone you have questions for that youâre too scared to ask. Someone whoâs lived in your mind since the day you met. Thereâs someone like that, isnât there?â
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.Â
Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjinâs been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.
He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time youâre within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because heâs happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.
Itâs impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. Heâs already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?
Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. âThere is.â
Hyunjin doesnât know what to say.
âIt mightâve been me, at some point,â he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkamiâs ears. âBut it has always been you, Hyun.â
Four floors above them and inside Hyunjinâs place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkamiâs return.
Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all thatâs in front of you.
Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what mustâve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns districtâs first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of âace spikerâ label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang âChristopherâ Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. Thereâs oneâWho is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolutionâbeside which heâs written the singular word âmouthful.â You laugh; you agree.
But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.
You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as youâre playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you canât see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kimâs email. You, you, you.
You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didnât know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.
It has always been him.
The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes.Â
Itâs not awkward this time.
Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.
He moves his eyes to his best friendâs back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play theyâve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration.Â
He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.
The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjinâs heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. Heâs not scared at all.
He balls his fingers into fists.
âJUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACEââ
An arm seizes Hyunjinâs neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He canât feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesnât care. He doesnât care.
ââDEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEARââ
His eyes find Seungminâs among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungminâs gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.
He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.
ââYOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!â
Hyunjinâs post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.
The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: âIs there anyone youâd like to thank?â
Hyunjin exhales. âYou want the short answer or the longââ
Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.
âLove you,â he yells before hurrying off.Â
âLove you too, Bin.â
Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.
âThe short answer,â she deadpans.
He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his familyâhis first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys heâs ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.
In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. Thereâs a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.
Hyunjin thanks you.
You didnât ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and theyâre all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselvesâitâs hard to believe youâve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.
What are you like? What arenât you like, is the better question. Youâre caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sunâs doting radius, and so did he.
You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; youâre wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky, and theyâd be right.
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.
âWhy the fuck am I still talking to you?âÂ
âPardon?â The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.
He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.
He calls out to you.
You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the areaâs busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but heâs used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.
Youâre beautiful. God, youâre fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like heâs everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will.Â
Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashesâif he didnât have something far better to do.
âTell me now if you donât want me to do this,â he whispers.
A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. âMy lips are sealed.â
Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before theyâre colliding again.
He kisses you until heâs crying, again, until heâs no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and heâs really won everything, now.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.
âThanks, cap.â Hyunjin swears heâs had this exact exchange before.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âRead.â
From: Nicola Daldello «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game
Christopher,
Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza.
It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki.
Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwangâs travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club.
Iâm looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all.
Yours,
Nicola Daldello
Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano
âI told you, some opportunities just present themselves,â Bang says, turning his monitor back around. âAs for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social evâHwang, is that foam coming out of your moâNOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!â
In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baekâs king with a triumphant yelp.
âI knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!â She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. âYou! Get over here. Your reign is over.â
You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldnât even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.
âAs excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,â you call back.Â
She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.
Hyunjin:
Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris
Hyunjin:
Same park?
Y/N:
yes
Hyunjin:
Whoâs the opp today
Y/N:
mrs. choi
Hyunjin:
Not that bitch again
Y/N:
?
Heâll be here in eight minutes.
You return to the task at hand. Youâve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all thatâs left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely youâll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.
Instead of hitting the âdeleteâ button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.
You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.
He finds you a sobbing mess.
âHey, hey, whoa.â Heâs on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. âBaby, whatâs happening? Are you okay?â
âYes,â you say in a flustered haste. âYes, Iâm okay. I donâtâI donât really know whatâs happening.â
âDid that hag do this to you?â He asks this question so seriously. âIâll beat up a senior citizen, I donât give a fuckââ
âNo!â You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. âNo, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.â
âThen what is it? Whatâs wrong?â
Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.
Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.
âIâll tell you later,â you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline.Â
He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then youâre smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.
You rest your foreheads together. âHave I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?â
He smiles. âDoes that make you my flower, then?â
âBecause youâre irresistably drawn to me?â
âNo, because I wanna put my pollen inââ
You shove him away. âYou are grotesque.â
He returns in a flash. âYou love me.â
You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.
âWhy did Coach hold you back, by the way?â You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. âAre you in trouble again?â
âNo, no. The opposite, actually.â
Your brow furrows. âThe opposite? Whatââ
âIn this lifetime, please,â Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.
âDuty calls, my love.â
âTell me your thing later too?â
âOf course.â
You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, ânow watch me beat up a senior citizen.â
He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.
âHypocrite.â
Hyunjin:
[1 Audio Message]
This is my seventh take and Iâm not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I donât care anymore.
I understand if you donât wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldnât, either. I just wanted to say that you donât have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I wonât be able to fulfill my end of our deal, soâŠyeah, it wouldnât be fair to you. Youâve already done so much for us. For me.
As for team manager, youâll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesnât sound like a fun conversation, I knowâbut if thatâs what you decide, Iâll have your back. They donât scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.
Youâve beenâŠdistant, this week. Iâve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldnât care less if youâre my tutor or my team manager or whateverâI just donât want you to be a stranger. Maybe thatâs selfish of me to say, but Iâm tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesnât terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.
Iâm gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I wouldâve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, andâŠIâm sorry about everything. You deserve better.
Come back to me whenever youâre ready, okay? Iâll be waiting.
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â you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.
wordsă»11.1k
pairingă»idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)
genresă»fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative, alternating perspectives
warningsă»cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia. again, MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS THAT INTERACT WITH THIS POST WILL BE BLOCKED.
warnings (cont'd.)ă»reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack. alcohol is consumed. lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication. latter half is just kind of sad in general tbh but what do u expect from a fic based off alex turner lyrics
playlistă»farewell, neverland by txtă»like crazy by jimină»black friday by tom odellă»collide by justine skyeă»crying lightning by arctic monkeys
a/nă»call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :â) i donât deserve u i love u
Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.
Youâve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.
As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.
This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and youâve steeled yourself to see it through.
But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the showâs addressâand, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find youâre more interested in Hyunjinâs peculiar silence.
You move your gaze to his face. Heâs looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.
Maybe itâs because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe itâs because youâve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.
âNervous?âÂ
Hyunjinâs head swivels towards you with a small snap, like heâs forgotten youâre here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.
âNo,â he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. âFuck, maybe a little. Itâs just hard to believe, you know?â
You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brandâs pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the worldâs most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even youâve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjinâs anxiety.
You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But youâve always known just what to say when it comes to him.
âJust remember who you are.â
Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You donât see this change in posture, though. Youâre too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.
Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjinâs lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.
Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.
âI want you to meet my parents.â
Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; âplease,â he adds, and youâre biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.
The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He canât tell if you hate each other or if youâre married.
One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.
âI still canât believe youâre abandoning me.â
âFor my newborn daughter.â
âYeah, okay. I still canât believe youâre abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I donât?â
âMy genes, to begin with.â
âThatâs unfair. Sheâs usingââ
An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their âgood morningâs prim and professional.
âSheâs using cheats,â Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.
Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.
Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, heâd grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than heâd thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because theyâd become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldnât imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.
Today is a Saturday, but itâs also Seojunâs last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldnât have missed it for the world.
âFourth floor,â Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. âThanks.â
The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.
âWhat was her name again?â Hyunjin asks.
âY/N,â Seojun returns. âY/L/N.â
âIs she here already?â
âNo, sheâll be here at nine.â
Thereâs a small pause.Â
âHyung.â
âHm?â
âI feel like Iâm being married off to another family for political reasons.â
âGod, I canât wait to be free of your theatrics.â
At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.
âYouâll be in good hands,â Seojun reassures. âSheâs the best of the best. I hear sheâs basically running the industry these days. Iâm surprised she agreed to take you on.â
âIâm surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,â Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.
âYouâre not wrong, though,â Seojun concedes. âWe happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and weâve kept in touch ever since. Sheâs a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hellââ
They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.
She reminds me of him.
âHeâs forgotten how to walk,â the him in question whispers like heâs narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. âIs this what fatherhood does to a man?â
Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.
The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and heâs suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.
At 8:57, Seojunâs phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjinâs direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.
âFor that,â Hyunjin sputters, âIâm the godfather.â
âAbsolutely the hell not.â
Then, it is 9:00.
When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.
âThere she is,â Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. âGod, how long has it been? Two, three years now?â
Youâre not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojunâs direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that youâre cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path.Â
With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojunâs hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like youâve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.
Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and heâs reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.
âSomething like that,â you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. âItâs great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.â
âPlease, Seojun is fine,â he answers hastily. âAnd thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I canât tell you how excited we are to have you.âÂ
âYouâre too kindâIâm excited too.â
Upon uttering the word âwe,â Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.
The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like heâs approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.
Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until heâs as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.
He ends up losing its trail, but he wonât forget that itâs there.Â
âMy client, Iâm guessing?â You say, extending your hand. âY/N. Itâs a pleasure.â
Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.
But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; heâs nothing, if not tenacious.
âHyunjin,â he returns. âPleasureâs all mine.â
Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.
Hyunjin isnât sure whyâmaybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingersâbut heâs learned over the last four weeks that youâre different, gentler, when youâre doing his makeup.
Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco youâve painted upon him.
Your expression doesnât give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that thereâs a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like youâre touching his petals, trying not to tear them.
Too bad you never let him daydream for long.
âClose.â
âHuh?â
âYour eyes. Close them.â
His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjinâs features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.
A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.
âWitch,â Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.
âThank you,â you reply, completely earnestly.
And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if thereâs anything you donât know.
âYou smudged your lipstick already.â Thereâs a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. âSee? Thatâs why we need the setting spray.â
âUh huh.â And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.
âYouâre done, by the way,â you say, stepping aside. âTake a look.â
He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if heâs never seen it before. But thatâs how heâs felt since he started working with you.
Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like itâs the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when itâs you maneuvering them. And then some.
He would call what you have âtalent,â but he knows itâs more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering youâve only known him for two months. So no, itâs not just talent that you possess. Itâs some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhumanâand sexy as fuck.
Speaking of sexy. Hyunjinâs look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But itâs the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesnât look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.
You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. âYou can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought youâd appreciate that detail.â
At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. âYou suck.â
He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks itâs so painfully on brand that the two times itâs appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person heâs ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.
âWell?â You implore. âWhat do you think?â
âNo notes.âÂ
Itâs the answer youâre expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.
âIâll see you after the show, then.â
You have an important conference call to attend before tonightâs concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour.Â
Itâs rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesnât want it to end. Not just yet.
âI lied, actually,â he calls. âI do have notes.â
You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laughâthe concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.
âDo tell,â you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.
âYou have any jewelry for me?â
You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the groupâs dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.
You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. âCome here, then,â you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.
You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.
âYouâre sure you wonât be uncomfortable?â
He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you donât seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.
Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, youâre already working on the third and final necklace. Itâs not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; heâs been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows youâre closer to each other than youâve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesnât showâthe soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lipsâand these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.
You are the type of beautiful thatâs been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.
In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.
When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but youâre debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hipâlightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjinâs hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.
And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that itâll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesnât give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesnât care.
âLet me take you out,â he murmurs. âOne date.â
âWhat the hell are you talking about?â You reply under your breath.
âYou know what Iâm talking about, beautiful.â
Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you donât. You merely hiss out a whetted âyouâre fucking crazy,â and thatâs his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.
âAbout you? Damn straight.â
At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isnât just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.
And heâs surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you wouldâve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever heâs been granted the privilege of your presence.
This might be the first time heâs admitted it out loud, but he hasnât triedâhasnât been ableâto hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. Itâs been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.
 âHwangââ You begin.
âHyung!â
At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like youâre about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now youâre just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.
âHey, Innie!â Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boyâs sunny tone. âWhatâs up?âÂ
In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You donât think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.
Youâre flustered.
You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall.Â
âNothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,â Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany youâre having behind him. âChan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?â
âSheâs in high demand.â Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. âThe usual.â
âAh.â
Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjinâs face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isnât stupid, unlike his older counterpart.
âI saw a vending machine on my way here,â Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. âYou want anything, hyung? Noona?â
âIâm okay, thank you,â you say.
âIâll have whatever you have,â Hyunjin says.
Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.
You wait until you canât hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks youâre about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.
Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows heâll live to see another day.
âYou still owe me an answer,â Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.
âDonât hold your breath,â you reply.
One day, Iâll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjinâs head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, Iâll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. Thatâs the two of you, in a nutshell.
Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.
When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, âI have no idea what the fuck Iâm doing.â
Thereâs an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjinâs empty vanity chair. She hasnât noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonightâs performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.
You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until sheâs within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.
âNever gets old.â You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.
âI canât remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.â
âMe neither, now that you mention it.â
Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because theyâre so eerily similarâand itâs adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.
But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeunâs voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, thatâs another quality that she and her client share; theyâre both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.
Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeunâs is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. Youâve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasnât a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.
You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the albumâs cover and pushing it closed.
âCome with me,â you say. âWeâre gonna try a new approach.â
Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.
âWhat do you have in mind?â She sighs instead.
âYouâll see.â
With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.
The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venueâs backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the groupâs manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonightâs concert.
Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze.Â
âLet me ask you this,â you say, just audible over the din. âCan you style a performer if you donât know how he performs?â
And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.
âI want you to watch him,â you continue. âTell me how he performs.â
Hanâs part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.
âDonât think, Haeun. Just speak.â
She blows out a deep breath before obliging. âItâs hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, heâs so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But heâs like a different person on stage. Heâs so intense, itâs almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, thoughâyou just get the impression that heâs very confident in himself and his music.
You donât say another word, but donât need to. Sheâs hit her stride.
âHis voice and enunciation are so clear. Itâs crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; heâs not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.
âAnd this is gonna sound bad, but I didnât know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is beingââ
Right there.
She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.
âItâs his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "Heâs demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. Thatâs how he performs.â
A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. âCouldnât have said it better myself.â
Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework youâve helped her forge. Sheâs almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.
âYouâre brilliant, you know that?â
âI do, but I appreciate the reminder.â
She canât help but giggle. Itâs a you answer if sheâs ever heard one. âDo you do that with all of your clients?â
Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesnât think sheâs ever witnessed before, and sheâs momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.
As the songâs final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then itâs palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.
Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mindâbut one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.
Artistry.
âNo,â you reply. âNot all of them.â
And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?
Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you donât elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.
The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage managerâs voice comes through the monitors.
âAnd thatâs a wrap! Weâre all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.â
There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.
You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.
Youâre annoyed before he says a word.
âI didnât know they were letting fans backstage now,â he hums happily. âWant an autograph, gorgeous?â
âPut a sock in it.â You whisk the towel youâve been holding in his direction. âWet freak.â
But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. Youâve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.
âNo.â You take a shaky step back. âNo, nope, donât even think aboutââ
The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. âCall me a wet freak again, go on,â he manages to say through his laughter.Â
In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjinâs ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesnât relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.
You tighten your grip. âWet,â you seethe, âfreak.â
âOwâokay, donât make it hot, whatâs wrong with you?â
âWhaâwhatâs wrong with YOU?!â
As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that sheâs still standing here. Sheâs not even sure if sheâs in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when itâs him on the receiving end.
âPsst. Weâve been placing bets on them. You want in?â
Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasnât so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.
But what if sheâs not hallucinating?
No, not all of them, youâd said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.
âYes,â she says, and Han beams. âAbsolutely.â
Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.
You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like theyâre topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like youâre monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.
Youâve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.
You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that youâve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.
When you were little, you came across a childrenâs book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.
At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industryâs most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.
You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.
For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the worldâs most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.
If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.
The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.
You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that youâd been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds.Â
As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how youâd shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.
By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.
You are now twenty-two, and the word âcoldâ has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but youâre no longer surprised to find it at your door. Itâs a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks youâre not lookingâa fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couchâand you know whenever youâre being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.
You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.
Hyunjin does not.
âThree words to describe yourself. Go,â he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session.Â
You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didnât bother trying to dodge this one. âYou first.â
âSmart, sexy, suave,â he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. âFine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitelyâmaybe overly so. And artistic. Iâd like to think so, at least. Satisfied?â
The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.
âNow you.â
Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you werenât sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didnât trust himâyou did, more than you had anyone in yearsâbut because you didnât know what youâd do with yourself if he agreed. You werenât sure your heart would be able to take it.
When you met the boyâs gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.
âCold,â you mumbled. âIâve been called cold before.â
There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And thenâ
âThatâs a joke, right?â
Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.
âMean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though Iâd rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.â
At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.
âDetermined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,â he went on. âYou get my point. Youâre a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isnât oneââ
He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.
ââand not just because youâre hot.â
You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.
Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.
âThank you,â you said.
The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.
âIdiot,â he sighed softly.
Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete.Â
When you stand up, the bottle is mostly goneâand so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin arenât just theories.
[3:10 A.M.]
To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP)
Audio Message.wav
Hi. Iâm drunk and Iâm going to regret this tomorrow. But thatâs tomorrowâs business. Thereâs something I need to tell you tonight.
After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard âI wanna go homeâ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I wouldâve been happy for it to.
But I havenât felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. Iâve never felt seen the way you see me. Iâve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I donât have to dream of it anymore.
You called me fearless the other day, but youâre wrong. Iâm terrified. Iâm terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And thatâs why Iâm so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I donât want to go through that ever again.
So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that Iâm scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But itâs not speaking it into existence if Iâm drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what Iâm talking about. Maybe youâll never even hear this. So it doesnât count. Thatâs how that works, surely.
Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that Iâm so bad at feelings. You must think Iâm impossible, and I donât blame you.
Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.
One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.
When Hyunjin steps out of the hotelâs tall glass double doors, heâs wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like heâs an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.
Youâre the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.
A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.
âTomorrow night,â youâre saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. âThe absolute earliest. Youâre sure?â
When you finish listening to the managerâs response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that shouldâve splintered your screen protector.
Then, you start walking towards him.
âHi,â Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. âYou are so talented and beautiful. I donât tell you that often enough, do I?â
He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort thatâs twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth thatâs always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that heâs always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.
A shiver travels down Hyunjinâs spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.
Somethingâs not right.
âWeâre gonna have to stay here another day,â you say. âCan you check us in? I have some calls to make.â
âUs?â Hyunjin repeats.
âJunghan could only reserve one room,â you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. âThe hotel is fully booked for the next few months.â
With that, youâre already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that heâs going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.
Go, you mouth, and he obliges.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates itâs an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoeverâs inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he canât think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises shouldâve been.
Hyunjinâs initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isnât an isolated issue. Itâs the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.
You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. Heâs learned where to look for your feelings when he canât find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like theyâre verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldnât recognize you. Heâd blinked, startled, and then youâd asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.
Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didnât seem all that differentâa bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but youâd been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.
âStupid,â Hyunjin whispers bitterly.
He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like heâd been dismissed from before your throne.
As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesnât understand how or whyâbut he canât shake the feeling that heâs failed you.
Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesnât know why he even tries. Heâs exhausted, but he knows damn well thereâs no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.
He doesnât look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotelâs entrance.
You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.
âHyunjin?â
His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. âYeah?â
âOh, youâre awake,â you answer. âMove to the bed. Youâre not sleeping on that thing.â
He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and thereâs a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bedâs mattress.
âHello? Did youââ
âIs everything okay?â
A short pause follows his interruption.
âI still have a few emails to write, but everythingâs been rescheduled, so as long as you donât miss tomorrowâs flight, too, we should beââ
The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. âThatâs not what I mean.â
The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but itâs enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjinâs expression.
âEnlighten me, then,â you say finally.
âYou really donât know?â
âWhat is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, Iâm aware.â
âNo, thatâs notââ
âSo what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?â
Thereâs real frustration in your voice, and itâs the first time youâve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.
He wonders if youâre prepared to destroy yourself, too.
âI know how you are around me,â you whisper. âYouâre always acting like youâre trying to unearth something, and I figure this âsomethingâ must be wonderful, because you look at me like Iâm made of stars; you speak to me like youâre serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this âsomethingâ doesnât exist, that youâre looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person.Â
âI know itâs selfish to ask for anything more than what youâve already given meâyouâre so kind, Hyunjin, and youâve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.
âTell me what you see in me,â you plead. âOtherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.â
With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware ofânever asked forâthe throne you sit upon.
For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You havenât felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe.Â
When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.
âAfter you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.â
Your mind careens; your heart reels.Â
âThey came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.â He takes a tentative step towards you. âYou thought it was going to swallow you alive. You wouldâve been happy for it to.â
You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldnât check for a read receipt.
But thereâs not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjinâs lips.
âYou havenât felt that way since you met me, though.â He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. âYouâve never felt seen the way I see you. Youâve never been known the way I know you.â
God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?
âYouâre terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.â Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. âI must think youâre impossible.â
And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fractureâ
âI donât,â Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, âbecause youâre not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. Thatâs what I see in you.â
âand crumble.
You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjinâs hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.
When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.
Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.
Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you.Â
One part of it is that he physically canât; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesnât want to. Heâs afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.
Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesnât stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.
âTrust me?â He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.
âMore than anyone,â you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.
Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your elementâtonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand.Â
Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjinâs privilege alone.
He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and youâre about to ask if heâs okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping foldsâand every word of every language youâve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.
He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that heâs lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjinâs head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.
He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until youâre spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until itâs pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until youâre curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system.Â
âComing,â you blabber after some time. Tell me something I donât know, he thinks to himself. âComing, Hyune. Iâmâfuckââ
Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way youâre so dilapidated from pleasure that youâre genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesnât care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there canât be rests in the sheet music, can there?
He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your bodyâs protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.
âSon of a bitchââ
âTrust me?â He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod.Â
At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. Heâs so rough and so fucking careful at once like he canât decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.
Heâll end up doing both.
Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasureâbut he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and itâs not long before the former is compounding with the latter.
Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.
As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.
After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.
He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongueâand you know he wonât ask for it. Heâs tested you enough tonight; heâd rather your comfort than his pleasure.
But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.
âLove me?â You ask this time, for the first time.
There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, âwith everything in me.â
He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff heâd dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him tooâand the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.
This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.
Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.
For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen youâve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.
âWhere do you find your inspiration?âÂ
As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versaceâs newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.
âMy inspiration, hm?â You fall silent for a short time, thinking. âIf you asked me this at the start of my career, Iâd have said âpeople.â Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the modelsâ attire helped them harness their innate power and graceâI wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, donât you?
âSome time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a âmuseâ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, soââ
Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist wouldâve flinched out of habit if he wasnât so mesmerized by your eloquence.
ââwhere better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?â
A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane.Â
The journalist laughs, and he doubts youâll give him this next piece of informationâbut heâll be damned if he doesnât try.
âAnd who would that be?â
Heâs right. You donât answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.
đ (send an ask to be added)ă»@astraystayyhă»@like-a-diamondintheskyă»@fire-08ă»@starsandrqindropsă»@txtxlză»@laylasbunbunnyă»@strayghibliă»@nuronhe
you are actually EVERYTHING TO ME SAHAR :( every day i feel so thankful for this fic but the biggest reason for that is because it brought you so much closer to me. every compliment you give me should be directed towards yourself just the same because you have no idea how much you and your words not only inspire but shape me, not only as a writer but as a human being. i love you so much more. brb gonna reread ur essay again
â volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.
wordsă»15.2k
pairingă»volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)
genresă»college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. hyunjin is a huge flirt. mc #DGAF. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!
warningsă»mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.
playlistă»collision by stray kidsă»value by adoă»waiting for us by stray kidsă»eternity by bang chană»dreaming by smallpoolsă»fly high!! by burnout syndromes
a/nă»writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved âĄ
âNot a word out of you,â you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. âIâm serious.â
Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. âWhen did people stop saying good morning?â
Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âPlease, angel.â
âNo! Leave me alone.â
Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. âCoffee on me for a week.â
At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you.Â
When you finally humor him and turn around, youâre flinching like youâre in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashes if he wasnât so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.
âWhat the hell did you do?â
âTried to cut my own bangs,â you sigh. âIt didnât go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.â
Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. âYouâve seen Naruto?â
You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when heâs staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.
The air between you curdles like sour milk.
Things are awkward between you often, heâs realized recently. Whatâs more, he didnât think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailorâs knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh youâve given him since. Maybe thereâs more to it, maybe there isnâtâHyunjin doesnât think about it much. He doesnât like thinking in general.
You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere.Â
âOf course Iâve seen Naruto,â you quip, and everything is normal again. âWhy do you seem surprised?â
âBecause youâre so scholarly.â
âI am not scholarly.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.â
âI need to get my steps in somehow.â
âYou didnât know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look upââ
âGod, I learned so much about you that day."
âYour favorite social media platform is Quizlet,â he bursts, exasperated. âQuizlet.â
âIt is not.â An introspective pause. âOr is it?â
âI wouldnât be surprised.â Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. âThere is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I donât buy it.â
âHonestly, I thought youâd have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.â
He does, though. Matter of fact, heâs been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorerâs hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.
But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. Heâs reminded that itâs hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time, Vector resemblance and all.
He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.
âWatermelon,â he mumbles with a sickening smile.
You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. âYouâre getting soft.â
He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.
âI only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,â you say as youâre strolling out the building together, âand I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?â
âYour faith gets me out of bed in the morning,â Hyunjin deadpans. âIâll handle it, love. Text me your order.â
All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that heâd recognize anywhere.
âBody flicker jutsu,â you whisper, and then youâre scurrying off without another wordâbut you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quadâs busy thrum.
Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the courtâs sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.
âDonât look at me,â Minho says mid-stretch. âGodspeed.â
âThanks, cap.â Useless.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. Itâs all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the manâs propensity for violence. Heâs packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âYou can read, right?â
âYes, coach,â he sighs. Everyoneâs expectations for him are subterranean.
From: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Not good
See email from Hwangâs antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now heâs failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP
JP
Sent from my iPad
Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. âWrong email.â
âYep.â
From: Kim Kyeyoung «[email protected]»
To: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]»
Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin
To Director of Athletics Park,
I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kidsâ movie instead of his midterm paper.
It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him.
Regards,
Kim Kyeyoung
Professor of Anthropology
âThatâs bullshit!â
âWeâre in agreement there.â Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. âDo you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?â
âDoes anyone?â Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman. âNo way you just had that.â
âI had it delivered ten minutes ago,â Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. âAll student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.â
Hyunjin stiffens. âWhat the fuck? Iâve never heardââ
âIf any Department of Athletics personnel,â Bang continues, raising his voice, âhave reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.â
He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. âRead that name aloud for me.â
Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.
âHwang Hyunjin,â he says under his breath.
The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.
Then comes the yelling.
âThe Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?â
âIt was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! Howâs that for anthropology?â
âBAD!â Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. âVERY, VERY BAD!â
Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.
âYouâve never had trouble with school before.â He leans over his desk imposingly. âWhat the hell happened this semester? What changed?â
Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjinâs pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists havenât discovered yet.
He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.
âBeats me,â he fibs. âTypical junior year stress, maybe.â
âDoes any of it have to do with Piazza?âÂ
Hyunjin shudders.
It just might, actually.
Modesty has no place in the career heâs had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolution. Itâs a mouthful, he knows.
It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.
At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the worldâand current home to Hyunjinâs personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.
Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didnât ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.
Piazza replied within the week.
For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the teamâs social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazzaâs emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.
But thatâs the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because heâs laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldnât care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you canât contain your excitement. You, you, you.
He cards a hand through his air, regaining focus. âYou know how I feel about Piazza.â
âExpect the worst, hope for the best.â Bangâs chair skids backwards as he stands up. âI think itâs a good approach.â
Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.
âBut hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,â he says. âDo not let it, Hyunjin. Iâm not asking.â
Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin canât help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.
Bang lets go of him. âIâm not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.â
Hyunjin groans. âYeah, yeah. Iâm on it.â
A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.
âI thought you said your order was complicated.â
You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.
âWas it not?â You ask.
âIt was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.â
âWell, I wasnât sure if you could handle that much.â He flips you off as you squint at the cup. âSomeone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.â
âWhat? Really?â
âNo.â
He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; youâre still cackling by the time youâve straightened up again.
âWhy did you get this, anyway?â Hyunjin grumbles. âI thought you had a sweet tooth.â
âI do, but you donât.â
Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.
âThanks,â he says at last. âNice of you.â
âI know, right? Hated it,â you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.
You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âYo.â
Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. âI fully forgot you were in this class.â
âWell, Iâm due for my weekly appearance.â Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. âHey, Y/N.â
âHi,â you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.
You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the âI would relinquish all of my rights for youâ way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. Heâs funny, gorgeous, and talentedâa vocal performance major with a student-athlete contractâand you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks itâs hilarious.
You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. Youâre met with something far more worrisome.
Heâs thinking.
That canât be good.
Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. âCan this guy do his fucking job?â
âHe wouldnât have to if you didnât quit,â Seungmin answers. âIâll never forget you, Manager Hwang.â
âShut up.â You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. âOur captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League ruleâSeung, why do you look morose?â
âIâm mourning.â Seungmin does look morose indeed. âHyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the year. It was so funny.â
Hyunjin slides down his seat. âIt was the worst experience of my life.â
Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the larceny thing. You choose to digress. âCan I ask why?â
âHe had to be responsible,â Seungmin whispers. âFor other people.â
The top of Hyunjinâs head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. âPoor thing.â
âHardass refused to do it again this year, so now weâre recruiting.â Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. âI donât suppose you have four hours to spare every day.â
Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. âThis one? Team manager?â
âI can see it.â
âI can see killing myself, maybe.â
The next time you reach for him is to smack his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall, and Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.
âSeems like a great candidate to me,â Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, itâs pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.
Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. âI miss when you didnât come to class, Seungmin.â
Eighty minutes later, youâve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.
âSorry.â He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. âI couldnât unsee it.â
You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.
Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.
âI didnât like that at all,â you say.
âI donât care. I have something to tell you.â
âYou have a kid, donât you?â
âWhaâhuh? Who do you think I am?â
âThe one-night-standâs poster child. The champion of the contraception industry.â
âYeah, contraception industry. Itâs right there in the name.â
You canât argue with that.
âWhat do you have to tell me?â
A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjinâs face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that youâre about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you shouldâve saved the secret son bit for another time.
âIâm failing anthro.â
So much for a serious conversation.Â
âCome again?â
He repeats the mystifying statement.
âYouâre joking.â
The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair.
âYouâre failing anthro?â
âI just said that, yes.â
âYouâre failing anthropology?â
âMhm.â
âJust so weâre clearâyouâre failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?â
âYes. Iâm glad youâre having fun.â
This is the best day of your life. âI didnât even know that was possible.â
âYeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,â he mutters.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â Hyunjin clears his throat. âAnyways, I was thinkingââ
âWow! Congratulations. Thatâs a bigâoomfââ
Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.
âI was thinking,â he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, âyou and I can work out some kind of deal.â
You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. âI think I just ate some athletic tape.â
âHappens. You wanna hear the deal or not?â
âDoes it involve ingesting more sports equipment?â
âDo you want it to?â
âJust tell me the deal, boy.â
âAlright.â He takes a deep breath. âIf you help me pass this classâIâll set you up with Seungmin.â
Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: âIâm gonna need you to elaborate.â
âOn which part?â
âAll of them. Everything.â
Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. âAre you hungry?â
You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think itâs the prime minister youâre about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.
Heâs chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they donât know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that heâs drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager youâve had better company.
âYou like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.â He traces over the wrapperâs left corner. âAnd I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?â
âYes, definitely,â you mumble around a mouthful of bread. âPlease continue.â
âConclusion one: you should be my tutor.â He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. âYou also like my teammate, but heâs neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold ofâfor most people.â
âLet me guess. Not for you.â
âTen points to Ravenclaw.â His British accent is nightmarish. âSeung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.â
âTo dinner or to practice?â
âTo both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusionââ
He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.
ââyou should manage our team.â
âI knew it!â You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. âYouâre trying to swindle me! You canât pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?â
âItâs not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didnât do shit!â
âYeah? Who was your last manager?â
âMe!â
Oh, right. âBut you hated it!â
âI hate everything that isnât playing volleyball. Try again.â
You fold your arms over your chest. âYou said youâd kill yourself if I managed you.â
Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. âItâs true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seungâsââ
âSTOP!â A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. âStop right there. I get it. Stop.â
âItâs a good plan.â He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. âYou know it is.â
Youâre loath to admit that you do. âWhen did you even come up with all this?â
He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class.
âNo fucking wonder youâre failing.â
âWhat is this, mock trial?â
The owner of this voice is the third man youâve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighborâs cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. Thereâs a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like heâs enjoying the company of a court jester.
âSlamming tables like fuckinâ tariff lawyers,â the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âI could see it from all the way inside.â
âCaptain!â Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. âJust the man I was hoping to see.â
âReally? I thought youâd be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.â
âI would never.â
âYou did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.â He pauses for emphasis. âAs fast as possible.â
âWell, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.â Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. âAnd today, I bring you a new team manager.â
You stiffen. âI havenâtââ
âIs that so!â When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. âMusic to my ears. Whatâs your name, cutie?â
You catch Hyunjinâs eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungminâsâ
Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.
âY/N,â you grumble. âIâm looking forward to working with you.â
He shakes on it heartily. âLikewise. Iâm Minho. Welcome to the team.â
âYes, welcome to the team,â Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.
Heâs lucky that his proposal holds so much water. Heâs lucky that you donât plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.
You do kick him under the table, though.
The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You canât tell which is the bigger endeavor.
âIâm going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,â you tell Changbin.
The teamâs libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the universityâs sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and youâve already decided heâs the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.
âYou will not,â Changbin answers. âOne, because this wonât involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldnât ask you to help if it did.â
âYouâve misunderstood me,â you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. âI want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.â
âOh.â He opens the door with a frown. âOh dear.â
Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.
âI am going to get maimed,â Hyunjin tells Changbin.
âHave some faith, both of you,â Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages youâre looking for and begin poring over them like youâre cramming for an exam. âYouâll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.â
âStudied?â He repeats. âFor this?â
âIâm pretty sure Quizlets were made.â
âThree, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. âNow tape me.â
Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. âSee? What could go wrong?â
The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly âsprained his ass,â leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.
You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypressâlaundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesnât wear that insufferable cologne to practice.
âGo easy on me, yeah?â
While Hyunjinâs tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.
âI canât promise anything.â
With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.
A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. Itâs the first time youâve seen his fingers untaped; theyâre pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.
Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.
âYouâre not nervous, are you?â
âNo. Maybe a little.â You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. âFine, yes. Very.â
âBut you made Quizlets. Youâre prepared for anything.â
âThatâs what Iâm saying!â You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that heâs making fun of you. âI hate you.â
âActually,â he hums, âI think you care about me, love. Thatâs why youâre nervous.â
âNonsenseâI care about disappointing Changbin. Thatâs it.â
âAnd me. And hopping on Seungminâs dick. All these things donât have to be mutually exclusive.â
You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.
âHave you lost your mind?â You whisper-shout, your face on fire. âDonât bring that up here. Iâll maim you for real.â
The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you donât hate when that happens.
âMy bad, my bad. It slipped out. I wonâtââ
One incremental shift of Hyunjinâs body later, you find that youâre precariously, alarmingly close to one another.
So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath.Â
Things are awkward between you often, youâve realized recently. Youâre both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later youâll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.
Since youâve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. Youâre not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesnât go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as theyâre doing now.
Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.
âThank you,â he murmurs.
Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. âWhat for?â
He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.
âCaring about me.â
Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.
âNow stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.â
âOkay,â you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. âNo need to get violent.â
It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.
As youâre walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. âItâs not too tight, is it?â
âItâs perfect.â He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. âWant another taste?â
You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. âYou are truly grotesque.â
The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.
The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.
You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.
Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ballâs tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.
âOi, this isnât your backyard! Go pick that up!â Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.
Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. âCrazy bitch. What the fuck was that?â
âLower and faster. Further from the net too,â Seungmin returns. âHowâd it feel?â
The grin on Hyunjinâs face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. âLike we just won everything.â
He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. Youâve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjinâand you canât move.
It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.
A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you.Â
âHello?â He immediately starts laughing. âWhere the fuck are you?â
You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. âMy face is preoccupied at the moment.â
âOh, you have to show me. Please.â
You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.
âMotherfucker!â
He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.
âThank you,â he says earnestly. âIâll treasure this forever.â
âYouâll be punished, Hwang.â
âDonât threaten me with a good time.â
You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle.Â
âAaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.â
The first thing you did as Hyunjinâs tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the âtruly piteous timbreâ of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.
âYou shouldâve opened with that,â you grumble.
âI tried! Someone distracted me.â
âRead it before I change my mind.â
You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.
You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that itâs as if youâre leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.
Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldnât move for ten minutes.
With that, his attention span has run its course.
âBaby,â he interrupts gently. âLetâs stop here, okay? You seem tired.â
You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.
âI suppose I am,â you concede. âWill you keep working tonight?â
âI think so. I hit my stride.â
âText me if you have questions, then. Iâll respond when I wake up.â
âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjinâs face incurably quickly.Â
âI had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know,â you murmur.
âWhy is that?â
âWell, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime youâd experienced since preschool.â
âIt really is.â
âYou also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.â
âI really would.â
âAnd you once referred to academia as âVirgin Village.ââ
âDidnât you come up with that?â
âNo, hello? I live in that village.â
He grins. âI know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.â
âFuck you.â
âAh, donât threaten me with a goodââ
âWhat Iâm trying to say,â you cut in, âis that I didnât think you would take this seriously, but Iâm happy to be proven wrong.â
Hyunjin leans back. âWell, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.â
âReally?â
âNo.â
You pretend to punch him through the screen. Itâs so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.
âBut I do give a fuck about you.â
Thereâs nothing crazy about the statement. Youâre friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didnât. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a starâs final breath. And Hyunjinâs heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.
He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.
Then he opens his texts.
Hyunjin:
We have team bonding tomorrow btw
Hyunjin:
Donât forget
Y/N:
i forgot.
Y/N:
pick me up at 6:45?
Hyunjin:
đ«Ą
He picks you up at 7:53.
You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and heâs walking too close to your lawn.
âHis fault,â Hyunjin says before you start yelling.
Minho simpers at you through his open window. âHey, you! So glad you could join us!â
You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. âArenât you the captain? Why are you this late?â
âWhoa, okay. I wouldâve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.â
âYou did schedule it for earlier,â you say. âYou scheduled it for way earlier.â
âYeah, well, youâre fired.â
âYou canât fire me, Minho.â
âI can too. Tell âem, Hwang.â
âI want nothing to do with this.â
When you step through the doors of the arcade, youâre met with a surge of sensory input that you havenât experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that theyâve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.
âIâll go pay,â Hyunjin says. âHow much time do we want?â
âNo youâre not,â the two men answer in perfect unison.
You glance between them warily. âI donât mind watching, seriously. I donât even know how most of these games workââ
âThereâs Tetris,â Hyunjin cuts in.
You purchase an hour.
One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU menâs volleyball team, not to bond them. Youâve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like itâs a shot. Itâs a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.
But theyâre happy. Youâve picked up on it when theyâre on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as theyâre eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that youâre glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so specialâespecially because thereâs Tetris.
âHave you ever considered going pro?â Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.
You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. Heâs been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.
You donât respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.
âI already did,â you finally answer.
âSorry, what? You played professional Tetris?â
âIn middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.â You pause. âThen I got bored again and switched to chess.â
âHow do you look like this with these hobbies?â
Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. âI think Iâm washed.â
He looks at you like youâve lost your mind. âYou just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.â
âItâs a small pond,â you say, and an idea occurs to you. âDo you wanna try?â
âI get the feeling I donât have a choice.â
âThen youâre smarter than you look.â
âWell, you lookââ
His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.
âWhat was that?â
âUgly. I said you look ugly.â He cracks his knuckles. âNow letâs break some fuckin' blocks.âÂ
When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade.Â
He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy princeâand heâs with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.
Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.
Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjinâs chair. You canât watch. You canât think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.
âSeung!â Thatâs Jisung, you think. âYou made it!â
âYo, sorry weâre late.â Thatâs Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. âDinner took longer than I thought.â
âMin, are you sure Iâm allowed to be here?â You donât know who this voice belongs to and youâre not sure you want to. âI feel like Iâm intrudingââ
âHwang,â you say suddenly. âI have to go.â
He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. âAlready?â
âI forgot I had an important call to make.â You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. âSorry. Iâll see you on Monday.â
You have touched Hyunjinâs hands many times. Heâs asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment.Â
Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when itâs been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.
He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.
âDo you want to be alone?â
You have never been asked such a thingâyou have never asked to be asked such a thingâbut, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes.Â
âYes, please,â you whisper, and you pull your hand away.
When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting.Â
Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where youâve left your phone.
You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.
Hyunjinâs right; the team manager doesnât have to do much.
Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someoneâs waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything your schedule allows.Â
Last week, you could be found helping Minho put down the volleyball nets, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professorâs distinct âcabbage scent.â Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammatesâ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the teamâs water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. Youâd spent more time in the gymnasium in those ten days than you had in the last ten years.
Then came the arcade.
Five days have come and gone. You havenât attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. Youâve taken the best notes of your life. He doesnât mention the previous weekend; he doesnât mention much of anything.Â
In person, that is.
That Friday afternoon, youâre reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. Itâs from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.
Then you listen to it again.
And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.
As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you havenât the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.
Coach Bang is leaving the building just as youâre approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe itâs the shadowy landscape; more likely itâs the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.
âItâs been a while,â he greets.
âCoach,â you return, lowering your head. âI want to apologize forââ
âSave it,â he says, not unkindly. âThereâs nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.â
You manage a grateful smile. âIâll be back starting next week.â
âIâm glad to hear it.â He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. âI would give him some space, by the way.â
Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.
Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation.Â
Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when heâs picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where itâs plastered to his neck. Heâs alone.
You only catch sight of Hyunjinâs face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.
âI was told to give you space,â you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball heâs holding.
His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that theyâve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.
âIs this enough space?â
More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.
âDonât make me go further, please. Iâm not ready to die.â
Finally, this earns you a smile. Itâs not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.
The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You donât care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.
The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. Youâre worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.
Thereâs a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights.Â
âHow do you see under these things?â
âI donât,â he returns. âI complained about it to Coach once.â
âAnd?â
âHe made them brighter.â
âSounds about right.â
He spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjinâs way with words.
But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. Itâs not that Hyunjin has a way with words; itâs that heâs brave enough to break the silences that you canât, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you wonât have to.
This cannot be his burden alone.
You inhale. âWhatâs on your mind?â
Hyunjin doesnât answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes; the lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.
âI donât think I know how to put it into words.â
You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. âDonât think, just talk. Iâm here.â
The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.
âDo you remember Ishikawa Yuki?â
âYour role model?â
âHeâs currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.â He blows out a deep breath. âIâve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.â
The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. âHoly shit, Hwang.â
âHe emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, heâs excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldnât wrap my head around anything. I still canât.
âI am who I am because of that man, and nowâŠI have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why Iâm notânot happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he wouldââ
You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.
Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.
You stop thinking after that.
You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.
You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.
âDonât fight it.â You trace over the hill of his cheek. âHealing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.â
His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.
âYou donât have to continue if you canât.â
âSâokay.â Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. âI want to.â
You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before. Does he do the same?
âI used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feetâI blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.â He smiles at the memory. âBut every time I came close to quitting, Iâd go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and Iâd promise myself it would be me on some other kidâs screen someday.
âThat kid would tell everyone whoâd listen about how cool I am. That Iâm a secret superhero. That Iâm living proof humans can fly if they really, really tryâjust like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.
âThe other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proudâeven if it meant losing myself.â He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. âThatâs whatâs on my mind.â
Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.
The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; itâs long overdue.
âEvery time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,â you say. âHe is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.â
Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.
âJeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,â you continue, âeven for things related to schoolâwhich I still find hard to believe, Iâm not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.
âI know you think he canât stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. Itâs written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. Youâre like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.â
âThen thereâs me.â You pause to catch your breath. âWhen I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didnât like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone elseâs personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.
âBut I found a person. Someone who wouldnât know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearlyâyour body is not normal, by the way.â
Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like youâre flying.
âDonât get me wrong,â you say. âYour sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when Iâm around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.â
The next time you blink, you discover that heâs not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?
âThereâs so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.â You give him a watery smile. âThat kid will be spoiled for choice.â
When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: âI knew you cared about me.â
You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.
âHow the fuck are you still sweaty?â You choke out, and you think you like his cologne after all.
Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.
A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like youâve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead.Â
Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.
âCan you come inside, please? My RA will think Iâm doing some freaky shit again.â
You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. âWhat, exactly, does freaky shit entail?â
He smirks as the door falls shut. âYou want me to tell you or show you?â
You turn to Kkami, disgusted. âYour ownerâs a bit of a pervert, my dear.â
Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjinâs eyes narrow to slits.
âTraitor.â
Naturally, Hyunjinâs parents chose the eve of his final anthropology examâand the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his careerâto ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration.Â
âDo you want anything to drink?â He calls from the kitchen area.
You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. âWhat do you have?âÂ
âAlcohol.â He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. âAmericanos.â
He stops speaking.
âIs that all?â
âYes. Waitâand apple juice.â
âYou are about to be a professional athlete.â
âWhat the Italians donât know wonât hurt them. You want apple juice, donât you? I can see it in your eyes.â
âMaybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.â
Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.
âLetâs get this over with.â
At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.
At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.
You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then heâs kicking open the door.
Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a monthâs worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.
âHyunâKkami?â Seungmin swivels. âYo, what the fuck isââ
Hyunjin is already out the door.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.
âWhat is this thing?â Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass.Â
âKkami gets sad after throwing up,â he sighs. âHis blanket makes him feel better.â
Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. âHe ate too fast again?â
Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. âI donât get it. Nobodyâs gonna take his food from him.â
Seungmin laughs. âI didnât even know he was on campus.â
âI picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for workâthey say hi, by the way.â
âI say hi back. I miss your momâs cooking.â
âMe too,â Hyunjin says, smiling. âShe would love to cook for you againâsheâs always saying youâre too skinny.â
âShe really is.â
A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.
Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of themâa concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjinâs backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjinâs dissuading; half of Hyunjinâs fatherâs wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.
It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the netâs fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungminâs hitterâSeungmin, always Hyunjinâs setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.
At least, thatâs what Hyunjin used to think.
Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know?Â
Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he canât remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not âtalkedâ as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practiceââtalkedâ as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.
Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago.Â
âYeonwoo, right?â
He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what heâs trying to doâand forgives him.
âYeonwoo,â Seungmin affirms. âWeâre in the same songwriting intensive this semester.â
âAlso a singer?â
He shakes his head. âPiano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I donât think Iâve ever met someone so talented.â
âWow, thatâsâhi, old man. You done?â
Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkamiâs head as he hydrates.
âYouâve suffered,â he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.
âAs I was sayingâthatâs crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.â
âThanks. Itâs weird. Iâm happy.â
âYou deserve it. You really do, Kim.â They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. âWhen are you introducing us?â
âThe arcade wasnât enough?â
âDonât insult me.â
âWhenever you want, then.â
âDinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,â Hyunjin recounts. âIâm holding you to it.â
âBet.â
They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasnât already reassured by Seungminâs smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that theyâll be okay.
âWhat about you?â Seungmin asks. âAre you together yet?â
Hyunjin knew this was coming. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou know what I mean.â Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. âSomeone you have questions for that youâre too scared to ask. Someone whoâs lived in your mind since the day you met. Thereâs someone like that, isnât there?â
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.Â
Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjinâs been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.
He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time youâre within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because heâs happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.
Itâs impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. Heâs already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?
Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. âThere is.â
Hyunjin doesnât know what to say.
âIt mightâve been me, at some point,â he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkamiâs ears. âBut it has always been you, Hyun.â
Four floors above them and inside Hyunjinâs place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkamiâs return.
Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all thatâs in front of you.
Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what mustâve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns districtâs first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of âace spikerâ label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang âChristopherâ Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. Thereâs oneâWho is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolutionâbeside which heâs written the singular word âmouthful.â You laugh; you agree.
But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.
You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as youâre playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you canât see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kimâs email. You, you, you.
You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didnât know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.
It has always been him.
The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes.Â
Itâs not awkward this time.
Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.
He moves his eyes to his best friendâs back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play theyâve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration.Â
He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.
The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjinâs heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. Heâs not scared at all.
He balls his fingers into fists.
âJUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACEââ
An arm seizes Hyunjinâs neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He canât feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesnât care. He doesnât care.
ââDEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEARââ
His eyes find Seungminâs among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungminâs gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.
He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.
ââYOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!â
Hyunjinâs post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.
The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: âIs there anyone youâd like to thank?â
Hyunjin exhales. âYou want the short answer or the longââ
Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.
âLove you,â he yells before hurrying off.Â
âLove you too, Bin.â
Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.
âThe short answer,â she deadpans.
He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his familyâhis first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys heâs ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.
In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. Thereâs a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.
Hyunjin thanks you.
You didnât ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and theyâre all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselvesâitâs hard to believe youâve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.
What are you like? What arenât you like, is the better question. Youâre caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sunâs doting radius, and so did he.
You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; youâre wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky, and theyâd be right.
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.
âWhy the fuck am I still talking to you?âÂ
âPardon?â The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.
He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.
He calls out to you.
You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the areaâs busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but heâs used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.
Youâre beautiful. God, youâre fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like heâs everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will.Â
Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashesâif he didnât have something far better to do.
âTell me now if you donât want me to do this,â he whispers.
A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. âMy lips are sealed.â
Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before theyâre colliding again.
He kisses you until heâs crying, again, until heâs no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and heâs really won everything, now.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.
âThanks, cap.â Hyunjin swears heâs had this exact exchange before.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âRead.â
From: Nicola Daldello «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game
Christopher,
Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza.
It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki.
Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwangâs travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club.
Iâm looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all.
Yours,
Nicola Daldello
Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano
âI told you, some opportunities just present themselves,â Bang says, turning his monitor back around. âAs for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social evâHwang, is that foam coming out of your moâNOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!â
In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baekâs king with a triumphant yelp.
âI knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!â She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. âYou! Get over here. Your reign is over.â
You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldnât even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.
âAs excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,â you call back.Â
She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.
Hyunjin:
Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris
Hyunjin:
Same park?
Y/N:
yes
Hyunjin:
Whoâs the opp today
Y/N:
mrs. choi
Hyunjin:
Not that bitch again
Y/N:
?
Heâll be here in eight minutes.
You return to the task at hand. Youâve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all thatâs left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely youâll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.
Instead of hitting the âdeleteâ button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.
You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.
He finds you a sobbing mess.
âHey, hey, whoa.â Heâs on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. âBaby, whatâs happening? Are you okay?â
âYes,â you say in a flustered haste. âYes, Iâm okay. I donâtâI donât really know whatâs happening.â
âDid that hag do this to you?â He asks this question so seriously. âIâll beat up a senior citizen, I donât give a fuckââ
âNo!â You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. âNo, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.â
âThen what is it? Whatâs wrong?â
Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.
Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.
âIâll tell you later,â you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline.Â
He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then youâre smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.
You rest your foreheads together. âHave I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?â
He smiles. âDoes that make you my flower, then?â
âBecause youâre irresistably drawn to me?â
âNo, because I wanna put my pollen inââ
You shove him away. âYou are grotesque.â
He returns in a flash. âYou love me.â
You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.
âWhy did Coach hold you back, by the way?â You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. âAre you in trouble again?â
âNo, no. The opposite, actually.â
Your brow furrows. âThe opposite? Whatââ
âIn this lifetime, please,â Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.
âDuty calls, my love.â
âTell me your thing later too?â
âOf course.â
You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, ânow watch me beat up a senior citizen.â
He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.
âHypocrite.â
Hyunjin:
[1 Audio Message]
This is my seventh take and Iâm not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I donât care anymore.
I understand if you donât wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldnât, either. I just wanted to say that you donât have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I wonât be able to fulfill my end of our deal, soâŠyeah, it wouldnât be fair to you. Youâve already done so much for us. For me.
As for team manager, youâll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesnât sound like a fun conversation, I knowâbut if thatâs what you decide, Iâll have your back. They donât scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.
Youâve beenâŠdistant, this week. Iâve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldnât care less if youâre my tutor or my team manager or whateverâI just donât want you to be a stranger. Maybe thatâs selfish of me to say, but Iâm tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesnât terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.
Iâm gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I wouldâve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, andâŠIâm sorry about everything. You deserve better.
Come back to me whenever youâre ready, okay? Iâll be waiting.
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â volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.
wordsă»15.2k
pairingă»volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)
genresă»college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. hyunjin is a huge flirt. mc #DGAF. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!
warningsă»mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.
playlistă»collision by stray kidsă»value by adoă»waiting for us by stray kidsă»eternity by bang chană»dreaming by smallpoolsă»fly high!! by burnout syndromes
a/nă»writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved âĄ
âNot a word out of you,â you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. âIâm serious.â
Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. âWhen did people stop saying good morning?â
Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âPlease, angel.â
âNo! Leave me alone.â
Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. âCoffee on me for a week.â
At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you.Â
When you finally humor him and turn around, youâre flinching like youâre in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashes if he wasnât so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.
âWhat the hell did you do?â
âTried to cut my own bangs,â you sigh. âIt didnât go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.â
Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. âYouâve seen Naruto?â
You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when heâs staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.
The air between you curdles like sour milk.
Things are awkward between you often, heâs realized recently. Whatâs more, he didnât think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailorâs knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh youâve given him since. Maybe thereâs more to it, maybe there isnâtâHyunjin doesnât think about it much. He doesnât like thinking in general.
You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere.Â
âOf course Iâve seen Naruto,â you quip, and everything is normal again. âWhy do you seem surprised?â
âBecause youâre so scholarly.â
âI am not scholarly.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.â
âI need to get my steps in somehow.â
âYou didnât know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look upââ
âGod, I learned so much about you that day."
âYour favorite social media platform is Quizlet,â he bursts, exasperated. âQuizlet.â
âIt is not.â An introspective pause. âOr is it?â
âI wouldnât be surprised.â Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. âThere is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I donât buy it.â
âHonestly, I thought youâd have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.â
He does, though. Matter of fact, heâs been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorerâs hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.
But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. Heâs reminded that itâs hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time, Vector resemblance and all.
He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.
âWatermelon,â he mumbles with a sickening smile.
You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. âYouâre getting soft.â
He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.
âI only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,â you say as youâre strolling out the building together, âand I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?â
âYour faith gets me out of bed in the morning,â Hyunjin deadpans. âIâll handle it, love. Text me your order.â
All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that heâd recognize anywhere.
âBody flicker jutsu,â you whisper, and then youâre scurrying off without another wordâbut you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quadâs busy thrum.
Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the courtâs sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.
âDonât look at me,â Minho says mid-stretch. âGodspeed.â
âThanks, cap.â Useless.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. Itâs all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the manâs propensity for violence. Heâs packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âYou can read, right?â
âYes, coach,â he sighs. Everyoneâs expectations for him are subterranean.
From: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Not good
See email from Hwangâs antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now heâs failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP
JP
Sent from my iPad
Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. âWrong email.â
âYep.â
From: Kim Kyeyoung «[email protected]»
To: Park Jinyoung «[email protected]»
Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin
To Director of Athletics Park,
I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kidsâ movie instead of his midterm paper.
It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him.
Regards,
Kim Kyeyoung
Professor of Anthropology
âThatâs bullshit!â
âWeâre in agreement there.â Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. âDo you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?â
âDoes anyone?â Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman. âNo way you just had that.â
âI had it delivered ten minutes ago,â Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. âAll student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.â
Hyunjin stiffens. âWhat the fuck? Iâve never heardââ
âIf any Department of Athletics personnel,â Bang continues, raising his voice, âhave reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.â
He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. âRead that name aloud for me.â
Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.
âHwang Hyunjin,â he says under his breath.
The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.
Then comes the yelling.
âThe Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?â
âIt was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! Howâs that for anthropology?â
âBAD!â Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. âVERY, VERY BAD!â
Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.
âYouâve never had trouble with school before.â He leans over his desk imposingly. âWhat the hell happened this semester? What changed?â
Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjinâs pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists havenât discovered yet.
He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.
âBeats me,â he fibs. âTypical junior year stress, maybe.â
âDoes any of it have to do with Piazza?âÂ
Hyunjin shudders.
It just might, actually.
Modesty has no place in the career heâs had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolution. Itâs a mouthful, he knows.
It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.
At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the worldâand current home to Hyunjinâs personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.
Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didnât ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.
Piazza replied within the week.
For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the teamâs social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazzaâs emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.
But thatâs the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because heâs laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldnât care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you canât contain your excitement. You, you, you.
He cards a hand through his air, regaining focus. âYou know how I feel about Piazza.â
âExpect the worst, hope for the best.â Bangâs chair skids backwards as he stands up. âI think itâs a good approach.â
Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.
âBut hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,â he says. âDo not let it, Hyunjin. Iâm not asking.â
Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin canât help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.
Bang lets go of him. âIâm not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.â
Hyunjin groans. âYeah, yeah. Iâm on it.â
A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.
âI thought you said your order was complicated.â
You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.
âWas it not?â You ask.
âIt was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.â
âWell, I wasnât sure if you could handle that much.â He flips you off as you squint at the cup. âSomeone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.â
âWhat? Really?â
âNo.â
He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; youâre still cackling by the time youâve straightened up again.
âWhy did you get this, anyway?â Hyunjin grumbles. âI thought you had a sweet tooth.â
âI do, but you donât.â
Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.
âThanks,â he says at last. âNice of you.â
âI know, right? Hated it,â you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.
You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âYo.â
Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. âI fully forgot you were in this class.â
âWell, Iâm due for my weekly appearance.â Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. âHey, Y/N.â
âHi,â you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.
You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the âI would relinquish all of my rights for youâ way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. Heâs funny, gorgeous, and talentedâa vocal performance major with a student-athlete contractâand you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks itâs hilarious.
You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. Youâre met with something far more worrisome.
Heâs thinking.
That canât be good.
Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. âCan this guy do his fucking job?â
âHe wouldnât have to if you didnât quit,â Seungmin answers. âIâll never forget you, Manager Hwang.â
âShut up.â You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. âOur captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League ruleâSeung, why do you look morose?â
âIâm mourning.â Seungmin does look morose indeed. âHyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the year. It was so funny.â
Hyunjin slides down his seat. âIt was the worst experience of my life.â
Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the larceny thing. You choose to digress. âCan I ask why?â
âHe had to be responsible,â Seungmin whispers. âFor other people.â
The top of Hyunjinâs head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. âPoor thing.â
âHardass refused to do it again this year, so now weâre recruiting.â Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. âI donât suppose you have four hours to spare every day.â
Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. âThis one? Team manager?â
âI can see it.â
âI can see killing myself, maybe.â
The next time you reach for him is to smack his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall, and Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.
âSeems like a great candidate to me,â Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, itâs pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.
Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. âI miss when you didnât come to class, Seungmin.â
Eighty minutes later, youâve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.
âSorry.â He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. âI couldnât unsee it.â
You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.
Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.
âI didnât like that at all,â you say.
âI donât care. I have something to tell you.â
âYou have a kid, donât you?â
âWhaâhuh? Who do you think I am?â
âThe one-night-standâs poster child. The champion of the contraception industry.â
âYeah, contraception industry. Itâs right there in the name.â
You canât argue with that.
âWhat do you have to tell me?â
A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjinâs face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that youâre about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you shouldâve saved the secret son bit for another time.
âIâm failing anthro.â
So much for a serious conversation.Â
âCome again?â
He repeats the mystifying statement.
âYouâre joking.â
The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair.
âYouâre failing anthro?â
âI just said that, yes.â
âYouâre failing anthropology?â
âMhm.â
âJust so weâre clearâyouâre failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?â
âYes. Iâm glad youâre having fun.â
This is the best day of your life. âI didnât even know that was possible.â
âYeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,â he mutters.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â Hyunjin clears his throat. âAnyways, I was thinkingââ
âWow! Congratulations. Thatâs a bigâoomfââ
Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.
âI was thinking,â he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, âyou and I can work out some kind of deal.â
You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. âI think I just ate some athletic tape.â
âHappens. You wanna hear the deal or not?â
âDoes it involve ingesting more sports equipment?â
âDo you want it to?â
âJust tell me the deal, boy.â
âAlright.â He takes a deep breath. âIf you help me pass this classâIâll set you up with Seungmin.â
Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: âIâm gonna need you to elaborate.â
âOn which part?â
âAll of them. Everything.â
Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. âAre you hungry?â
You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think itâs the prime minister youâre about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.
Heâs chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they donât know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that heâs drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager youâve had better company.
âYou like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.â He traces over the wrapperâs left corner. âAnd I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?â
âYes, definitely,â you mumble around a mouthful of bread. âPlease continue.â
âConclusion one: you should be my tutor.â He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. âYou also like my teammate, but heâs neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold ofâfor most people.â
âLet me guess. Not for you.â
âTen points to Ravenclaw.â His British accent is nightmarish. âSeung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.â
âTo dinner or to practice?â
âTo both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusionââ
He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.
ââyou should manage our team.â
âI knew it!â You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. âYouâre trying to swindle me! You canât pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?â
âItâs not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didnât do shit!â
âYeah? Who was your last manager?â
âMe!â
Oh, right. âBut you hated it!â
âI hate everything that isnât playing volleyball. Try again.â
You fold your arms over your chest. âYou said youâd kill yourself if I managed you.â
Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. âItâs true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seungâsââ
âSTOP!â A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. âStop right there. I get it. Stop.â
âItâs a good plan.â He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. âYou know it is.â
Youâre loath to admit that you do. âWhen did you even come up with all this?â
He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class.
âNo fucking wonder youâre failing.â
âWhat is this, mock trial?â
The owner of this voice is the third man youâve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighborâs cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. Thereâs a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like heâs enjoying the company of a court jester.
âSlamming tables like fuckinâ tariff lawyers,â the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âI could see it from all the way inside.â
âCaptain!â Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. âJust the man I was hoping to see.â
âReally? I thought youâd be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.â
âI would never.â
âYou did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.â He pauses for emphasis. âAs fast as possible.â
âWell, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.â Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. âAnd today, I bring you a new team manager.â
You stiffen. âI havenâtââ
âIs that so!â When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. âMusic to my ears. Whatâs your name, cutie?â
You catch Hyunjinâs eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungminâsâ
Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.
âY/N,â you grumble. âIâm looking forward to working with you.â
He shakes on it heartily. âLikewise. Iâm Minho. Welcome to the team.â
âYes, welcome to the team,â Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.
Heâs lucky that his proposal holds so much water. Heâs lucky that you donât plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.
You do kick him under the table, though.
The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You canât tell which is the bigger endeavor.
âIâm going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,â you tell Changbin.
The teamâs libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the universityâs sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and youâve already decided heâs the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.
âYou will not,â Changbin answers. âOne, because this wonât involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldnât ask you to help if it did.â
âYouâve misunderstood me,â you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. âI want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.â
âOh.â He opens the door with a frown. âOh dear.â
Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.
âI am going to get maimed,â Hyunjin tells Changbin.
âHave some faith, both of you,â Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages youâre looking for and begin poring over them like youâre cramming for an exam. âYouâll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.â
âStudied?â He repeats. âFor this?â
âIâm pretty sure Quizlets were made.â
âThree, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. âNow tape me.â
Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. âSee? What could go wrong?â
The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly âsprained his ass,â leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.
You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypressâlaundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesnât wear that insufferable cologne to practice.
âGo easy on me, yeah?â
While Hyunjinâs tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.
âI canât promise anything.â
With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.
A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. Itâs the first time youâve seen his fingers untaped; theyâre pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.
Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.
âYouâre not nervous, are you?â
âNo. Maybe a little.â You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. âFine, yes. Very.â
âBut you made Quizlets. Youâre prepared for anything.â
âThatâs what Iâm saying!â You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that heâs making fun of you. âI hate you.â
âActually,â he hums, âI think you care about me, love. Thatâs why youâre nervous.â
âNonsenseâI care about disappointing Changbin. Thatâs it.â
âAnd me. And hopping on Seungminâs dick. All these things donât have to be mutually exclusive.â
You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.
âHave you lost your mind?â You whisper-shout, your face on fire. âDonât bring that up here. Iâll maim you for real.â
The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you donât hate when that happens.
âMy bad, my bad. It slipped out. I wonâtââ
One incremental shift of Hyunjinâs body later, you find that youâre precariously, alarmingly close to one another.
So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath.Â
Things are awkward between you often, youâve realized recently. Youâre both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later youâll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.
Since youâve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. Youâre not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesnât go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as theyâre doing now.
Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.
âThank you,â he murmurs.
Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. âWhat for?â
He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.
âCaring about me.â
Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.
âNow stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.â
âOkay,â you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. âNo need to get violent.â
It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.
As youâre walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. âItâs not too tight, is it?â
âItâs perfect.â He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. âWant another taste?â
You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. âYou are truly grotesque.â
The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.
The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.
You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.
Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ballâs tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.
âOi, this isnât your backyard! Go pick that up!â Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.
Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. âCrazy bitch. What the fuck was that?â
âLower and faster. Further from the net too,â Seungmin returns. âHowâd it feel?â
The grin on Hyunjinâs face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. âLike we just won everything.â
He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. Youâve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjinâand you canât move.
It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.
A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you.Â
âHello?â He immediately starts laughing. âWhere the fuck are you?â
You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. âMy face is preoccupied at the moment.â
âOh, you have to show me. Please.â
You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.
âMotherfucker!â
He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.
âThank you,â he says earnestly. âIâll treasure this forever.â
âYouâll be punished, Hwang.â
âDonât threaten me with a good time.â
You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle.Â
âAaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.â
The first thing you did as Hyunjinâs tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the âtruly piteous timbreâ of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.
âYou shouldâve opened with that,â you grumble.
âI tried! Someone distracted me.â
âRead it before I change my mind.â
You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.
You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that itâs as if youâre leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.
Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldnât move for ten minutes.
With that, his attention span has run its course.
âBaby,â he interrupts gently. âLetâs stop here, okay? You seem tired.â
You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.
âI suppose I am,â you concede. âWill you keep working tonight?â
âI think so. I hit my stride.â
âText me if you have questions, then. Iâll respond when I wake up.â
âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjinâs face incurably quickly.Â
âI had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know,â you murmur.
âWhy is that?â
âWell, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime youâd experienced since preschool.â
âIt really is.â
âYou also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.â
âI really would.â
âAnd you once referred to academia as âVirgin Village.ââ
âDidnât you come up with that?â
âNo, hello? I live in that village.â
He grins. âI know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.â
âFuck you.â
âAh, donât threaten me with a goodââ
âWhat Iâm trying to say,â you cut in, âis that I didnât think you would take this seriously, but Iâm happy to be proven wrong.â
Hyunjin leans back. âWell, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.â
âReally?â
âNo.â
You pretend to punch him through the screen. Itâs so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.
âBut I do give a fuck about you.â
Thereâs nothing crazy about the statement. Youâre friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didnât. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a starâs final breath. And Hyunjinâs heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.
He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.
Then he opens his texts.
Hyunjin:
We have team bonding tomorrow btw
Hyunjin:
Donât forget
Y/N:
i forgot.
Y/N:
pick me up at 6:45?
Hyunjin:
đ«Ą
He picks you up at 7:53.
You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and heâs walking too close to your lawn.
âHis fault,â Hyunjin says before you start yelling.
Minho simpers at you through his open window. âHey, you! So glad you could join us!â
You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. âArenât you the captain? Why are you this late?â
âWhoa, okay. I wouldâve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.â
âYou did schedule it for earlier,â you say. âYou scheduled it for way earlier.â
âYeah, well, youâre fired.â
âYou canât fire me, Minho.â
âI can too. Tell âem, Hwang.â
âI want nothing to do with this.â
When you step through the doors of the arcade, youâre met with a surge of sensory input that you havenât experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that theyâve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.
âIâll go pay,â Hyunjin says. âHow much time do we want?â
âNo youâre not,â the two men answer in perfect unison.
You glance between them warily. âI donât mind watching, seriously. I donât even know how most of these games workââ
âThereâs Tetris,â Hyunjin cuts in.
You purchase an hour.
One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU menâs volleyball team, not to bond them. Youâve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like itâs a shot. Itâs a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.
But theyâre happy. Youâve picked up on it when theyâre on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as theyâre eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that youâre glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so specialâespecially because thereâs Tetris.
âHave you ever considered going pro?â Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.
You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. Heâs been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.
You donât respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.
âI already did,â you finally answer.
âSorry, what? You played professional Tetris?â
âIn middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.â You pause. âThen I got bored again and switched to chess.â
âHow do you look like this with these hobbies?â
Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. âI think Iâm washed.â
He looks at you like youâve lost your mind. âYou just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.â
âItâs a small pond,â you say, and an idea occurs to you. âDo you wanna try?â
âI get the feeling I donât have a choice.â
âThen youâre smarter than you look.â
âWell, you lookââ
His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.
âWhat was that?â
âUgly. I said you look ugly.â He cracks his knuckles. âNow letâs break some fuckin' blocks.âÂ
When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade.Â
He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy princeâand heâs with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.
Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.
Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjinâs chair. You canât watch. You canât think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.
âSeung!â Thatâs Jisung, you think. âYou made it!â
âYo, sorry weâre late.â Thatâs Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. âDinner took longer than I thought.â
âMin, are you sure Iâm allowed to be here?â You donât know who this voice belongs to and youâre not sure you want to. âI feel like Iâm intrudingââ
âHwang,â you say suddenly. âI have to go.â
He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. âAlready?â
âI forgot I had an important call to make.â You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. âSorry. Iâll see you on Monday.â
You have touched Hyunjinâs hands many times. Heâs asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment.Â
Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when itâs been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.
He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.
âDo you want to be alone?â
You have never been asked such a thingâyou have never asked to be asked such a thingâbut, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes.Â
âYes, please,â you whisper, and you pull your hand away.
When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting.Â
Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where youâve left your phone.
You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.
Hyunjinâs right; the team manager doesnât have to do much.
Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someoneâs waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything your schedule allows.Â
Last week, you could be found helping Minho put down the volleyball nets, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professorâs distinct âcabbage scent.â Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammatesâ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the teamâs water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. Youâd spent more time in the gymnasium in those ten days than you had in the last ten years.
Then came the arcade.
Five days have come and gone. You havenât attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. Youâve taken the best notes of your life. He doesnât mention the previous weekend; he doesnât mention much of anything.Â
In person, that is.
That Friday afternoon, youâre reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. Itâs from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.
Then you listen to it again.
And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.
As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you havenât the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.
Coach Bang is leaving the building just as youâre approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe itâs the shadowy landscape; more likely itâs the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.
âItâs been a while,â he greets.
âCoach,â you return, lowering your head. âI want to apologize forââ
âSave it,â he says, not unkindly. âThereâs nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.â
You manage a grateful smile. âIâll be back starting next week.â
âIâm glad to hear it.â He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. âI would give him some space, by the way.â
Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.
Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation.Â
Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when heâs picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where itâs plastered to his neck. Heâs alone.
You only catch sight of Hyunjinâs face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.
âI was told to give you space,â you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball heâs holding.
His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that theyâve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.
âIs this enough space?â
More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.
âDonât make me go further, please. Iâm not ready to die.â
Finally, this earns you a smile. Itâs not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.
The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You donât care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.
The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. Youâre worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.
Thereâs a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights.Â
âHow do you see under these things?â
âI donât,â he returns. âI complained about it to Coach once.â
âAnd?â
âHe made them brighter.â
âSounds about right.â
He spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjinâs way with words.
But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. Itâs not that Hyunjin has a way with words; itâs that heâs brave enough to break the silences that you canât, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you wonât have to.
This cannot be his burden alone.
You inhale. âWhatâs on your mind?â
Hyunjin doesnât answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes; the lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.
âI donât think I know how to put it into words.â
You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. âDonât think, just talk. Iâm here.â
The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.
âDo you remember Ishikawa Yuki?â
âYour role model?â
âHeâs currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.â He blows out a deep breath. âIâve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.â
The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. âHoly shit, Hwang.â
âHe emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, heâs excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldnât wrap my head around anything. I still canât.
âI am who I am because of that man, and nowâŠI have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why Iâm notânot happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he wouldââ
You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.
Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.
You stop thinking after that.
You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.
You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.
âDonât fight it.â You trace over the hill of his cheek. âHealing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.â
His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.
âYou donât have to continue if you canât.â
âSâokay.â Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. âI want to.â
You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before. Does he do the same?
âI used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feetâI blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.â He smiles at the memory. âBut every time I came close to quitting, Iâd go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and Iâd promise myself it would be me on some other kidâs screen someday.
âThat kid would tell everyone whoâd listen about how cool I am. That Iâm a secret superhero. That Iâm living proof humans can fly if they really, really tryâjust like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.
âThe other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proudâeven if it meant losing myself.â He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. âThatâs whatâs on my mind.â
Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.
The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; itâs long overdue.
âEvery time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,â you say. âHe is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.â
Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.
âJeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,â you continue, âeven for things related to schoolâwhich I still find hard to believe, Iâm not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.
âI know you think he canât stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. Itâs written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. Youâre like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.â
âThen thereâs me.â You pause to catch your breath. âWhen I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didnât like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone elseâs personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.
âBut I found a person. Someone who wouldnât know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearlyâyour body is not normal, by the way.â
Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like youâre flying.
âDonât get me wrong,â you say. âYour sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when Iâm around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.â
The next time you blink, you discover that heâs not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?
âThereâs so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.â You give him a watery smile. âThat kid will be spoiled for choice.â
When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: âI knew you cared about me.â
You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.
âHow the fuck are you still sweaty?â You choke out, and you think you like his cologne after all.
Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.
A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like youâve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead.Â
Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.
âCan you come inside, please? My RA will think Iâm doing some freaky shit again.â
You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. âWhat, exactly, does freaky shit entail?â
He smirks as the door falls shut. âYou want me to tell you or show you?â
You turn to Kkami, disgusted. âYour ownerâs a bit of a pervert, my dear.â
Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjinâs eyes narrow to slits.
âTraitor.â
Naturally, Hyunjinâs parents chose the eve of his final anthropology examâand the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his careerâto ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration.Â
âDo you want anything to drink?â He calls from the kitchen area.
You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. âWhat do you have?âÂ
âAlcohol.â He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. âAmericanos.â
He stops speaking.
âIs that all?â
âYes. Waitâand apple juice.â
âYou are about to be a professional athlete.â
âWhat the Italians donât know wonât hurt them. You want apple juice, donât you? I can see it in your eyes.â
âMaybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.â
Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.
âLetâs get this over with.â
At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.
At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.
You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then heâs kicking open the door.
Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a monthâs worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.
âHyunâKkami?â Seungmin swivels. âYo, what the fuck isââ
Hyunjin is already out the door.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.
âWhat is this thing?â Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass.Â
âKkami gets sad after throwing up,â he sighs. âHis blanket makes him feel better.â
Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. âHe ate too fast again?â
Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. âI donât get it. Nobodyâs gonna take his food from him.â
Seungmin laughs. âI didnât even know he was on campus.â
âI picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for workâthey say hi, by the way.â
âI say hi back. I miss your momâs cooking.â
âMe too,â Hyunjin says, smiling. âShe would love to cook for you againâsheâs always saying youâre too skinny.â
âShe really is.â
A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.
Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of themâa concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjinâs backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjinâs dissuading; half of Hyunjinâs fatherâs wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.
It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the netâs fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungminâs hitterâSeungmin, always Hyunjinâs setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.
At least, thatâs what Hyunjin used to think.
Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know?Â
Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he canât remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not âtalkedâ as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practiceââtalkedâ as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.
Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago.Â
âYeonwoo, right?â
He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what heâs trying to doâand forgives him.
âYeonwoo,â Seungmin affirms. âWeâre in the same songwriting intensive this semester.â
âAlso a singer?â
He shakes his head. âPiano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I donât think Iâve ever met someone so talented.â
âWow, thatâsâhi, old man. You done?â
Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkamiâs head as he hydrates.
âYouâve suffered,â he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.
âAs I was sayingâthatâs crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.â
âThanks. Itâs weird. Iâm happy.â
âYou deserve it. You really do, Kim.â They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. âWhen are you introducing us?â
âThe arcade wasnât enough?â
âDonât insult me.â
âWhenever you want, then.â
âDinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,â Hyunjin recounts. âIâm holding you to it.â
âBet.â
They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasnât already reassured by Seungminâs smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that theyâll be okay.
âWhat about you?â Seungmin asks. âAre you together yet?â
Hyunjin knew this was coming. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou know what I mean.â Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. âSomeone you have questions for that youâre too scared to ask. Someone whoâs lived in your mind since the day you met. Thereâs someone like that, isnât there?â
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.Â
Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjinâs been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.
He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time youâre within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because heâs happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.
Itâs impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. Heâs already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?
Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. âThere is.â
Hyunjin doesnât know what to say.
âIt mightâve been me, at some point,â he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkamiâs ears. âBut it has always been you, Hyun.â
Four floors above them and inside Hyunjinâs place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkamiâs return.
Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all thatâs in front of you.
Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what mustâve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns districtâs first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of âace spikerâ label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang âChristopherâ Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. Thereâs oneâWho is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolutionâbeside which heâs written the singular word âmouthful.â You laugh; you agree.
But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.
You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as youâre playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you canât see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kimâs email. You, you, you.
You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didnât know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.
It has always been him.
The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes.Â
Itâs not awkward this time.
Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.
He moves his eyes to his best friendâs back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play theyâve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration.Â
He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.
The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjinâs heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. Heâs not scared at all.
He balls his fingers into fists.
âJUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACEââ
An arm seizes Hyunjinâs neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He canât feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesnât care. He doesnât care.
ââDEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEARââ
His eyes find Seungminâs among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungminâs gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.
He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.
ââYOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!â
Hyunjinâs post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.
The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: âIs there anyone youâd like to thank?â
Hyunjin exhales. âYou want the short answer or the longââ
Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.
âLove you,â he yells before hurrying off.Â
âLove you too, Bin.â
Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.
âThe short answer,â she deadpans.
He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his familyâhis first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys heâs ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.
In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. Thereâs a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.
Hyunjin thanks you.
You didnât ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and theyâre all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselvesâitâs hard to believe youâve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.
What are you like? What arenât you like, is the better question. Youâre caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sunâs doting radius, and so did he.
You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; youâre wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky, and theyâd be right.
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.
âWhy the fuck am I still talking to you?âÂ
âPardon?â The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.
He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.
He calls out to you.
You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the areaâs busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but heâs used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.
Youâre beautiful. God, youâre fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like heâs everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will.Â
Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashesâif he didnât have something far better to do.
âTell me now if you donât want me to do this,â he whispers.
A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. âMy lips are sealed.â
Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before theyâre colliding again.
He kisses you until heâs crying, again, until heâs no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and heâs really won everything, now.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.
âThanks, cap.â Hyunjin swears heâs had this exact exchange before.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âRead.â
From: Nicola Daldello «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game
Christopher,
Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza.
It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki.
Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwangâs travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club.
Iâm looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all.
Yours,
Nicola Daldello
Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano
âI told you, some opportunities just present themselves,â Bang says, turning his monitor back around. âAs for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social evâHwang, is that foam coming out of your moâNOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!â
In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baekâs king with a triumphant yelp.
âI knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!â She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. âYou! Get over here. Your reign is over.â
You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldnât even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.
âAs excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,â you call back.Â
She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.
Hyunjin:
Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris
Hyunjin:
Same park?
Y/N:
yes
Hyunjin:
Whoâs the opp today
Y/N:
mrs. choi
Hyunjin:
Not that bitch again
Y/N:
?
Heâll be here in eight minutes.
You return to the task at hand. Youâve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all thatâs left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely youâll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.
Instead of hitting the âdeleteâ button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.
You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.
He finds you a sobbing mess.
âHey, hey, whoa.â Heâs on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. âBaby, whatâs happening? Are you okay?â
âYes,â you say in a flustered haste. âYes, Iâm okay. I donâtâI donât really know whatâs happening.â
âDid that hag do this to you?â He asks this question so seriously. âIâll beat up a senior citizen, I donât give a fuckââ
âNo!â You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. âNo, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.â
âThen what is it? Whatâs wrong?â
Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.
Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.
âIâll tell you later,â you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline.Â
He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then youâre smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.
You rest your foreheads together. âHave I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?â
He smiles. âDoes that make you my flower, then?â
âBecause youâre irresistably drawn to me?â
âNo, because I wanna put my pollen inââ
You shove him away. âYou are grotesque.â
He returns in a flash. âYou love me.â
You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.
âWhy did Coach hold you back, by the way?â You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. âAre you in trouble again?â
âNo, no. The opposite, actually.â
Your brow furrows. âThe opposite? Whatââ
âIn this lifetime, please,â Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.
âDuty calls, my love.â
âTell me your thing later too?â
âOf course.â
You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, ânow watch me beat up a senior citizen.â
He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.
âHypocrite.â
Hyunjin:
[1 Audio Message]
This is my seventh take and Iâm not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I donât care anymore.
I understand if you donât wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldnât, either. I just wanted to say that you donât have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I wonât be able to fulfill my end of our deal, soâŠyeah, it wouldnât be fair to you. Youâve already done so much for us. For me.
As for team manager, youâll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesnât sound like a fun conversation, I knowâbut if thatâs what you decide, Iâll have your back. They donât scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.
Youâve beenâŠdistant, this week. Iâve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldnât care less if youâre my tutor or my team manager or whateverâI just donât want you to be a stranger. Maybe thatâs selfish of me to say, but Iâm tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesnât terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.
Iâm gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I wouldâve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, andâŠIâm sorry about everything. You deserve better.
Come back to me whenever youâre ready, okay? Iâll be waiting.
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WHAT THE HEAL đ€Ż... ive seen lots of good writing here last year but this one's my first fave for this year and the fact that it involves volleyball is so exciting for me bc its also one of my fave sports TT
i dont even have the right words to express how well this was written but to put it simply, i love it bc it's so beautifully written that it genuinely had me like this đ§đł while reading IM QUITE LITERALLY SPEECHLESS DUDEđ
from start to end it was so good !! loved how there was clear parallels in the start and towards the end (the email/calling hyun to the office). AND HELLO THE VOICE NOTE ENDING??? i havent seen that done so that was such a creative way to end it !!
the emotions were felt, i love how you wrote someone loving a person (thru thoughts and dialogue) without being so direct with itâlike it's honestly refreshing to read, jaw dropping and heart racing, you did it so well !! thank you for writing this one ! đ«¶đŒ this deserves more recognition đ„čđ€đ€
the yapping tw made me giggle. i love yapping. i am very good at it myself. in fact i'm about to prove it rn
i'm so glad to hear that u enjoyed ace sm (and that it reached another volleyball lover)! thank you so much for reading and leaving me such kind words about the writing and the couple's dynamic đ€
(and thank you for liking the ending hehe i had a lot of fun with it. i originally had the content of the voice note inserted right after mc receives it but the things he said ended up feeling so Conclusive that i realized it could only belong to the end. most of the time writing feels like trying to catch a snake in the wild, but sometimes the scenes write themselves. this was one of those times)
â you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.
wordsă»11.1k
pairingă»idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)
genresă»fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative, alternating perspectives
warningsă»cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia. again, MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS THAT INTERACT WITH THIS POST WILL BE BLOCKED.
warnings (cont'd.)ă»reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack. alcohol is consumed. lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication. latter half is just kind of sad in general tbh but what do u expect from a fic based off alex turner lyrics
playlistă»farewell, neverland by txtă»like crazy by jimină»black friday by tom odellă»collide by justine skyeă»crying lightning by arctic monkeys
a/nă»call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :â) i donât deserve u i love u
Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.
Youâve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.
As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.
This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and youâve steeled yourself to see it through.
But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the showâs addressâand, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find youâre more interested in Hyunjinâs peculiar silence.
You move your gaze to his face. Heâs looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.
Maybe itâs because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe itâs because youâve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.
âNervous?âÂ
Hyunjinâs head swivels towards you with a small snap, like heâs forgotten youâre here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.
âNo,â he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. âFuck, maybe a little. Itâs just hard to believe, you know?â
You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brandâs pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the worldâs most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even youâve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjinâs anxiety.
You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But youâve always known just what to say when it comes to him.
âJust remember who you are.â
Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You donât see this change in posture, though. Youâre too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.
Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjinâs lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.
Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.
âI want you to meet my parents.â
Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; âplease,â he adds, and youâre biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.
The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He canât tell if you hate each other or if youâre married.
One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.
âI still canât believe youâre abandoning me.â
âFor my newborn daughter.â
âYeah, okay. I still canât believe youâre abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I donât?â
âMy genes, to begin with.â
âThatâs unfair. Sheâs usingââ
An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their âgood morningâs prim and professional.
âSheâs using cheats,â Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.
Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.
Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, heâd grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than heâd thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because theyâd become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldnât imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.
Today is a Saturday, but itâs also Seojunâs last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldnât have missed it for the world.
âFourth floor,â Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. âThanks.â
The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.
âWhat was her name again?â Hyunjin asks.
âY/N,â Seojun returns. âY/L/N.â
âIs she here already?â
âNo, sheâll be here at nine.â
Thereâs a small pause.Â
âHyung.â
âHm?â
âI feel like Iâm being married off to another family for political reasons.â
âGod, I canât wait to be free of your theatrics.â
At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.
âYouâll be in good hands,â Seojun reassures. âSheâs the best of the best. I hear sheâs basically running the industry these days. Iâm surprised she agreed to take you on.â
âIâm surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,â Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.
âYouâre not wrong, though,â Seojun concedes. âWe happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and weâve kept in touch ever since. Sheâs a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hellââ
They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.
She reminds me of him.
âHeâs forgotten how to walk,â the him in question whispers like heâs narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. âIs this what fatherhood does to a man?â
Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.
The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and heâs suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.
At 8:57, Seojunâs phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjinâs direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.
âFor that,â Hyunjin sputters, âIâm the godfather.â
âAbsolutely the hell not.â
Then, it is 9:00.
When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.
âThere she is,â Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. âGod, how long has it been? Two, three years now?â
Youâre not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojunâs direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that youâre cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path.Â
With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojunâs hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like youâve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.
Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and heâs reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.
âSomething like that,â you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. âItâs great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.â
âPlease, Seojun is fine,â he answers hastily. âAnd thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I canât tell you how excited we are to have you.âÂ
âYouâre too kindâIâm excited too.â
Upon uttering the word âwe,â Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.
The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like heâs approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.
Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until heâs as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.
He ends up losing its trail, but he wonât forget that itâs there.Â
âMy client, Iâm guessing?â You say, extending your hand. âY/N. Itâs a pleasure.â
Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.
But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; heâs nothing, if not tenacious.
âHyunjin,â he returns. âPleasureâs all mine.â
Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.
Hyunjin isnât sure whyâmaybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingersâbut heâs learned over the last four weeks that youâre different, gentler, when youâre doing his makeup.
Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco youâve painted upon him.
Your expression doesnât give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that thereâs a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like youâre touching his petals, trying not to tear them.
Too bad you never let him daydream for long.
âClose.â
âHuh?â
âYour eyes. Close them.â
His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjinâs features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.
A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.
âWitch,â Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.
âThank you,â you reply, completely earnestly.
And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if thereâs anything you donât know.
âYou smudged your lipstick already.â Thereâs a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. âSee? Thatâs why we need the setting spray.â
âUh huh.â And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.
âYouâre done, by the way,â you say, stepping aside. âTake a look.â
He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if heâs never seen it before. But thatâs how heâs felt since he started working with you.
Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like itâs the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when itâs you maneuvering them. And then some.
He would call what you have âtalent,â but he knows itâs more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering youâve only known him for two months. So no, itâs not just talent that you possess. Itâs some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhumanâand sexy as fuck.
Speaking of sexy. Hyunjinâs look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But itâs the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesnât look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.
You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. âYou can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought youâd appreciate that detail.â
At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. âYou suck.â
He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks itâs so painfully on brand that the two times itâs appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person heâs ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.
âWell?â You implore. âWhat do you think?â
âNo notes.âÂ
Itâs the answer youâre expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.
âIâll see you after the show, then.â
You have an important conference call to attend before tonightâs concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour.Â
Itâs rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesnât want it to end. Not just yet.
âI lied, actually,â he calls. âI do have notes.â
You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laughâthe concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.
âDo tell,â you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.
âYou have any jewelry for me?â
You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the groupâs dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.
You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. âCome here, then,â you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.
You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.
âYouâre sure you wonât be uncomfortable?â
He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you donât seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.
Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, youâre already working on the third and final necklace. Itâs not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; heâs been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows youâre closer to each other than youâve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesnât showâthe soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lipsâand these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.
You are the type of beautiful thatâs been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.
In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.
When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but youâre debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hipâlightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjinâs hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.
And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that itâll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesnât give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesnât care.
âLet me take you out,â he murmurs. âOne date.â
âWhat the hell are you talking about?â You reply under your breath.
âYou know what Iâm talking about, beautiful.â
Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you donât. You merely hiss out a whetted âyouâre fucking crazy,â and thatâs his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.
âAbout you? Damn straight.â
At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isnât just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.
And heâs surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you wouldâve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever heâs been granted the privilege of your presence.
This might be the first time heâs admitted it out loud, but he hasnât triedâhasnât been ableâto hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. Itâs been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.
 âHwangââ You begin.
âHyung!â
At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like youâre about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now youâre just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.
âHey, Innie!â Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boyâs sunny tone. âWhatâs up?âÂ
In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You donât think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.
Youâre flustered.
You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall.Â
âNothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,â Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany youâre having behind him. âChan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?â
âSheâs in high demand.â Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. âThe usual.â
âAh.â
Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjinâs face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isnât stupid, unlike his older counterpart.
âI saw a vending machine on my way here,â Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. âYou want anything, hyung? Noona?â
âIâm okay, thank you,â you say.
âIâll have whatever you have,â Hyunjin says.
Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.
You wait until you canât hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks youâre about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.
Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows heâll live to see another day.
âYou still owe me an answer,â Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.
âDonât hold your breath,â you reply.
One day, Iâll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjinâs head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, Iâll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. Thatâs the two of you, in a nutshell.
Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.
When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, âI have no idea what the fuck Iâm doing.â
Thereâs an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjinâs empty vanity chair. She hasnât noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonightâs performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.
You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until sheâs within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.
âNever gets old.â You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.
âI canât remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.â
âMe neither, now that you mention it.â
Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because theyâre so eerily similarâand itâs adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.
But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeunâs voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, thatâs another quality that she and her client share; theyâre both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.
Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeunâs is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. Youâve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasnât a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.
You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the albumâs cover and pushing it closed.
âCome with me,â you say. âWeâre gonna try a new approach.â
Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.
âWhat do you have in mind?â She sighs instead.
âYouâll see.â
With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.
The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venueâs backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the groupâs manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonightâs concert.
Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze.Â
âLet me ask you this,â you say, just audible over the din. âCan you style a performer if you donât know how he performs?â
And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.
âI want you to watch him,â you continue. âTell me how he performs.â
Hanâs part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.
âDonât think, Haeun. Just speak.â
She blows out a deep breath before obliging. âItâs hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, heâs so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But heâs like a different person on stage. Heâs so intense, itâs almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, thoughâyou just get the impression that heâs very confident in himself and his music.
You donât say another word, but donât need to. Sheâs hit her stride.
âHis voice and enunciation are so clear. Itâs crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; heâs not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.
âAnd this is gonna sound bad, but I didnât know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is beingââ
Right there.
She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.
âItâs his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "Heâs demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. Thatâs how he performs.â
A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. âCouldnât have said it better myself.â
Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework youâve helped her forge. Sheâs almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.
âYouâre brilliant, you know that?â
âI do, but I appreciate the reminder.â
She canât help but giggle. Itâs a you answer if sheâs ever heard one. âDo you do that with all of your clients?â
Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesnât think sheâs ever witnessed before, and sheâs momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.
As the songâs final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then itâs palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.
Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mindâbut one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.
Artistry.
âNo,â you reply. âNot all of them.â
And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?
Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you donât elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.
The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage managerâs voice comes through the monitors.
âAnd thatâs a wrap! Weâre all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.â
There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.
You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.
Youâre annoyed before he says a word.
âI didnât know they were letting fans backstage now,â he hums happily. âWant an autograph, gorgeous?â
âPut a sock in it.â You whisk the towel youâve been holding in his direction. âWet freak.â
But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. Youâve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.
âNo.â You take a shaky step back. âNo, nope, donât even think aboutââ
The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. âCall me a wet freak again, go on,â he manages to say through his laughter.Â
In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjinâs ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesnât relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.
You tighten your grip. âWet,â you seethe, âfreak.â
âOwâokay, donât make it hot, whatâs wrong with you?â
âWhaâwhatâs wrong with YOU?!â
As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that sheâs still standing here. Sheâs not even sure if sheâs in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when itâs him on the receiving end.
âPsst. Weâve been placing bets on them. You want in?â
Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasnât so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.
But what if sheâs not hallucinating?
No, not all of them, youâd said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.
âYes,â she says, and Han beams. âAbsolutely.â
Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.
You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like theyâre topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like youâre monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.
Youâve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.
You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that youâve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.
When you were little, you came across a childrenâs book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.
At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industryâs most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.
You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.
For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the worldâs most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.
If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.
The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.
You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that youâd been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds.Â
As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how youâd shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.
By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.
You are now twenty-two, and the word âcoldâ has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but youâre no longer surprised to find it at your door. Itâs a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks youâre not lookingâa fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couchâand you know whenever youâre being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.
You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.
Hyunjin does not.
âThree words to describe yourself. Go,â he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session.Â
You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didnât bother trying to dodge this one. âYou first.â
âSmart, sexy, suave,â he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. âFine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitelyâmaybe overly so. And artistic. Iâd like to think so, at least. Satisfied?â
The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.
âNow you.â
Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you werenât sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didnât trust himâyou did, more than you had anyone in yearsâbut because you didnât know what youâd do with yourself if he agreed. You werenât sure your heart would be able to take it.
When you met the boyâs gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.
âCold,â you mumbled. âIâve been called cold before.â
There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And thenâ
âThatâs a joke, right?â
Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.
âMean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though Iâd rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.â
At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.
âDetermined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,â he went on. âYou get my point. Youâre a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isnât oneââ
He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.
ââand not just because youâre hot.â
You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.
Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.
âThank you,â you said.
The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.
âIdiot,â he sighed softly.
Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete.Â
When you stand up, the bottle is mostly goneâand so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin arenât just theories.
[3:10 A.M.]
To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP)
Audio Message.wav
Hi. Iâm drunk and Iâm going to regret this tomorrow. But thatâs tomorrowâs business. Thereâs something I need to tell you tonight.
After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard âI wanna go homeâ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I wouldâve been happy for it to.
But I havenât felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. Iâve never felt seen the way you see me. Iâve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I donât have to dream of it anymore.
You called me fearless the other day, but youâre wrong. Iâm terrified. Iâm terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And thatâs why Iâm so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I donât want to go through that ever again.
So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that Iâm scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But itâs not speaking it into existence if Iâm drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what Iâm talking about. Maybe youâll never even hear this. So it doesnât count. Thatâs how that works, surely.
Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that Iâm so bad at feelings. You must think Iâm impossible, and I donât blame you.
Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.
One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.
When Hyunjin steps out of the hotelâs tall glass double doors, heâs wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like heâs an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.
Youâre the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.
A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.
âTomorrow night,â youâre saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. âThe absolute earliest. Youâre sure?â
When you finish listening to the managerâs response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that shouldâve splintered your screen protector.
Then, you start walking towards him.
âHi,â Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. âYou are so talented and beautiful. I donât tell you that often enough, do I?â
He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort thatâs twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth thatâs always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that heâs always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.
A shiver travels down Hyunjinâs spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.
Somethingâs not right.
âWeâre gonna have to stay here another day,â you say. âCan you check us in? I have some calls to make.â
âUs?â Hyunjin repeats.
âJunghan could only reserve one room,â you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. âThe hotel is fully booked for the next few months.â
With that, youâre already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that heâs going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.
Go, you mouth, and he obliges.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates itâs an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoeverâs inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he canât think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises shouldâve been.
Hyunjinâs initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isnât an isolated issue. Itâs the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.
You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. Heâs learned where to look for your feelings when he canât find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like theyâre verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldnât recognize you. Heâd blinked, startled, and then youâd asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.
Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didnât seem all that differentâa bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but youâd been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.
âStupid,â Hyunjin whispers bitterly.
He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like heâd been dismissed from before your throne.
As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesnât understand how or whyâbut he canât shake the feeling that heâs failed you.
Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesnât know why he even tries. Heâs exhausted, but he knows damn well thereâs no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.
He doesnât look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotelâs entrance.
You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.
âHyunjin?â
His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. âYeah?â
âOh, youâre awake,â you answer. âMove to the bed. Youâre not sleeping on that thing.â
He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and thereâs a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bedâs mattress.
âHello? Did youââ
âIs everything okay?â
A short pause follows his interruption.
âI still have a few emails to write, but everythingâs been rescheduled, so as long as you donât miss tomorrowâs flight, too, we should beââ
The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. âThatâs not what I mean.â
The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but itâs enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjinâs expression.
âEnlighten me, then,â you say finally.
âYou really donât know?â
âWhat is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, Iâm aware.â
âNo, thatâs notââ
âSo what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?â
Thereâs real frustration in your voice, and itâs the first time youâve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.
He wonders if youâre prepared to destroy yourself, too.
âI know how you are around me,â you whisper. âYouâre always acting like youâre trying to unearth something, and I figure this âsomethingâ must be wonderful, because you look at me like Iâm made of stars; you speak to me like youâre serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this âsomethingâ doesnât exist, that youâre looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person.Â
âI know itâs selfish to ask for anything more than what youâve already given meâyouâre so kind, Hyunjin, and youâve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.
âTell me what you see in me,â you plead. âOtherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.â
With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware ofânever asked forâthe throne you sit upon.
For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You havenât felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe.Â
When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.
âAfter you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.â
Your mind careens; your heart reels.Â
âThey came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.â He takes a tentative step towards you. âYou thought it was going to swallow you alive. You wouldâve been happy for it to.â
You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldnât check for a read receipt.
But thereâs not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjinâs lips.
âYou havenât felt that way since you met me, though.â He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. âYouâve never felt seen the way I see you. Youâve never been known the way I know you.â
God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?
âYouâre terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.â Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. âI must think youâre impossible.â
And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fractureâ
âI donât,â Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, âbecause youâre not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. Thatâs what I see in you.â
âand crumble.
You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjinâs hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.
When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.
Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.
Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you.Â
One part of it is that he physically canât; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesnât want to. Heâs afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.
Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesnât stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.
âTrust me?â He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.
âMore than anyone,â you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.
Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your elementâtonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand.Â
Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjinâs privilege alone.
He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and youâre about to ask if heâs okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping foldsâand every word of every language youâve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.
He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that heâs lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjinâs head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.
He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until youâre spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until itâs pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until youâre curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system.Â
âComing,â you blabber after some time. Tell me something I donât know, he thinks to himself. âComing, Hyune. Iâmâfuckââ
Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way youâre so dilapidated from pleasure that youâre genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesnât care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there canât be rests in the sheet music, can there?
He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your bodyâs protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.
âSon of a bitchââ
âTrust me?â He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod.Â
At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. Heâs so rough and so fucking careful at once like he canât decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.
Heâll end up doing both.
Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasureâbut he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and itâs not long before the former is compounding with the latter.
Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.
As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.
After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.
He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongueâand you know he wonât ask for it. Heâs tested you enough tonight; heâd rather your comfort than his pleasure.
But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.
âLove me?â You ask this time, for the first time.
There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, âwith everything in me.â
He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff heâd dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him tooâand the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.
This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.
Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.
For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen youâve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.
âWhere do you find your inspiration?âÂ
As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versaceâs newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.
âMy inspiration, hm?â You fall silent for a short time, thinking. âIf you asked me this at the start of my career, Iâd have said âpeople.â Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the modelsâ attire helped them harness their innate power and graceâI wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, donât you?
âSome time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a âmuseâ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, soââ
Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist wouldâve flinched out of habit if he wasnât so mesmerized by your eloquence.
ââwhere better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?â
A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane.Â
The journalist laughs, and he doubts youâll give him this next piece of informationâbut heâll be damned if he doesnât try.
âAnd who would that be?â
Heâs right. You donât answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.
đ (send an ask to be added)ă»@astraystayyhă»@like-a-diamondintheskyă»@fire-08ă»@starsandrqindropsă»@txtxlză»@laylasbunbunnyă»@strayghibliă»@nuronhe
hi hi, hereâs a short informal essay for xianâs fic because they deserve it đ«¶đ» spoilers obvi, please go read it!!
I understand why youâre so proud of this fic, because you definitely should be! you know I love when fics are inspired by songs, and not only inspired by but intertwined with the story being told in that song. I think a fic like this doesnât just draw from the song to inspire a story, but adds to the experience of listening to that song after the fic has been read. and I think my favourite part, is that you took this character in âcrying lightningâ (the song) and completely fleshed out her personality in your fic. the reader is not just a fill-in, or an idea, she really does personify the song. I think I could believe she inspired the song, and not vice versa.
the characterization in this fic is phenomenal, not just for the reader character but for hyunjin as well. I really liked how you set the first scene in present time so readers didnât have to wait to get the great interactions between her and hyunjin, and then jumped back to when they first met. then each subsequent scene followed a pattern of getting closer to present time again. timeskipping can get confusing very easily and you kept it linear, so it was very easy to follow. and exciting to read, because we see the little ways their relationship progresses instead of the jarring difference between their introduction and the end of the fic.Â
I really enjoyed âthe gameâ we saw being played out between hyunjin and the reader as well (and how I think the chorus of âcrying lightningâ inspired a great portion of this fic). some of my fave tropes were in this fic too: hyunjin falls first but mc falls harder, mc never notices how hyunjin looks at her when sheâs looking away, and drunk texting (audio messaging?) her feelings and hyunjin pretends he doesnât know (until heâs ready to give mc his confession). I really like how hyunjin is always looking at mc, and truly seeing her as well. even when he confesses itâs more to comfort her about her insecurities than satisfy his own attraction. he knows her so well before she pours her heart out to him, and in the rare moments heâs not observing her she is studying him back. and I loved this dynamic of slowly falling for each other more and more with everything they learn about the other. itâs also funny how in the opening scene theyâre so comfortable together, and you see them mostly understanding each other with little effort while the cab driver doesnât understand them at all. two complex people making a complex relationship, but it makes perfect sense to them.
their dynamic was just perfect too. I loved their hot and cold; hyunjin being immediately smitten and mc having a cold reputation that sheâs sort of resigned herself too. also the line âhe has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot fleshâ was SO HOT!! that whole scene was amazing, but I especially loved this line specifically. itâs symbolic of the beginning ways hyunjin is warming reader and etching away at her cold exterior. I love the opposites attract we see with them, because I think in some ways theyâre very similar and thatâs why they understand each other. but we get really funny moments of hyunjin getting under her skin and pissing her off, and how itâs extra aggravating for mc because sheâs a perfectionist. sheâs also been placed on this pedestal, and to maintain her reputation she has to stay cool and emotionless. she really doesnât open up easily and tries to freeze people out when they warm up to her. but we know even though she tries to keep her distance, we can see hyunjin rubbing off on her when she brings him the towel. that was also a great scene, like so lighthearted and cute while also being silly and showing how close theyâre getting.
and finally: the hotel room scene. my favorite part of this fic, where we see the total clash of their opposing traits. mc finally cracks and crumbles, lashing out and fully giving in to red hot anger, and hyunjin finally shelves his own passion to calm down for her. like he is still very much in love and has an emotional response, but for once heâs not having this dramatic display of emotions or throwing himself at her. he takes the more careful approach because he can see that sheâs finally lost her composure and she needs a level head to bring her back and reassure her. and at the end of it all, all the games they have been playing with each other, he is still there to admire the strength of her vulnerability. theyâve been dancing around these walls and opportunities, but hyunjin shows that he really is serious about her. and in turn, he gets to truly see her for the first time as a result of all the quiet studying and (overt) pining he has been doing.
I love this pairing and as Iâve already said before, I am a âcrying lightningâ enjoyer lol the love you get on this fic is very well deserved. it was a pleasure to read it, and Iâm so happy about the extended content that goes with it. also âaceâ is def on my tbr. I love seeing the different ways you write hyunjin and I know it will be a treat to see your next portrayal. and Iâll be keeping my eye out for more fics in the âcrying lightningâ universe (I read all the ones that are out right now lol). thank you for waiting on my feedback and if you ever want to ramble about this masterpiece, you know where to find me đ«¶đ»
hello bae. i started crying (real) (not clickbait).
i remember exactly where i was and what i was doing and what time of day it was when i got this notif. i stopped everything i was doing and read through this like three separate times bc i was just in a state of pure, ecstatic disbelief that u took the time to write such a comprehensive, complimentary thought piece about my favorite fic i've ever written :') i do not deserve you and i never will. THANK YOU so much. though those words cannot even begin to encompass my feelings for u and this rb. let me respond to your comments line by line...
you took this character in âcrying lightningâ (the song) and completely fleshed out her personality in your fic. the reader is not just a fill-in, or an idea, she really does personify the song. I think I could believe she inspired the song, and not vice versa.
seriously i think u and i were meant to be. and that this fic was written for you before i ever knew you existed. to hear ur perspective on how the song and the mc built off each other is so, so validating bc u know both of them so well; what an honor it is that the reader personified the song for u, to the degree that she might've inspired the song and not vice versa. one of the craziest and most impactful things anyone's said about my writing. thank you so much.
(if i can take a moment to rant about the song bc you've done a wonderful thing and given me the opportunity to do so. but i really do love the song so much and moreover i love the woman that he's singing about. because alex turner always has a way with words but he seemed so especially enraptured by this beautiful, unattainable mess of a human that these lyrics in particular wound their way straight to my soul. "Said, "You're mistaken if you're thinking that I haven't been called "cold" before" / As you bit into your strawberry lace" / "And how you like to aggravate the ice-cream man on rainy afternoons" / "you knew I was approaching your throne" / "With folded arms you occupied the bench like toothache" / "Stood and puffed your chest out like you never lost a war" and of course: "Uninviting / But not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are / Crying lightning" like aren't these absolutely INSANE? the stories that these words hold. just ignited something within me i suppose)
the characterization in this fic is phenomenal, not just for the reader character but for hyunjin as well...timeskipping can get confusing very easily and you kept it linear, so it was very easy to follow. and exciting to read, because we see the little ways their relationship progresses instead of the jarring difference between their introduction and the end of the fic.Â
thank you for enjoying the characterization and the way the fic's timing was formatted <333 i had a lot of fun taking them around the world over the course of a year and YES exactly that, showing their relationship progress little by little because hyunjin's goal of "melting" her was never going to happen overnight and, conversely, mc was only going to let him in in due time. u get me!!!
I really enjoyed âthe gameâ we saw being played out between hyunjin and the reader as well...I really like how hyunjin is always looking at mc, and truly seeing her as well...and in the rare moments heâs not observing her she is studying him back. and I loved this dynamic of slowly falling for each other more and more with everything they learn about the other. itâs also funny how in the opening scene theyâre so comfortable together, and you see them mostly understanding each other with little effort while the cab driver doesnât understand them at all. two complex people making a complex relationship, but it makes perfect sense to them.
this whole paragraph lowkey had me tearing up because it's crazy to hear the crying lightning couple deconstructed and laid out in your words; you expressed them so, so beautifully, like "in the rare moments he's not observing her she is studying him back" / "two complex people making a complex relationship, but it makes sense to them" like a thousand times yes that's exactly what i was trying to go for and you have no idea how happy it makes me that this is how they came off to you.
also i loved the way you analyzed the presence of the cab driver as representative of them being difficult for other people to read because nobody will ever reach the level of understanding they have for each other; i didn't think about him that way, more wrote him in as an avenue for comedic relief, but i think you're absolutely right. i adore your insights so much. you are always showing me new sides to my own writing, not unlike crying lightning mc shows hyun new sides of himself with every look she puts him in :')
their dynamic was just perfect too. I loved their hot and cold; hyunjin being immediately smitten and mc having a cold reputation that sheâs sort of resigned herself too...I love the opposites attract we see with them, because I think in some ways theyâre very similar and thatâs why they understand each other...she really doesnât open up easily and tries to freeze people out when they warm up to her. but we know even though she tries to keep her distance, we can see hyunjin rubbing off on her when she brings him the towel.
i admit i am a big sucker for "hyun falls first" trope because that's so fucking HIM ... our romantic, imaginative, kindhearted man who only need catch one (1) glimpse of someone to theorize they were made for him. he's also said outright, way after i wrote crying lightning funnily enough, that his type is someone who seems cold at first but has a gentle interior, so i feel as though that speaks volumes to his capacity for patience and protection, that he'd be so prepared to return his love interest's coldness with unconditional warmth no matter how long it took for them to start accepting it or, in this mc's case, to start feeling as though they deserved it. that sort of push-and-pull was exactly the kind of dynamic i wanted to write into their characters, so once again i'm so glad that you perceived them exactly that way. see what i mean? this whole fic was written for you
and finally: the hotel room scene. my favorite part of this fic, where we see the total clash of their opposing traits. mc finally cracks and crumbles...hyunjin finally shelves his own passion to calm down for her. like he is still very much in love and has an emotional response, but for once heâs not having this dramatic display of emotions or throwing himself at her. he takes the more careful approach because he can see that sheâs finally lost her composure and she needs a level head to bring her back and reassure her. and at the end of it all, all the games they have been playing with each other, he is still there to admire the strength of her vulnerability. theyâve been dancing around these walls and opportunities, but hyunjin shows that he really is serious about her. and in turn, he gets to truly see her for the first time as a result of all the quiet studying and (overt) pining he has been doing.
YOU. YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
i truly almost cried again. idk throughout this entire rb i've been asking myself if this is really about something i wrote but that sentiment was especially strong during this segment. u don't understand this was so. trippy. i didn't have any actual thematic thought processes while writing this sceneâi tend not to think at all while i writeâso for you to describe the scene like this and strip their conversation down to their most important tenets while also encapsulating those tenets so concisely and accurately is LIFE-CHANGING.
i really loved your notion that this convo was the conclusion of their games at long last; a last round, if you will, because now everyone's cards are on the table. they're all in now. i also really loved your juxtaposition of strength and vulnerability in the same sentence bc at the end of the day that's what this whole fucking fic is about. not hyunjin or mc or how they fall in love but the idea that vulnerability should be admired and cherished and considered as sacred as strength, if not considered a kind of strength, or even its prerequisite.
like i've said time and time again, i feel as though you see straight through this fic and its characters and everything that happens to them, and i will never have the words to express how meaningful it is to a silly college student who word-vomits into a google doc every now and then how incredible of an honor it is to have someone like you to read and see my creations. i love you so much
I love this pairing and as Iâve already said before, I am a âcrying lightningâ enjoyer lol the love you get on this fic is very well deserved. it was a pleasure to read it, and Iâm so happy about the extended content that goes with it. also âaceâ is def on my tbr. I love seeing the different ways you write hyunjin and I know it will be a treat to see your next portrayal...thank you for waiting on my feedback and if you ever want to ramble about this masterpiece, you know where to find me đ«¶đ»
well. in terms of rambling about cl i fear you've had enough to last a lifetime đ dw i will be releasing you from the chains of my yapfest shortly. BUT i would be very curious to know your feelings thoughts on ace hyun because i have mentioned before that that couple's dynamic feels vaguely reminiscent of cl's (albeit much happier overall. mc is not quite as depressed and hyun is a little more of a fool). i hope you enjoy the fic as well if/when u get around to reading it.
thank you, again. i love you, again. i cannot say it enough.
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â volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.
wordsă»15.2k
pairingă»volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)
genresă»college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. hyunjin is a huge flirt. mc #DGAF. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!
warningsă»mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.
playlistă»collision by stray kidsă»value by adoă»waiting for us by stray kidsă»eternity by bang chană»dreaming by smallpoolsă»fly high!! by burnout syndromes
a/nă»writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved âĄ
âNot a word out of you,â you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. âIâm serious.â
Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. âWhen did people stop saying good morning?â
Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âPlease, angel.â
âNo! Leave me alone.â
Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. âCoffee on me for a week.â
At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you.Â
When you finally humor him and turn around, youâre flinching like youâre in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashes if he wasnât so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.
âWhat the hell did you do?â
âTried to cut my own bangs,â you sigh. âIt didnât go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.â
Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. âYouâve seen Naruto?â
You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when heâs staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.
The air between you curdles like sour milk.
Things are awkward between you often, heâs realized recently. Whatâs more, he didnât think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailorâs knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh youâve given him since. Maybe thereâs more to it, maybe there isnâtâHyunjin doesnât think about it much. He doesnât like thinking in general.
You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere.Â
âOf course Iâve seen Naruto,â you quip, and everything is normal again. âWhy do you seem surprised?â
âBecause youâre so scholarly.â
âI am not scholarly.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.â
âI need to get my steps in somehow!"
âYou didnât know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look upââ
ââugh, I learned so much about you that day."
âYour favorite social media platform is Quizlet,â he bursts, exasperated. âQuizlet.â
âIt is not.â An introspective pause. âIs it?â
âI wouldnât be surprised.â Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. âThere is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I donât buy it.â
âHonestly, I thought youâd have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.â
He does, though. Matter of fact, heâs been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorerâs hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.
But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. Heâs reminded that itâs hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time.
He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.
âWatermelon,â he mumbles with a sickening smile.
You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. âYouâre getting soft.â
He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.
âI only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,â you say as youâre strolling out the building together, âand I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?â
âYour faith gets me out of bed in the morning,â Hyunjin deadpans. âIâll handle it, love. Text me your order.â
All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that heâd recognize anywhere.
âBody flicker jutsu,â you whisper, and then youâre scurrying off without another wordâbut you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quadâs busy thrum.
Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the courtâs sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.
âDonât look at me,â Minho says mid-stretch. âGodspeed.â
âThanks, cap.â Useless.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. Itâs all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the manâs propensity for violence. Heâs packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âYou can read, right?â
âYes, coach,â he sighs. Everyoneâs expectations for him are subterranean.
From: Jinyoung Park «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Not good
See email from Hwangâs antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now heâs failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP
JP
Sent from my iPad
Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. âWrong email.â
âYep.â
From: Kyeyoung Kim «[email protected]»
To: Jinyoung Park «[email protected]»
Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin
To Director of Athletics Park,
I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kidsâ movie instead of his midterm paper.
It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him.
Regards,
Kyeyoung Kim
Professor of Anthropology
âThatâs bullshit!â
âWeâre in agreement there.â Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. âDo you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?â
âDoes anyone?â Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman.
âNo way you just had that.â
âI had it delivered ten minutes ago,â Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. âAll student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.â
Hyunjin stiffens. âWhat the fuck? Iâve never heard ofââ
âIf any Department of Athletics personnel,â Bang continues, raising his voice, âhave reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.â
He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. âRead that name aloud for me.â
Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.
âHwang Hyunjin,â he says under his breath.
The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.
Then comes the yelling.
âThe Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?â
âIt was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! Howâs that for anthropology?â
âBAD!â Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. âVERY, VERY BAD!â
Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.
âYouâve never had trouble with school before.â He leans over his desk imposingly. âWhat the hell happened this semester? What changed?â
Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjinâs pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists havenât discovered yet.
He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.
âBeats me,â he lies. âTypical junior year stress, maybe.â
âDoes any of it have to do with Piazza?âÂ
Hyunjin shudders.
It just might, actually.
Modesty has no place in the career heâs had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolution. Itâs a mouthful, he knows.
It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.
At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the worldâand current home to Hyunjinâs personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.
Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didnât ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.
Piazza replied within the week.
For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the teamâs social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazzaâs emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.
But thatâs the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because heâs laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldnât care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you canât contain your excitement. You, you, you.
He cards a hand through his air, regaining his focus. âYou know how I feel about Piazza.â
âExpect the worst, hope for the best.â Bangâs chair skids backwards as he stands up. âI think itâs a good approach.â
Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.
âBut hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,â he says. âDo not let it, Hyunjin. Iâm not asking.â
Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin canât help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.
Bang lets go of him. âIâm not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.â
Hyunjin groans. âYeah, yeah. Iâm on it.â
A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.
âI thought you said your order was complicated.â
You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.
âWas it not?â You ask.
âIt was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.â
âWell, I wasnât sure if you could handle that much.â He flips you off as you squint at the cup. âSomeone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.â
âWhat? Really?â
âNo.â
He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; youâre still cackling by the time youâve straightened up again.
âWhy did you get this, anyway?â Hyunjin grumbles. âI thought you had a sweet tooth.â
âI do, but you donât.â
Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.
âThanks,â he says at last. âNice of you.â
âI know, right? Hated it,â you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.
You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âYo.â
Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. âI fully forgot you were in this class.â
âWell, Iâm due for my weekly appearance.â Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. âHey, Y/N.â
âHi,â you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.
You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the âI would relinquish all of my rights for youâ way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. Heâs funny, gorgeous, and talentedâa vocal performance major with a student-athlete contractâand you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks itâs hilarious.
You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. Youâre met with something far more worrisome.
Heâs thinking.
That canât be good.
Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. âCan this guy do his fucking job?â
âHe wouldnât have to if you didnât quit,â Seungmin answers. âIâll never forget you, Manager Hwang.â
âShut up.â You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. âOur captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League ruleâSeung, why do you look morose?â
âIâm mourning.â Seungmin does look morose indeed. âHyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the year. It was so funny.â
Hyunjin slides down his seat. âIt was the worst experience of my life.â
Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the larceny thing. You choose to digress. âCan I ask why?â
âHe had to be responsible,â Seungmin whispers. âFor other people.â
The top of Hyunjinâs head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. âPoor thing.â
âHardass refused to do it again this year, so now weâre recruiting.â Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. âI donât suppose you have four hours to spare every day.â
Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. âThis one? Team manager?â
âI can see it.â
âI can see killing myself, maybe.â
The next time you reach for him is to smack his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall, and Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.
âSeems like a great candidate to me,â Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, itâs pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.
Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. âI miss when you didnât come to class, Seungmin.â
Eighty minutes later, youâve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.
âSorry.â He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. âI couldnât unsee it.â
You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.
Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.
âI didnât like that at all.â
âI donât care. I have something to tell you.â
âYou have a kid, donât you?â
âHuh? Who do you think I am?â
âThe one-night-standâs poster child,â you reply. âThe champion of the contraception industry.â
âYeah, contraception industry. Itâs right there in the name.â
You canât argue with that.
âWhat do you have to tell me?â
A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjinâs face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that youâre about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you shouldâve saved the secret son bit for another time.
âIâm failing anthro.â
So much for a serious conversation.Â
âCome again?â
He repeats the mystifying statement.
âYouâre joking.â
The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair.
âYouâre failing anthro?â
âI just said that, yes.â
âYouâre failing anthropology?â
âMhm.â
âJust so weâre clearâyouâre failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?â
âYes. Iâm glad youâre having fun.â
This is the best day of your life. âI didnât even know that was possible.â
âYeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,â he mutters.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â Hyunjin clears his throat. âAnyways, I was thinkingââ
âWow! Congratulations. Thatâs a bigâoomfââ
Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.
âI was thinking,â he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, âyou and I can work out some kind of deal.â
You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. âI think I just ate some athletic tape.â
âHappens. You wanna hear the deal or not?â
âDoes it involve ingesting more sports equipment?â
âDo you want it to?â
âJust tell me the deal, boy.â
âAlright.â He takes a deep breath. âIf you help me pass this classâIâll set you up with Seungmin.â
Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: âIâm gonna need you to elaborate.â
âOn which part?â
âAll of them. Everything.â
Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. âAre you hungry?â
You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think itâs the prime minister youâre about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.
Heâs chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they donât know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that heâs drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager youâve had better company.
âYou like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.â He traces over the wrapperâs left corner. âAnd I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?â
âYes, definitely,â you mumble around a mouthful of bread. âPlease continue.â
âConclusion one: you should be my tutor.â He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. âYou also like my teammate, but heâs neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold ofâfor most people.â
âLet me guess. Not for you.â
âTen points to Ravenclaw.â His British accent is nightmarish. âSeung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.â
âTo dinner or to practice?â
âTo both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusionââ
He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.
ââyou should manage our team.â
âI knew it!â You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. âYouâre trying to swindle me! You canât pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?â
âItâs not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didnât do shit!â
âYeah? Who was your last manager?â
âMe!â
Oh, right. âBut you hated it!â
âI hate everything that isnât playing volleyball. Try again.â
You fold your arms over your chest. âYou said youâd kill yourself if I managed you.â
Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. âItâs true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seungâsââ
âSTOP!â A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. âStop right there. I get it. Stop.â
âItâs a good plan.â He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. âYou know it is.â
Youâre loath to admit that you do. âWhen did you even come up with all this?â
He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class.
âNo fucking wonder youâre failing.â
âWhat is this, mock trial?â
The owner of this voice is the third man youâve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighborâs cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. Thereâs a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like heâs enjoying the company of a court jester.
âSlamming tables like fuckinâ tariff lawyers,â the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âI could see it from all the way inside.â
âCaptain!â Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. âJust the man I was hoping to see.â
âReally? I thought youâd be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.â
âI would never.â
âYou did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.â He pauses for emphasis. âAs fast as possible.â
âWell, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.â Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. âAnd today, I bring you a new team manager.â
You stiffen. âI havenâtââ
âIs that so!â When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. âMusic to my ears. Whatâs your name, cutie?â
You catch Hyunjinâs eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungminâsâ
Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.
âY/N,â you grumble. âIâm looking forward to working with you.â
He shakes on it heartily. âLikewise. Iâm Minho. Welcome to the team.â
âYes, welcome to the team,â Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.
Heâs lucky that his proposal holds so much water. Heâs lucky that you donât plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.
You do kick him under the table, though.
The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You canât tell which is the bigger endeavor.
âIâm going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,â you tell Changbin.
The teamâs libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the universityâs sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and youâve already decided heâs the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.
âYou will not,â Changbin answers. âOne, because this wonât involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldnât ask you to help if it did.â
âYouâve misunderstood me,â you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. âI want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.â
âOh.â He opens the door with a frown. âOh dear.â
Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.
âI am going to get maimed,â Hyunjin tells Changbin.
âHave some faith, both of you,â Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages youâre looking for and begin poring over them like youâre cramming for an exam. âYouâll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.â
âStudied?â He repeats. âFor this?â
âIâm pretty sure Quizlets were made.â
âThree, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. âNow tape me.â
Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. âSee? What could go wrong?â
The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly âsprained his ass,â leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.
You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypressâlaundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesnât wear that insufferable cologne to practice.
âGo easy on me, yeah?â
While Hyunjinâs tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.
âI canât promise anything.â
With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.
A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. Itâs the first time youâve seen his fingers untaped; theyâre pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.
Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.
âYouâre not nervous, are you?â
âNo. Maybe a little.â You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. âFine, yes. Very.â
âBut you made Quizlets. Youâre prepared for anything.â
âThatâs what Iâm saying!â You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that heâs making fun of you. âI hate you.â
âActually,â he hums, âI think you care about me, love. Thatâs why youâre nervous.â
âNonsenseâI care about disappointing Changbin. Thatâs it.â
âAnd me. And hopping on Seungminâs dick. All these things donât have to be mutually exclusive.â
You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.
âHave you lost your mind?â You whisper-shout, your face on fire. âDonât bring that up here. Iâll maim you for real.â
The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you donât hate when that happens.
âMy bad, my bad. It slipped out. I wonâtââ
One incremental shift of Hyunjinâs body later, you find that youâre precariously, alarmingly close to one another.
So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath.Â
Things are awkward between you often, youâve realized recently. Youâre both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later youâll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.
Since youâve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. Youâre not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesnât go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as theyâre doing now.
Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.
âThank you,â he murmurs.
Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. âWhat for?â
He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.
âCaring about me.â
Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.
âNow stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.â
âOkay,â you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. âNo need to get violent.â
It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.
As youâre walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. âItâs not too tight, is it?â
âItâs perfect.â He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. âWant another taste?â
You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. âYou are truly grotesque.â
The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.
The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.
You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.
Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ballâs tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.
âOi, this isnât your backyard! Go pick that up!â Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.
Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. âCrazy bitch. What the fuck was that?â
âLower and faster. Further from the net too,â Seungmin returns. âHowâd it feel?â
The grin on Hyunjinâs face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. âLike we just won everything.â
He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. Youâve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjinâand you canât move.
It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.
A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you.Â
âHello?â He immediately starts laughing. âWhere the fuck are you?â
You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. âMy face is preoccupied at the moment.â
âOh, you have to show me. Please.â
You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.
âMotherfucker!â
He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.
âThank you,â he says earnestly. âIâll treasure this forever.â
âYouâll be punished, Hwang.â
âDonât threaten me with a good time.â
You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle.Â
âAaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.â
The first thing you did as Hyunjinâs tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the âtruly piteous timbreâ of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.
âYou shouldâve opened with that,â you grumble.
âI tried! Someone distracted me.â
âRead it before I change my mind.â
You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.
You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that itâs as if youâre leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.
Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldnât move for ten minutes.
With that, his attention span has run its course.
âBaby,â he interrupts gently. âLetâs stop here, okay? You seem tired.â
You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.
âI suppose I am,â you concede. âWill you keep working tonight?â
âI think so. I hit my stride.â
âText me if you have questions, then. Iâll respond when I wake up.â
âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjinâs face incurably quickly.Â
âI had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know,â you murmur.
âWhy is that?â
âWell, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime youâd experienced since preschool.â
âIt really is.â
âYou also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.â
âI really would.â
âAnd you once referred to academia as âVirgin Village.ââ
âDidnât you come up with that?â
âNo, hello? I live in that village.â
He grins. âI know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.â
âFuck you.â
âAh, donât threaten me with a goodââ
âWhat Iâm trying to say,â you cut in, âis that I didnât think you would take this seriously, but Iâm happy to be proven wrong.â
Hyunjin leans back. âWell, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.â
âReally?â
âNo.â
You pretend to punch him through the screen. Itâs so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.
âBut I do give a fuck about you.â
Thereâs nothing crazy about the statement. Youâre friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didnât. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a starâs final breath. And Hyunjinâs heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.
He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.
Then he opens his texts.
Hyunjin:
We have team bonding tomorrow btw
Hyunjin:
Donât forget
Y/N:
i forgot.
Y/N:
pick me up at 6:45?
Hyunjin:
đ«Ą
He picks you up at 7:53.
You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and heâs walking too close to your lawn.
âHis fault,â Hyunjin says before you start yelling.
Minho simpers at you through his open window. âHey, you! So glad you could join us!â
You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. âArenât you the captain? Why are you this late?â
âWhoa, okay. I wouldâve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.â
âYou did schedule it for earlier,â you say. âYou scheduled it for way earlier.â
âYeah, well, youâre fired.â
âYou canât fire me, Minho.â
âI can too. Tell âem, Hwang.â
âI want nothing to do with this.â
When you step through the doors of the arcade, youâre met with a surge of sensory input that you havenât experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that theyâve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.
âIâll go pay,â Hyunjin says. âHow much time do we want?â
âNo youâre not,â the two men answer in perfect unison.
You glance between them warily. âI donât mind watching, seriously. I donât even know how most of these games workââ
âThereâs Tetris,â Hyunjin cuts in.
You purchase an hour.
One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU menâs volleyball team, not to bond them. Youâve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like itâs a shot. Itâs a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.
But theyâre happy. Youâve picked up on it when theyâre on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as theyâre eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that youâre glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so specialâespecially because thereâs Tetris.
âHave you ever considered going pro?â Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.
You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. Heâs been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.
You donât respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.
âI already did,â you finally answer.
âSorry, what? You played professional Tetris?â
âIn middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.â You pause. âThen I got bored again and switched to chess.â
âHow do you look like this with these hobbies?â
Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. âI think Iâm washed.â
He looks at you like youâve lost your mind. âYou just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.â
âItâs a small pond,â you say, and an idea occurs to you. âDo you wanna try?â
âI get the feeling I donât have a choice.â
âThen youâre smarter than you look.â
âWell, you lookââ
His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.
âWhat was that?â
âUgly. I said you look ugly.â He cracks his knuckles. âNow letâs break some fuckin' blocks.âÂ
When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade.Â
He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy princeâand heâs with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.
Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.
Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjinâs chair. You canât watch. You canât think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.
âSeung!â Thatâs Jisung, you think. âYou made it!â
âYo, sorry weâre late.â Thatâs Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. âDinner took longer than I thought.â
âMin, are you sure Iâm allowed to be here?â You donât know who this voice belongs to and youâre not sure you want to. âI feel like Iâm intrudingââ
âHwang,â you say suddenly. âI have to go.â
He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. âAlready?â
âI forgot I had an important call to make.â You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. âSorry. Iâll see you on Monday.â
You have touched Hyunjinâs hands many times. Heâs asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment.Â
Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when itâs been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.
He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.
âDo you want to be alone?â
You have never been asked such a thingâyou have never asked to be asked such a thingâbut, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes.Â
âYes, please,â you whisper, and you pull your hand away.
When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting.Â
Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where youâve left your phone.
You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.
Hyunjinâs right; the team manager doesnât have to do much.
Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someoneâs waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything your schedule allows.Â
Last week, you could be found helping Minho put down the volleyball nets, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professorâs distinct âcabbage scent.â Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammatesâ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the teamâs water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. Youâd spent more time in the gymnasium in those ten days than you had in the last ten years.
Then came the arcade.
Five days have come and gone. You havenât attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. Youâve taken the best notes of your life. He doesnât mention the previous weekend; he doesnât mention much of anything.Â
In person, that is.
That Friday afternoon, youâre reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. Itâs from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.
Then you listen to it again.
And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.
As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you havenât the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.
Coach Bang is leaving the building just as youâre approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe itâs the shadowy landscape; more likely itâs the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.
âItâs been a while,â he greets.
âCoach,â you return, lowering your head. âI want to apologize forââ
âSave it,â he says, not unkindly. âThereâs nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.â
You manage a grateful smile. âIâll be back starting next week.â
âIâm glad to hear it.â He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. âI would give him some space, by the way.â
Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.
Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation.Â
Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when heâs picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where itâs plastered to his neck. Heâs alone.
You only catch sight of Hyunjinâs face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.
âI was told to give you space,â you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball heâs holding.
His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that theyâve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.
âIs this enough space?â
More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.
âDonât make me go further, please. Iâm not ready to die.â
Finally, this earns you a smile. Itâs not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.
The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You donât care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.
The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. Youâre worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.
Thereâs a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights.Â
âHow do you see under these things?â
âI donât,â he returns. âI complained about it to Coach once.â
âAnd?â
âHe made them brighter.â
âSounds about right.â
He spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjinâs way with words.
But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. Itâs not that Hyunjin has a way with words; itâs that heâs brave enough to break the silences that you canât, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you wonât have to.
This cannot be his burden alone.
You inhale. âWhatâs on your mind?â
Hyunjin doesnât answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes; the lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.
âI donât think I know how to put it into words.â
You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. âDonât think, just talk. Iâm here.â
The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.
âDo you remember Ishikawa Yuki?â
âYour role model?â
âHeâs currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.â He blows out a deep breath. âIâve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.â
The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. âHoly shit, Hwang.â
âHe emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, heâs excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldnât wrap my head around anything. I still canât.
âI am who I am because of that man, and nowâŠI have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why Iâm notânot happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he wouldââ
You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.
Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.
You stop thinking after that.
You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.
You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.
âDonât fight it.â You trace over the hill of his cheek. âHealing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.â
His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.
âYou donât have to continue if you canât.â
âSâokay.â Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. âI want to.â
You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before. Does he do the same?
âI used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feetâI blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.â He smiles at the memory. âBut every time I came close to quitting, Iâd go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and Iâd promise myself it would be me on some other kidâs screen someday.
âThat kid would tell everyone whoâd listen about how cool I am. That Iâm a secret superhero. That Iâm living proof humans can fly if they really, really tryâjust like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.
âThe other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proudâeven if it meant losing myself.â He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. âThatâs whatâs on my mind.â
Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.
The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; itâs long overdue.
âEvery time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,â you say. âHe is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.â
Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.
âJeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,â you continue, âeven for things related to schoolâwhich I still find hard to believe, Iâm not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.
âI know you think he canât stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. Itâs written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. Youâre like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.â
âThen thereâs me.â You pause to catch your breath. âWhen I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didnât like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone elseâs personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.
âBut I found a person. Someone who wouldnât know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearlyâyour body is not normal, by the way.â
Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like youâre flying.
âDonât get me wrong,â you say. âYour sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when Iâm around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.â
The next time you blink, you discover that heâs not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?
âThereâs so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.â You give him a watery smile. âThat kid will be spoiled for choice.â
When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: âI knew you cared about me.â
You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.
âHow the fuck are you still sweaty?â
You think you like his cologne after all.
Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.
A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like youâve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead.Â
Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.
âCan you come inside, please? My RA will think Iâm doing some freaky shit again.â
You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. âWhat, exactly, does freaky shit entail?â
He smirks as the door falls shut. âYou want me to tell you or show you?â
You turn to Kkami, disgusted. âYour ownerâs a bit of a pervert, my dear.â
Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjinâs eyes narrow to slits.
âTraitor.â
Naturally, Hyunjinâs parents chose the eve of his final anthropology examâand the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his careerâto ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration.Â
âDo you want anything to drink?â He calls from the kitchen area.
You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. âWhat do you have?âÂ
âAlcohol.â He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. âAmericanos.â
He stops speaking.
âIs that all?â
âYes. Waitâand apple juice.â
âYou are about to be a professional athlete.â
âWhat the Italians donât know wonât hurt them. You want apple juice, donât you? I can see it in your eyes.â
âMaybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.â
Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.
âLetâs get this over with.â
At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.
At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.
You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then heâs kicking open the door.
Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a monthâs worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.
âHyunâKkami?â Seungmin swivels. âYo, what the fuck isââ
Hyunjin is already out the door.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.
âWhat is this thing?â Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass.Â
âKkami gets sad after throwing up,â he sighs. âHis blanket makes him feel better.â
Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. âHe ate too fast again?â
Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. âI donât get it. Nobodyâs gonna take his food from him.â
Seungmin laughs. âI didnât even know he was on campus.â
âI picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for workâthey say hi, by the way.â
âI say hi back. I miss your momâs cooking.â
âMe too,â Hyunjin says, smiling. âShe would love to cook for you againâsheâs always saying youâre too skinny.â
âShe really is.â
A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.
Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of themâa concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjinâs backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjinâs dissuading; half of Hyunjinâs fatherâs wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.
It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the netâs fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungminâs hitterâSeungmin, always Hyunjinâs setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.
At least, thatâs what Hyunjin used to think.
Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know?Â
Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he canât remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not âtalkedâ as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practiceââtalkedâ as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.
Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago.Â
âYeonwoo, right?â
He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what heâs trying to doâand forgives him.
âYeonwoo,â Seungmin affirms. âWeâre in the same songwriting intensive this semester.â
âAlso a singer?â
He shakes his head. âPiano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I donât think Iâve ever met someone so talented.â
âWow, thatâsâhi, old man. You done?â
Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkamiâs head as he hydrates.
âYouâve suffered,â he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.
âAs I was sayingâthatâs crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.â
âThanks. Itâs weird. Iâm happy.â
âYou deserve it. You really do, Kim.â They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. âWhen are you introducing us?â
âThe arcade wasnât enough?â
âDonât insult me.â
âWhenever you want, then.â
âDinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,â Hyunjin recounts. âIâm holding you to it.â
âBet.â
They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasnât already reassured by Seungminâs smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that theyâll be okay.
âWhat about you?â Seungmin asks. âAre you together yet?â
Hyunjin knew this was coming. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou know what I mean.â Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. âSomeone you have questions for that youâre too scared to ask. Someone whoâs lived in your mind since the day you met. Thereâs someone like that, isnât there?â
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.Â
Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjinâs been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.
He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time youâre within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because heâs happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.
Itâs impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. Heâs already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?
Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. âThere is.â
Hyunjin doesnât know what to say.
âIt mightâve been me, at some point,â he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkamiâs ears. âBut it has always been you, Hyun.â
Four floors above them and inside Hyunjinâs place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkamiâs return.
Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all thatâs in front of you.
Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what mustâve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns districtâs first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of âace spikerâ label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang âChristopherâ Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. Thereâs oneâWho is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolutionâbeside which heâs written the singular word âmouthful.â You laugh; you agree.
But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.
You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as youâre playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you canât see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kimâs email. You, you, you.
You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didnât know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.
It has always been him.
The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes.Â
Itâs not awkward this time.
Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.
He moves his eyes to his best friendâs back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play theyâve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration.Â
He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.
The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjinâs heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. Heâs not scared at all.
He balls his fingers into fists.
âJUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACEââ
An arm seizes Hyunjinâs neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He canât feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesnât care. He doesnât care.
ââDEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEARââ
His eyes find Seungminâs among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungminâs gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.
He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.
ââYOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!â
Hyunjinâs post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.
The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: âIs there anyone youâd like to thank?â
Hyunjin exhales. âYou want the short answer or the longââ
Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.
âLove you,â he yells before hurrying off.Â
âLove you too, Bin.â
Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.
âThe short answer,â she deadpans.
He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his familyâhis first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys heâs ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.
In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. Thereâs a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.
Hyunjin thanks you.
You didnât ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and theyâre all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselvesâitâs hard to believe youâve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.
What are you like? What arenât you like, is the better question. Youâre caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sunâs doting radius, and so did he.
You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; youâre wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky. Theyâre right.
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed. âWhy the fuck am I still talking to you?âÂ
âPardon?â The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.
He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.
He calls out to you.
You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the areaâs busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but heâs used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.
Youâre beautiful. God, youâre fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like heâs everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will.Â
Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashesâif he didnât have something far better to do.
âTell me now if you donât want me to do this,â he whispers.
A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. âMy lips are sealed.â
Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before theyâre colliding again.
He kisses you until heâs crying, again, until heâs no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and heâs really won everything, now.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.
âThanks, cap.â Hyunjin swears heâs had this exact exchange before.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âRead.â
From: Nicola Daldello «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game
Christopher,
Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza.
It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki.
Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwangâs travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club.
Iâm looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all.
Yours,
Nicola Daldello
Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano
âI told you, some opportunities just present themselves,â Bang says, turning his monitor back around. âAs for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social evâHwang, is that foam coming out of your moâNOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!â
In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baekâs king with a triumphant yelp.
âI knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!â She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. âYou! Get over here. Your reign is over.â
You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldnât even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.
âAs excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,â you call back.Â
She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.
Hyunjin:
Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris
Hyunjin:
Same park?
Y/N:
yes
Hyunjin:
Whoâs the opp today
Y/N:
mrs. choi
Hyunjin:
Not that bitch again
Y/N:
?
Heâll be here in eight minutes.
You return to the task at hand. Youâve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all thatâs left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely youâll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.
Instead of hitting the âdeleteâ button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.
You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.
He finds you a sobbing mess.
âHey, hey, whoa.â Heâs on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. âBaby, whatâs happening? Are you okay?â
âYes,â you say in a flustered haste. âYes, Iâm okay. I donâtâI donât really know whatâs happening.â
âDid that hag do this to you?â He asks this question so seriously. âIâll beat up a senior citizen, I donât give a fuckââ
âNo!â You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. âNo, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.â
âThen what is it? Whatâs wrong?â
Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.
Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.
âIâll tell you later,â you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline.Â
He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then youâre smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.
You rest your foreheads together. âHave I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?â
He smiles. âDoes that make you my flower, then?â
âBecause youâre irresistably drawn to me?â
âNo, because I wanna put my pollen inââ
You shove him away. âYou are grotesque.â
He returns in a flash. âYou love me.â
You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.
âWhy did Coach hold you back, by the way?â You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. âAre you in trouble again?â
âNo, no. The opposite, actually.â
Your brow furrows. âThe opposite? Whatââ
âIn this lifetime, please,â Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.
âDuty calls, my love.â
âTell me your thing later too?â
âOf course.â
You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, ânow watch me beat up a senior citizen.â
He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.
âHypocrite.â
Hyunjin:
[1 Audio Message]
This is my seventh take and Iâm not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I donât care anymore.
I understand if you donât wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldnât, either. I just wanted to say that you donât have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I wonât be able to fulfill my end of our deal, soâŠyeah, it wouldnât be fair to you. Youâve already done so much for us. For me.
As for team manager, youâll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesnât sound like a fun conversation, I knowâbut if thatâs what you decide, Iâll have your back. They donât scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.
Youâve beenâŠdistant, this week. Iâve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldnât care less if youâre my tutor or my team manager or whateverâI just donât want you to be a stranger. Maybe thatâs selfish of me to say, but Iâm tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesnât terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.
Iâm gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I wouldâve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, andâŠIâm sorry about everything. You deserve better.
Come back to me whenever youâre ready, okay? Iâll be waiting.
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hehe thank you so much for reading and letting me know u enjoyed cutie. also for saying something as sweet as 'i can always trust in you for good fics'. promise i won't let u down !!!! đ€đ€đ€
â volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.
wordsă»15.2k
pairingă»volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)
genresă»college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. hyunjin is a huge flirt. mc #DGAF. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!
warningsă»mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.
playlistă»collision by stray kidsă»value by adoă»waiting for us by stray kidsă»eternity by bang chană»dreaming by smallpoolsă»fly high!! by burnout syndromes
a/nă»writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved âĄ
âNot a word out of you,â you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. âIâm serious.â
Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. âWhen did people stop saying good morning?â
Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âPlease, angel.â
âNo! Leave me alone.â
Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. âCoffee on me for a week.â
At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you.Â
When you finally humor him and turn around, youâre flinching like youâre in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashes if he wasnât so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.
âWhat the hell did you do?â
âTried to cut my own bangs,â you sigh. âIt didnât go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.â
Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. âYouâve seen Naruto?â
You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when heâs staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.
The air between you curdles like sour milk.
Things are awkward between you often, heâs realized recently. Whatâs more, he didnât think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailorâs knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh youâve given him since. Maybe thereâs more to it, maybe there isnâtâHyunjin doesnât think about it much. He doesnât like thinking in general.
You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere.Â
âOf course Iâve seen Naruto,â you quip, and everything is normal again. âWhy do you seem surprised?â
âBecause youâre so scholarly.â
âI am not scholarly.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.â
âI need to get my steps in somehow!"
âYou didnât know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look upââ
ââugh, I learned so much about you that day."
âYour favorite social media platform is Quizlet,â he bursts, exasperated. âQuizlet.â
âIt is not.â An introspective pause. âIs it?â
âI wouldnât be surprised.â Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. âThere is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I donât buy it.â
âHonestly, I thought youâd have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.â
He does, though. Matter of fact, heâs been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorerâs hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.
But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. Heâs reminded that itâs hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time.
He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.
âWatermelon,â he mumbles with a sickening smile.
You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. âYouâre getting soft.â
He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.
âI only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,â you say as youâre strolling out the building together, âand I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?â
âYour faith gets me out of bed in the morning,â Hyunjin deadpans. âIâll handle it, love. Text me your order.â
All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that heâd recognize anywhere.
âBody flicker jutsu,â you whisper, and then youâre scurrying off without another wordâbut you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quadâs busy thrum.
Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the courtâs sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.
âDonât look at me,â Minho says mid-stretch. âGodspeed.â
âThanks, cap.â Useless.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. Itâs all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the manâs propensity for violence. Heâs packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âYou can read, right?â
âYes, coach,â he sighs. Everyoneâs expectations for him are subterranean.
From: Jinyoung Park «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Not good
See email from Hwangâs antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now heâs failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP
JP
Sent from my iPad
Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. âWrong email.â
âYep.â
From: Kyeyoung Kim «[email protected]»
To: Jinyoung Park «[email protected]»
Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin
To Director of Athletics Park,
I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kidsâ movie instead of his midterm paper.
It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him.
Regards,
Kyeyoung Kim
Professor of Anthropology
âThatâs bullshit!â
âWeâre in agreement there.â Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. âDo you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?â
âDoes anyone?â Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman.
âNo way you just had that.â
âI had it delivered ten minutes ago,â Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. âAll student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.â
Hyunjin stiffens. âWhat the fuck? Iâve never heard ofââ
âIf any Department of Athletics personnel,â Bang continues, raising his voice, âhave reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.â
He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. âRead that name aloud for me.â
Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.
âHwang Hyunjin,â he says under his breath.
The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.
Then comes the yelling.
âThe Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?â
âIt was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! Howâs that for anthropology?â
âBAD!â Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. âVERY, VERY BAD!â
Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.
âYouâve never had trouble with school before.â He leans over his desk imposingly. âWhat the hell happened this semester? What changed?â
Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjinâs pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists havenât discovered yet.
He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.
âBeats me,â he lies. âTypical junior year stress, maybe.â
âDoes any of it have to do with Piazza?âÂ
Hyunjin shudders.
It just might, actually.
Modesty has no place in the career heâs had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolution. Itâs a mouthful, he knows.
It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.
At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the worldâand current home to Hyunjinâs personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.
Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didnât ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.
Piazza replied within the week.
For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the teamâs social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazzaâs emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.
But thatâs the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because heâs laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldnât care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you canât contain your excitement. You, you, you.
He cards a hand through his air, regaining his focus. âYou know how I feel about Piazza.â
âExpect the worst, hope for the best.â Bangâs chair skids backwards as he stands up. âI think itâs a good approach.â
Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.
âBut hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,â he says. âDo not let it, Hyunjin. Iâm not asking.â
Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin canât help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.
Bang lets go of him. âIâm not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.â
Hyunjin groans. âYeah, yeah. Iâm on it.â
A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.
âI thought you said your order was complicated.â
You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.
âWas it not?â You ask.
âIt was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.â
âWell, I wasnât sure if you could handle that much.â He flips you off as you squint at the cup. âSomeone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.â
âWhat? Really?â
âNo.â
He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; youâre still cackling by the time youâve straightened up again.
âWhy did you get this, anyway?â Hyunjin grumbles. âI thought you had a sweet tooth.â
âI do, but you donât.â
Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.
âThanks,â he says at last. âNice of you.â
âI know, right? Hated it,â you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.
You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âYo.â
Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. âI fully forgot you were in this class.â
âWell, Iâm due for my weekly appearance.â Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. âHey, Y/N.â
âHi,â you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.
You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the âI would relinquish all of my rights for youâ way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. Heâs funny, gorgeous, and talentedâa vocal performance major with a student-athlete contractâand you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks itâs hilarious.
You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. Youâre met with something far more worrisome.
Heâs thinking.
That canât be good.
Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. âCan this guy do his fucking job?â
âHe wouldnât have to if you didnât quit,â Seungmin answers. âIâll never forget you, Manager Hwang.â
âShut up.â You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. âOur captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League ruleâSeung, why do you look morose?â
âIâm mourning.â Seungmin does look morose indeed. âHyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the year. It was so funny.â
Hyunjin slides down his seat. âIt was the worst experience of my life.â
Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the larceny thing. You choose to digress. âCan I ask why?â
âHe had to be responsible,â Seungmin whispers. âFor other people.â
The top of Hyunjinâs head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. âPoor thing.â
âHardass refused to do it again this year, so now weâre recruiting.â Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. âI donât suppose you have four hours to spare every day.â
Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. âThis one? Team manager?â
âI can see it.â
âI can see killing myself, maybe.â
The next time you reach for him is to smack his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall, and Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.
âSeems like a great candidate to me,â Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, itâs pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.
Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. âI miss when you didnât come to class, Seungmin.â
Eighty minutes later, youâve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.
âSorry.â He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. âI couldnât unsee it.â
You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.
Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.
âI didnât like that at all.â
âI donât care. I have something to tell you.â
âYou have a kid, donât you?â
âHelloâwho do you think I am?â
âThe one-night-standâs poster child,â you reply. âThe champion of the contraception industry.â
âYeah, contraception industry. Itâs right there in the name.â
You canât argue with that.
âWhat do you have to tell me?â
A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjinâs face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that youâre about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you shouldâve saved the secret son bit for another time.
âIâm failing anthro.â
So much for a serious conversation.Â
âCome again?â
He repeats the mystifying statement.
âYouâre joking.â
The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair.
âYouâre failing anthro?â
âI just said that, yes.â
âYouâre failing anthropology?â
âMhm.â
âJust so weâre clearâyouâre failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?â
âYes. Iâm glad youâre having fun.â
This is the best day of your life. âI didnât even know that was possible.â
âYeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,â he mutters.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â Hyunjin clears his throat. âAnyways, I was thinkingââ
âWow! Congratulations. Thatâs a bigâoomfââ
Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.
âI was thinking,â he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, âyou and I can work out some kind of deal.â
You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. âI think I just ate some athletic tape.â
âHappens. You wanna hear the deal or not?â
âDoes it involve ingesting more sports equipment?â
âDo you want it to?â
âJust tell me the deal, boy.â
âAlright.â He takes a deep breath. âIf you help me pass this classâIâll set you up with Seungmin.â
Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: âIâm gonna need you to elaborate.â
âOn which part?â
âAll of them. Everything.â
Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. âAre you hungry?â
You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think itâs the prime minister youâre about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.
Heâs chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they donât know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that heâs drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager youâve had better company.
âYou like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.â He traces over the wrapperâs left corner. âAnd I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?â
âYes, definitely,â you mumble around a mouthful of bread. âPlease continue.â
âConclusion one: you should be my tutor.â He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. âYou also like my teammate, but heâs neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold ofâfor most people.â
âLet me guess. Not for you.â
âTen points to Ravenclaw.â His British accent is nightmarish. âSeung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.â
âTo dinner or to practice?â
âTo both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusionââ
He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.
ââyou should manage our team.â
âI knew it!â You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. âYouâre trying to swindle me! You canât pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?â
âItâs not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didnât do shit!â
âYeah? Who was your last manager?â
âMe!â
Oh, right. âBut you hated it!â
âI hate everything that isnât playing volleyball. Try again.â
You fold your arms over your chest. âYou said youâd kill yourself if I managed you.â
Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. âItâs true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seungâsââ
âSTOP!â A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. âStop right there. I get it. Stop.â
âItâs a good plan.â He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. âYou know it is.â
Youâre loath to admit that you do. âWhen did you even come up with all this?â
He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class.
âNo fucking wonder youâre failing.â
âWhat is this, mock trial?â
The owner of this voice is the third man youâve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighborâs cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. Thereâs a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like heâs enjoying the company of a court jester.
âSlamming tables like fuckinâ tariff lawyers,â the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âI could see it from all the way inside.â
âCaptain!â Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. âJust the man I was hoping to see.â
âReally? I thought youâd be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.â
âI would never.â
âYou did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.â He pauses for emphasis. âAs fast as possible.â
âWell, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.â Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. âAnd today, I bring you a new team manager.â
You stiffen. âI havenâtââ
âIs that so!â When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. âMusic to my ears. Whatâs your name, cutie?â
You catch Hyunjinâs eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungminâsâ
Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.
âY/N,â you grumble. âIâm looking forward to working with you.â
He shakes on it heartily. âLikewise. Iâm Minho. Welcome to the team.â
âYes, welcome to the team,â Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.
Heâs lucky that his proposal holds so much water. Heâs lucky that you donât plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.
You do kick him under the table, though.
The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You canât tell which is the bigger endeavor.
âIâm going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,â you tell Changbin.
The teamâs libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the universityâs sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and youâve already decided heâs the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.
âYou will not,â Changbin answers. âOne, because this wonât involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldnât ask you to help if it did.â
âYouâve misunderstood me,â you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. âI want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.â
âOh.â He opens the door with a frown. âOh dear.â
Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.
âI am going to get maimed,â Hyunjin tells Changbin.
âHave some faith, both of you,â Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages youâre looking for and begin poring over them like youâre cramming for an exam. âYouâll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.â
âStudied?â He repeats. âFor this?â
âIâm pretty sure Quizlets were made.â
âThree, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. âNow tape me.â
Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. âSee? What could go wrong?â
The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly âsprained his ass,â leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.
You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypressâlaundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesnât wear that insufferable cologne to practice.
âGo easy on me, yeah?â
While Hyunjinâs tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.
âI canât promise anything.â
With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.
A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. Itâs the first time youâve seen his fingers untaped; theyâre pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.
Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.
âYouâre not nervous, are you?â
âNo. Maybe a little.â You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. âFine, yes. Very.â
âBut you made Quizlets. Youâre prepared for anything.â
âThatâs what Iâm saying!â You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that heâs making fun of you. âI hate you.â
âActually,â he hums, âI think you care about me, love. Thatâs why youâre nervous.â
âNonsenseâI care about disappointing Changbin. Thatâs it.â
âAnd me. And hopping on Seungminâs dick. All these things donât have to be mutually exclusive.â
You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.
âHave you lost your mind?â You whisper-shout, your face on fire. âDonât bring that up here. Iâll maim you for real.â
The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you donât hate when that happens.
âMy bad, my bad. It slipped out. I wonâtââ
One incremental shift of Hyunjinâs body later, you find that youâre precariously, alarmingly close to one another.
So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath.Â
Things are awkward between you often, youâve realized recently. Youâre both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later youâll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.
Since youâve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. Youâre not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesnât go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as theyâre doing now.
Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.
âThank you,â he murmurs.
Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. âWhat for?â
He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.
âCaring about me.â
Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.
âNow stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.â
âOkay,â you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. âNo need to get violent.â
It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.
As youâre walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. âItâs not too tight, is it?â
âItâs perfect.â He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. âWant another taste?â
You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. âYou are truly grotesque.â
The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.
The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.
You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.
Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ballâs tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.
âOi, this isnât your backyard! Go pick that up!â Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.
Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. âCrazy bitch. What the fuck was that?â
âLower and faster. Further from the net too,â Seungmin returns. âHowâd it feel?â
The grin on Hyunjinâs face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. âLike we just won everything.â
He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. Youâve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjinâand you canât move.
It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.
A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you.Â
âHello?â He immediately starts laughing. âWhere the fuck are you?â
You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. âMy face is preoccupied at the moment.â
âOh, you have to show me. Please.â
You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.
âMotherfucker!â
He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.
âThank you,â he says earnestly. âIâll treasure this forever.â
âYouâll be punished, Hwang.â
âDonât threaten me with a good time.â
You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle.Â
âAaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.â
The first thing you did as Hyunjinâs tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the âtruly piteous timbreâ of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.
âYou shouldâve opened with that,â you grumble.
âI tried! Someone distracted me.â
âRead it before I change my mind.â
You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.
You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that itâs as if youâre leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.
Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldnât move for ten minutes.
With that, his attention span has run its course.
âBaby,â he interrupts gently. âLetâs stop here, okay? You seem tired.â
You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.
âI suppose I am,â you concede. âWill you keep working tonight?â
âI think so. I hit my stride.â
âText me if you have questions, then. Iâll respond when I wake up.â
âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjinâs face incurably quickly.Â
âI had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know,â you murmur.
âWhy is that?â
âWell, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime youâd experienced since preschool.â
âIt really is.â
âYou also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.â
âI really would.â
âAnd you once referred to academia as âVirgin Village.ââ
âDidnât you come up with that?â
âNo, hello? I live in that village.â
He grins. âI know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.â
âFuck you.â
âAh, donât threaten me with a goodââ
âWhat Iâm trying to say,â you cut in, âis that I didnât think you would take this seriously, but Iâm happy to be proven wrong.â
Hyunjin leans back. âWell, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.â
âReally?â
âNo.â
You pretend to punch him through the screen. Itâs so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.
âBut I do give a fuck about you.â
Thereâs nothing crazy about the statement. Youâre friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didnât. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a starâs final breath. And Hyunjinâs heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.
He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.
Then he opens his texts.
Hyunjin:
We have team bonding tomorrow btw
Hyunjin:
Donât forget
Y/N:
i forgot.
Y/N:
pick me up at 6:45?
Hyunjin:
đ«Ą
He picks you up at 7:53.
You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and heâs walking too close to your lawn.
âHis fault,â Hyunjin says before you start yelling.
Minho simpers at you through his open window. âHey, you! So glad you could join us!â
You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. âArenât you the captain? Why are you this late?â
âWhoa, okay. I wouldâve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.â
âYou did schedule it for earlier,â you say. âYou scheduled it for way earlier.â
âYeah, well, youâre fired.â
âYou canât fire me, Minho.â
âI can too. Tell âem, Hwang.â
âI want nothing to do with this.â
When you step through the doors of the arcade, youâre met with a surge of sensory input that you havenât experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that theyâve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.
âIâll go pay,â Hyunjin says. âHow much time do we want?â
âNo youâre not,â the two men answer in perfect unison.
You glance between them warily. âI donât mind watching, seriously. I donât even know how most of these games workââ
âThereâs Tetris,â Hyunjin cuts in.
You purchase an hour.
One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU menâs volleyball team, not to bond them. Youâve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like itâs a shot. Itâs a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.
But theyâre happy. Youâve picked up on it when theyâre on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as theyâre eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that youâre glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so specialâespecially because thereâs Tetris.
âHave you ever considered going pro?â Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.
You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. Heâs been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.
You donât respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.
âI already did,â you finally answer.
âSorry, what? You played professional Tetris?â
âIn middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.â You pause. âThen I got bored again and switched to chess.â
âHow do you look like this with these hobbies?â
Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. âI think Iâm washed.â
He looks at you like youâve lost your mind. âYou just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.â
âItâs a small pond,â you say, and an idea occurs to you. âDo you wanna try?â
âI get the feeling I donât have a choice.â
âThen youâre smarter than you look.â
âWell, you lookââ
His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.
âWhat was that?â
âUgly. I said you look ugly.â He cracks his knuckles. âNow letâs break some fuckin' blocks.âÂ
When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade.Â
He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy princeâand heâs with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.
Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.
Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjinâs chair. You canât watch. You canât think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.
âSeung!â Thatâs Jisung, you think. âYou made it!â
âYo, sorry weâre late.â Thatâs Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. âDinner took longer than I thought.â
âMin, are you sure Iâm allowed to be here?â You donât know who this voice belongs to and youâre not sure you want to. âI feel like Iâm intrudingââ
âHwang,â you say suddenly. âI have to go.â
He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. âAlready?â
âI forgot I had an important call to make.â You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. âSorry. Iâll see you on Monday.â
You have touched Hyunjinâs hands many times. Heâs asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment.Â
Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when itâs been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.
He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.
âDo you want to be alone?â
You have never been asked such a thingâyou have never asked to be asked such a thingâbut, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes.Â
âYes, please,â you whisper, and you pull your hand away.
When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting.Â
Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where youâve left your phone.
You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.
Hyunjinâs right; the team manager doesnât have to do much.
Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someoneâs waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything your schedule allows.Â
Last week, you could be found helping Minho put down the volleyball nets, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professorâs distinct âcabbage scent.â Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammatesâ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the teamâs water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. Youâd spent more time in the gymnasium in those ten days than you had in the last ten years.
Then came the arcade.
Five days have come and gone. You havenât attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. Youâve taken the best notes of your life. He doesnât mention the previous weekend; he doesnât mention much of anything.Â
In person, that is.
That Friday afternoon, youâre reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. Itâs from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.
Then you listen to it again.
And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.
As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you havenât the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.
Coach Bang is leaving the building just as youâre approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe itâs the shadowy landscape; more likely itâs the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.
âItâs been a while,â he greets.
âCoach,â you return, lowering your head. âI want to apologize forââ
âSave it,â he says, not unkindly. âThereâs nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.â
You manage a grateful smile. âIâll be back starting next week.â
âIâm glad to hear it.â He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. âI would give him some space, by the way.â
Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.
Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation.Â
Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when heâs picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where itâs plastered to his neck. Heâs alone.
You only catch sight of Hyunjinâs face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.
âI was told to give you space,â you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball heâs holding.
His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that theyâve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.
âIs this enough space?â
More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.
âDonât make me go further, please. Iâm not ready to die.â
Finally, this earns you a smile. Itâs not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.
The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You donât care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.
The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. Youâre worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.
Thereâs a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights.Â
âHow do you see under these things?â
âI donât,â he returns. âI complained about it to Coach once.â
âAnd?â
âHe made them brighter.â
âSounds about right.â
He spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjinâs way with words.
But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. Itâs not that Hyunjin has a way with words; itâs that heâs brave enough to break the silences that you canât, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you wonât have to.
This cannot be his burden alone.
You inhale. âWhatâs on your mind?â
Hyunjin doesnât answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes; the lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.
âI donât think I know how to put it into words.â
You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. âDonât think, just talk. Iâm here.â
The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.
âDo you remember Ishikawa Yuki?â
âYour role model?â
âHeâs currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.â He blows out a deep breath. âIâve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.â
The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. âHoly shit, Hwang.â
âHe emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, heâs excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldnât wrap my head around anything. I still canât.
âI am who I am because of that man, and nowâŠI have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why Iâm notânot happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he wouldââ
You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.
Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.
You stop thinking after that.
You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.
You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.
âDonât fight it.â You trace over the hill of his cheek. âHealing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.â
His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.
âYou donât have to continue if you canât.â
âSâokay.â Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. âI want to.â
You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before. Does he do the same?
âI used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feetâI blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.â He smiles at the memory. âBut every time I came close to quitting, Iâd go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and Iâd promise myself it would be me on some other kidâs screen someday.
âThat kid would tell everyone whoâd listen about how cool I am. That Iâm a secret superhero. That Iâm living proof humans can fly if they really, really tryâjust like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.
âThe other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proudâeven if it meant losing myself.â He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. âThatâs whatâs on my mind.â
Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.
The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; itâs long overdue.
âEvery time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,â you say. âHe is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.â
Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.
âJeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,â you continue, âeven for things related to schoolâwhich I still find hard to believe, Iâm not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.
âI know you think he canât stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. Itâs written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. Youâre like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.â
âThen thereâs me.â You pause to catch your breath. âWhen I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didnât like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone elseâs personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.
âBut I found a person. Someone who wouldnât know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearlyâyour body is not normal, by the way.â
Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like youâre flying.
âDonât get me wrong,â you say. âYour sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when Iâm around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.â
The next time you blink, you discover that heâs not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?
âThereâs so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.â You give him a watery smile. âThat kid will be spoiled for choice.â
When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: âI knew you cared about me.â
You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.
âHow the fuck are you still sweaty?â
You think you like his cologne after all.
Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.
A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like youâve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead.Â
Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.
âCan you come inside, please? My RA will think Iâm doing some freaky shit again.â
You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. âWhat, exactly, does freaky shit entail?â
He smirks as the door falls shut. âYou want me to tell you or show you?â
You turn to Kkami, disgusted. âYour ownerâs a bit of a pervert, my dear.â
Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjinâs eyes narrow to slits.
âTraitor.â
Naturally, Hyunjinâs parents chose the eve of his final anthropology examâand the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his careerâto ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration.Â
âDo you want anything to drink?â He calls from the kitchen area.
You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. âWhat do you have?âÂ
âAlcohol.â He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. âAmericanos.â
He stops speaking.
âIs that all?â
âYes. Waitâand apple juice.â
âYou are about to be a professional athlete.â
âWhat the Italians donât know wonât hurt them. You want apple juice, donât you? I can see it in your eyes.â
âMaybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.â
Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.
âLetâs get this over with.â
At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.
At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.
You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then heâs kicking open the door.
Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a monthâs worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.
âHyunâKkami?â Seungmin swivels. âYo, what the fuck isââ
Hyunjin is already out the door.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.
âWhat is this thing?â Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass.Â
âKkami gets sad after throwing up,â he sighs. âHis blanket makes him feel better.â
Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. âHe ate too fast again?â
Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. âI donât get it. Nobodyâs gonna take his food from him.â
Seungmin laughs. âI didnât even know he was on campus.â
âI picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for workâthey say hi, by the way.â
âI say hi back. I miss your momâs cooking.â
âMe too,â Hyunjin says, smiling. âShe would love to cook for you againâsheâs always saying youâre too skinny.â
âShe really is.â
A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.
Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of themâa concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjinâs backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjinâs dissuading; half of Hyunjinâs fatherâs wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.
It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the netâs fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungminâs hitterâSeungmin, always Hyunjinâs setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.
At least, thatâs what Hyunjin used to think.
Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know?Â
Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he canât remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not âtalkedâ as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practiceââtalkedâ as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.
Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago.Â
âYeonwoo, right?â
He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what heâs trying to doâand forgives him.
âYeonwoo,â Seungmin affirms. âWeâre in the same songwriting intensive this semester.â
âAlso a singer?â
He shakes his head. âPiano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I donât think Iâve ever met someone so talented.â
âWow, thatâsâhi, old man. You done?â
Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkamiâs head as he hydrates.
âYouâve suffered,â he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.
âAs I was sayingâthatâs crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.â
âThanks. Itâs weird. Iâm happy.â
âYou deserve it. You really do, Kim.â They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. âWhen are you introducing us?â
âThe arcade wasnât enough?â
âDonât insult me.â
âWhenever you want, then.â
âDinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,â Hyunjin recounts. âIâm holding you to it.â
âBet.â
They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasnât already reassured by Seungminâs smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that theyâll be okay.
âWhat about you?â Seungmin asks. âAre you together yet?â
Hyunjin knew this was coming. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou know what I mean.â Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. âSomeone you have questions for that youâre too scared to ask. Someone whoâs lived in your mind since the day you met. Thereâs someone like that, isnât there?â
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.Â
Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjinâs been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.
He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time youâre within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because heâs happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.
Itâs impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. Heâs already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?
Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. âThere is.â
Hyunjin doesnât know what to say.
âIt mightâve been me, at some point,â he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkamiâs ears. âBut it has always been you, Hyun.â
Four floors above them and inside Hyunjinâs place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkamiâs return.
Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all thatâs in front of you.
Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what mustâve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns districtâs first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of âace spikerâ label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang âChristopherâ Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. Thereâs oneâWho is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolutionâbeside which heâs written the singular word âmouthful.â You laugh; you agree.
But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.
You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as youâre playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you canât see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kimâs email. You, you, you.
You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didnât know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.
It has always been him.
The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes.Â
Itâs not awkward this time.
Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.
He moves his eyes to his best friendâs back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play theyâve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration.Â
He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.
The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjinâs heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. Heâs not scared at all.
He balls his fingers into fists.
âJUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACEââ
An arm seizes Hyunjinâs neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He canât feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesnât care. He doesnât care.
ââDEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEARââ
His eyes find Seungminâs among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungminâs gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.
He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.
ââYOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!â
Hyunjinâs post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.
The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: âIs there anyone youâd like to thank?â
Hyunjin exhales. âYou want the short answer or the longââ
Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.
âLove you,â he yells before hurrying off.Â
âLove you too, Bin.â
Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.
âThe short answer,â she deadpans.
He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his familyâhis first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys heâs ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.
In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. Thereâs a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.
Hyunjin thanks you.
You didnât ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and theyâre all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselvesâitâs hard to believe youâve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.
What are you like? What arenât you like, is the better question. Youâre caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sunâs doting radius, and so did he.
You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; youâre wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky. Theyâre right.
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed. âWhy the fuck am I still talking to you?âÂ
âPardon?â The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.
He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.
He calls out to you.
You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the areaâs busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but heâs used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.
Youâre beautiful. God, youâre fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like heâs everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will.Â
Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashesâif he didnât have something far better to do.
âTell me now if you donât want me to do this,â he whispers.
A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. âMy lips are sealed.â
Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before theyâre colliding again.
He kisses you until heâs crying, again, until heâs no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and heâs really won everything, now.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.
âThanks, cap.â Hyunjin swears heâs had this exact exchange before.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âRead.â
From: Nicola Daldello «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game
Christopher,
Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza.
It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki.
Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwangâs travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club.
Iâm looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all.
Yours,
Nicola Daldello
Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano
âI told you, some opportunities just present themselves,â Bang says, turning his monitor back around. âAs for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social evâHwang, is that foam coming out of your moâNOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!â
In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baekâs king with a triumphant yelp.
âI knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!â She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. âYou! Get over here. Your reign is over.â
You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldnât even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.
âAs excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,â you call back.Â
She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.
Hyunjin:
Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris
Hyunjin:
Same park?
Y/N:
yes
Hyunjin:
Whoâs the opp today
Y/N:
mrs. choi
Hyunjin:
Not that bitch again
Y/N:
?
Heâll be here in eight minutes.
You return to the task at hand. Youâve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all thatâs left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely youâll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.
Instead of hitting the âdeleteâ button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.
You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.
He finds you a sobbing mess.
âHey, hey, whoa.â Heâs on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. âBaby, whatâs happening? Are you okay?â
âYes,â you say in a flustered haste. âYes, Iâm okay. I donâtâI donât really know whatâs happening.â
âDid that hag do this to you?â He asks this question so seriously. âIâll beat up a senior citizen, I donât give a fuckââ
âNo!â You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. âNo, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.â
âThen what is it? Whatâs wrong?â
Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.
Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.
âIâll tell you later,â you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline.Â
He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then youâre smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.
You rest your foreheads together. âHave I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?â
He smiles. âDoes that make you my flower, then?â
âBecause youâre irresistably drawn to me?â
âNo, because I wanna put my pollen inââ
You shove him away. âYou are grotesque.â
He returns in a flash. âYou love me.â
You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.
âWhy did Coach hold you back, by the way?â You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. âAre you in trouble again?â
âNo, no. The opposite, actually.â
Your brow furrows. âThe opposite? Whatââ
âIn this lifetime, please,â Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.
âDuty calls, my love.â
âTell me your thing later too?â
âOf course.â
You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, ânow watch me beat up a senior citizen.â
He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.
âHypocrite.â
Hyunjin:
[1 Audio Message]
This is my seventh take and Iâm not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I donât care anymore.
I understand if you donât wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldnât, either. I just wanted to say that you donât have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I wonât be able to fulfill my end of our deal, soâŠyeah, it wouldnât be fair to you. Youâve already done so much for us. For me.
As for team manager, youâll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesnât sound like a fun conversation, I knowâbut if thatâs what you decide, Iâll have your back. They donât scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.
Youâve beenâŠdistant, this week. Iâve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldnât care less if youâre my tutor or my team manager or whateverâI just donât want you to be a stranger. Maybe thatâs selfish of me to say, but Iâm tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesnât terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.
Iâm gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I wouldâve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, andâŠIâm sorry about everything. You deserve better.
Come back to me whenever youâre ready, okay? Iâll be waiting.
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â volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.
wordsă»15.2k
pairingă»volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)
genresă»college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. hyunjin is a huge flirt. mc #DGAF. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!
warningsă»mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.
playlistă»collision by stray kidsă»value by adoă»waiting for us by stray kidsă»eternity by bang chană»dreaming by smallpoolsă»fly high!! by burnout syndromes
a/nă»writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved âĄ
âNot a word out of you,â you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. âIâm serious.â
Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. âWhen did people stop saying good morning?â
Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âPlease, angel.â
âNo! Leave me alone.â
Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. âCoffee on me for a week.â
At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you.Â
When you finally humor him and turn around, youâre flinching like youâre in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashes if he wasnât so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.
âWhat the hell did you do?â
âTried to cut my own bangs,â you sigh. âIt didnât go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.â
Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. âYouâve seen Naruto?â
You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when heâs staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.
The air between you curdles like sour milk.
Things are awkward between you often, heâs realized recently. Whatâs more, he didnât think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailorâs knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh youâve given him since. Maybe thereâs more to it, maybe there isnâtâHyunjin doesnât think about it much. He doesnât like thinking in general.
You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere.Â
âOf course Iâve seen Naruto,â you quip, and everything is normal again. âWhy do you seem surprised?â
âBecause youâre so scholarly.â
âI am not scholarly.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.â
âI need to get my steps in somehow!"
âYou didnât know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look upââ
ââugh, I learned so much about you that day."
âYour favorite social media platform is Quizlet,â he bursts, exasperated. âQuizlet.â
âIt is not.â An introspective pause. âIs it?â
âI wouldnât be surprised.â Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. âThere is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I donât buy it.â
âHonestly, I thought youâd have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.â
He does, though. Matter of fact, heâs been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorerâs hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.
But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. Heâs reminded that itâs hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at you at the same time.
He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.
âWatermelon,â he mumbles with a sickening smile.
You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. âYouâre getting soft.â
He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.
âI only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,â you say as youâre strolling out the building together, âand I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?â
âYour faith gets me out of bed in the morning,â Hyunjin deadpans. âIâll handle it, love. Text me your order.â
All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that heâd recognize anywhere.
âBody flicker jutsu,â you whisper, and then youâre scurrying off without another wordâbut you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quadâs busy thrum.
Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the courtâs sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.
âDonât look at me,â Minho says mid-stretch. âGodspeed.â
âThanks, cap.â Useless.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. Itâs all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the manâs propensity for violence. Heâs packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âYou can read, right?â
âYes, coach,â he sighs. Everyoneâs expectations for him are subterranean.
From: Jinyoung Park «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Not good
See email from Hwangâs antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now heâs failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP
JP
Sent from my iPad
Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. âWrong email.â
âYep.â
From: Kyeyoung Kim «[email protected]»
To: Jinyoung Park «[email protected]»
Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin
To Director of Athletics Park,
I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kidsâ movie instead of his midterm paper.
It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him.
Regards,
Kyeyoung Kim
Professor of Anthropology
âThatâs bullshit!â
âWeâre in agreement there.â Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. âDo you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says?â
âDoes anyone?â Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman.
âNo way you just had that.â
âI had it delivered ten minutes ago,â Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. âAll student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.â
Hyunjin stiffens. âWhat the fuck? Iâve never heard ofââ
âIf any Department of Athletics personnel,â Bang continues, raising his voice, âhave reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.â
He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. âRead that name aloud for me.â
Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.
âHwang Hyunjin,â he says under his breath.
The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.
Then comes the yelling.
âThe Trolls movie? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me, Hwang?â
âIt was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! Howâs that for anthropology?â
âBAD!â Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. âVERY, VERY BAD!â
Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.
âYouâve never had trouble with school before.â He leans over his desk imposingly. âWhat the hell happened this semester? What changed?â
Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjinâs pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists havenât discovered yet.
He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.
âBeats me,â he lies. âTypical junior year stress, maybe.â
âDoes any of it have to do with Piazza?âÂ
Hyunjin shudders.
It just might, actually.
Modesty has no place in the career heâs had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolution. Itâs a mouthful, he knows.
It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.
At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the worldâand current home to Hyunjinâs personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.
Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didnât ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.
Piazza replied within the week.
For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the teamâs social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazzaâs emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.
But thatâs the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because heâs laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldnât care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you canât contain your excitement. You, you, you.
He cards a hand through his air, regaining his focus. âYou know how I feel about Piazza.â
âExpect the worst, hope for the best.â Bangâs chair skids backwards as he stands up. âI think itâs a good approach.â
Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.
âBut hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,â he says. âDo not let it, Hyunjin. Iâm not asking.â
Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin canât help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.
Bang lets go of him. âIâm not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.â
Hyunjin groans. âYeah, yeah. Iâm on it.â
A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.
âI thought you said your order was complicated.â
You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.
âWas it not?â You ask.
âIt was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.â
âWell, I wasnât sure if you could handle that much.â He flips you off as you squint at the cup. âSomeone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.â
âWhat? Really?â
âNo.â
He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest; youâre still cackling by the time youâve straightened up again.
âWhy did you get this, anyway?â Hyunjin grumbles. âI thought you had a sweet tooth.â
âI do, but you donât.â
Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.
âThanks,â he says at last. âNice of you.â
âI know, right? Hated it,â you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.
You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âYo.â
Hyunjin dabs it up mid-sip. âI fully forgot you were in this class.â
âWell, Iâm due for my weekly appearance.â Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. âHey, Y/N.â
âHi,â you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.
You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the âI would relinquish all of my rights for youâ way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. Heâs funny, gorgeous, and talentedâa vocal performance major with a student-athlete contractâand you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks itâs hilarious.
You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. Youâre met with something far more worrisome.
Heâs thinking.
That canât be good.
Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. âCan this guy do his fucking job?â
âHe wouldnât have to if you didnât quit,â Seungmin answers. âIâll never forget you, Manager Hwang.â
âShut up.â You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. âOur captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League ruleâSeung, why do you look morose?â
âIâm mourning.â Seungmin does look morose indeed. âHyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the year. It was so funny.â
Hyunjin slides down his seat. âIt was the worst experience of my life.â
Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the larceny thing. You choose to digress. âCan I ask why?â
âHe had to be responsible,â Seungmin whispers. âFor other people.â
The top of Hyunjinâs head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. âPoor thing.â
âHardass refused to do it again this year, so now weâre recruiting.â Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. âI donât suppose you have four hours to spare every day.â
Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. âThis one? Team manager?â
âI can see it.â
âI can see killing myself, maybe.â
The next time you reach for him is to smack his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall, and Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.
âSeems like a great candidate to me,â Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, itâs pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.
Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. âI miss when you didnât come to class, Seungmin.â
Eighty minutes later, youâve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.
âSorry.â He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. âI couldnât unsee it.â
You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.
Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.
âI didnât like that at all.â
âI donât care. I have something to tell you.â
âYou have a kid, donât you?â
âHelloâwho do you think I am?â
âThe one-night-standâs poster child,â you reply. âThe champion of the contraception industry.â
âYeah, contraception industry. Itâs right there in the name.â
You canât argue with that.
âWhat do you have to tell me?â
A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjinâs face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that youâre about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you shouldâve saved the secret son bit for another time.
âIâm failing anthro.â
So much for a serious conversation.Â
âCome again?â
He repeats the mystifying statement.
âYouâre joking.â
The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair.
âYouâre failing anthro?â
âI just said that, yes.â
âYouâre failing anthropology?â
âMhm.â
âJust so weâre clearâyouâre failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?â
âYes. Iâm glad youâre having fun.â
This is the best day of your life. âI didnât even know that was possible.â
âYeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,â he mutters.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â Hyunjin clears his throat. âAnyways, I was thinkingââ
âWow! Congratulations. Thatâs a bigâoomfââ
Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.
âI was thinking,â he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, âyou and I can work out some kind of deal.â
You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. âI think I just ate some athletic tape.â
âHappens. You wanna hear the deal or not?â
âDoes it involve ingesting more sports equipment?â
âDo you want it to?â
âJust tell me the deal, boy.â
âAlright.â He takes a deep breath. âIf you help me pass this classâIâll set you up with Seungmin.â
Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: âIâm gonna need you to elaborate.â
âOn which part?â
âAll of them. Everything.â
Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. âAre you hungry?â
You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think itâs the prime minister youâre about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.
Heâs chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they donât know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that heâs drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager youâve had better company.
âYou like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.â He traces over the wrapperâs left corner. âAnd I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?â
âYes, definitely,â you mumble around a mouthful of bread. âPlease continue.â
âConclusion one: you should be my tutor.â He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. âYou also like my teammate, but heâs neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold ofâfor most people.â
âLet me guess. Not for you.â
âTen points to Ravenclaw.â His British accent is nightmarish. âSeung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.â
âTo dinner or to practice?â
âTo both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusionââ
He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.
ââyou should manage our team.â
âI knew it!â You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. âYouâre trying to swindle me! You canât pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?â
âItâs not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didnât do shit!â
âYeah? Who was your last manager?â
âMe!â
Oh, right. âBut you hated it!â
âI hate everything that isnât playing volleyball. Try again.â
You fold your arms over your chest. âYou said youâd kill yourself if I managed you.â
Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. âItâs true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seungâsââ
âSTOP!â A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. âStop right there. I get it. Stop.â
âItâs a good plan.â He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. âYou know it is.â
Youâre loath to admit that you do. âWhen did you even come up with all this?â
He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class.
âNo fucking wonder youâre failing.â
âWhat is this, mock trial?â
The owner of this voice is the third man youâve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighborâs cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. Thereâs a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like heâs enjoying the company of a court jester.
âSlamming tables like fuckinâ tariff lawyers,â the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âI could see it from all the way inside.â
âCaptain!â Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. âJust the man I was hoping to see.â
âReally? I thought youâd be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.â
âI would never.â
âYou did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.â He pauses for emphasis. âAs fast as possible.â
âWell, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.â Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. âAnd today, I bring you a new team manager.â
You stiffen. âI havenâtââ
âIs that so!â When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. âMusic to my ears. Whatâs your name, cutie?â
You catch Hyunjinâs eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungminâsâ
Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.
âY/N,â you grumble. âIâm looking forward to working with you.â
He shakes on it heartily. âLikewise. Iâm Minho. Welcome to the team.â
âYes, welcome to the team,â Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.
Heâs lucky that his proposal holds so much water. Heâs lucky that you donât plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.
You do kick him under the table, though.
The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You canât tell which is the bigger endeavor.
âIâm going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,â you tell Changbin.
The teamâs libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the universityâs sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and youâve already decided heâs the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.
âYou will not,â Changbin answers. âOne, because this wonât involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldnât ask you to help if it did.â
âYouâve misunderstood me,â you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. âI want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.â
âOh.â He opens the door with a frown. âOh dear.â
Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.
âI am going to get maimed,â Hyunjin tells Changbin.
âHave some faith, both of you,â Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages youâre looking for and begin poring over them like youâre cramming for an exam. âYouâll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.â
âStudied?â He repeats. âFor this?â
âIâm pretty sure Quizlets were made.â
âThree, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. âNow tape me.â
Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. âSee? What could go wrong?â
The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly âsprained his ass,â leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.
You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypressâlaundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesnât wear that insufferable cologne to practice.
âGo easy on me, yeah?â
While Hyunjinâs tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.
âI canât promise anything.â
With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.
A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. Itâs the first time youâve seen his fingers untaped; theyâre pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.
Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.
âYouâre not nervous, are you?â
âNo. Maybe a little.â You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. âFine, yes. Very.â
âBut you made Quizlets. Youâre prepared for anything.â
âThatâs what Iâm saying!â You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that heâs making fun of you. âI hate you.â
âActually,â he hums, âI think you care about me, love. Thatâs why youâre nervous.â
âNonsenseâI care about disappointing Changbin. Thatâs it.â
âAnd me. And hopping on Seungminâs dick. All these things donât have to be mutually exclusive.â
You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.
âHave you lost your mind?â You whisper-shout, your face on fire. âDonât bring that up here. Iâll maim you for real.â
The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you donât hate when that happens.
âMy bad, my bad. It slipped out. I wonâtââ
One incremental shift of Hyunjinâs body later, you find that youâre precariously, alarmingly close to one another.
So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath.Â
Things are awkward between you often, youâve realized recently. Youâre both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later youâll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.
Since youâve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. Youâre not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesnât go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as theyâre doing now.
Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.
âThank you,â he murmurs.
Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. âWhat for?â
He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.
âCaring about me.â
Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.
âNow stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.â
âOkay,â you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. âNo need to get violent.â
It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.
As youâre walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. âItâs not too tight, is it?â
âItâs perfect.â He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. âWant another taste?â
You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. âYou are truly grotesque.â
The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.
The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.
You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.
Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ballâs tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.
âOi, this isnât your backyard! Go pick that up!â Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.
Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. âCrazy bitch. What the fuck was that?â
âLower and faster. Further from the net too,â Seungmin returns. âHowâd it feel?â
The grin on Hyunjinâs face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. âLike we just won everything.â
He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. Youâve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjinâand you canât move.
It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.
A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you.Â
âHello?â He immediately starts laughing. âWhere the fuck are you?â
You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. âMy face is preoccupied at the moment.â
âOh, you have to show me. Please.â
You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.
âMotherfucker!â
He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.
âThank you,â he says earnestly. âIâll treasure this forever.â
âYouâll be punished, Hwang.â
âDonât threaten me with a good time.â
You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle.Â
âAaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.â
The first thing you did as Hyunjinâs tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the âtruly piteous timbreâ of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.
âYou shouldâve opened with that,â you grumble.
âI tried! Someone distracted me.â
âRead it before I change my mind.â
You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.
You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that itâs as if youâre leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.
Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldnât move for ten minutes.
With that, his attention span has run its course.
âBaby,â he interrupts gently. âLetâs stop here, okay? You seem tired.â
You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.
âI suppose I am,â you concede. âWill you keep working tonight?â
âI think so. I hit my stride.â
âText me if you have questions, then. Iâll respond when I wake up.â
âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjinâs face incurably quickly.Â
âI had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know,â you murmur.
âWhy is that?â
âWell, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime youâd experienced since preschool.â
âIt really is.â
âYou also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.â
âI really would.â
âAnd you once referred to academia as âVirgin Village.ââ
âDidnât you come up with that?â
âNo, hello? I live in that village.â
He grins. âI know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.â
âFuck you.â
âAh, donât threaten me with a goodââ
âWhat Iâm trying to say,â you cut in, âis that I didnât think you would take this seriously, but Iâm happy to be proven wrong.â
Hyunjin leans back. âWell, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.â
âReally?â
âNo.â
You pretend to punch him through the screen. Itâs so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.
âBut I do give a fuck about you.â
Thereâs nothing crazy about the statement. Youâre friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didnât. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a starâs final breath. And Hyunjinâs heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.
He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.
Then he opens his texts.
Hyunjin:
We have team bonding tomorrow btw
Hyunjin:
Donât forget
Y/N:
i forgot.
Y/N:
pick me up at 6:45?
Hyunjin:
đ«Ą
He picks you up at 7:53.
You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and heâs walking too close to your lawn.
âHis fault,â Hyunjin says before you start yelling.
Minho simpers at you through his open window. âHey, you! So glad you could join us!â
You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. âArenât you the captain? Why are you this late?â
âWhoa, okay. I wouldâve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.â
âYou did schedule it for earlier,â you say. âYou scheduled it for way earlier.â
âYeah, well, youâre fired.â
âYou canât fire me, Minho.â
âI can too. Tell âem, Hwang.â
âI want nothing to do with this.â
When you step through the doors of the arcade, youâre met with a surge of sensory input that you havenât experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that theyâve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.
âIâll go pay,â Hyunjin says. âHow much time do we want?â
âNo youâre not,â the two men answer in perfect unison.
You glance between them warily. âI donât mind watching, seriously. I donât even know how most of these games workââ
âThereâs Tetris,â Hyunjin cuts in.
You purchase an hour.
One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU menâs volleyball team, not to bond them. Youâve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like itâs a shot. Itâs a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.
But theyâre happy. Youâve picked up on it when theyâre on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as theyâre eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that youâre glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so specialâespecially because thereâs Tetris.
âHave you ever considered going pro?â Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.
You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. Heâs been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.
You donât respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.
âI already did,â you finally answer.
âSorry, what? You played professional Tetris?â
âIn middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.â You pause. âThen I got bored again and switched to chess.â
âHow do you look like this with these hobbies?â
Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. âI think Iâm washed.â
He looks at you like youâve lost your mind. âYou just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.â
âItâs a small pond,â you say, and an idea occurs to you. âDo you wanna try?â
âI get the feeling I donât have a choice.â
âThen youâre smarter than you look.â
âWell, you lookââ
His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.
âWhat was that?â
âUgly. I said you look ugly.â He cracks his knuckles. âNow letâs break some fuckin' blocks.âÂ
When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade.Â
He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy princeâand heâs with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.
Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.
Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjinâs chair. You canât watch. You canât think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.
âSeung!â Thatâs Jisung, you think. âYou made it!â
âYo, sorry weâre late.â Thatâs Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. âDinner took longer than I thought.â
âMin, are you sure Iâm allowed to be here?â You donât know who this voice belongs to and youâre not sure you want to. âI feel like Iâm intrudingââ
âHwang,â you say suddenly. âI have to go.â
He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. âAlready?â
âI forgot I had an important call to make.â You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. âSorry. Iâll see you on Monday.â
You have touched Hyunjinâs hands many times. Heâs asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment.Â
Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when itâs been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.
He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.
âDo you want to be alone?â
You have never been asked such a thingâyou have never asked to be asked such a thingâbut, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes.Â
âYes, please,â you whisper, and you pull your hand away.
When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting.Â
Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where youâve left your phone.
You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.
Hyunjinâs right; the team manager doesnât have to do much.
Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someoneâs waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything your schedule allows.Â
Last week, you could be found helping Minho put down the volleyball nets, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professorâs distinct âcabbage scent.â Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammatesâ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the teamâs water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. Youâd spent more time in the gymnasium in those ten days than you had in the last ten years.
Then came the arcade.
Five days have come and gone. You havenât attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. Youâve taken the best notes of your life. He doesnât mention the previous weekend; he doesnât mention much of anything.Â
In person, that is.
That Friday afternoon, youâre reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. Itâs from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.
Then you listen to it again.
And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.
As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you havenât the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.
Coach Bang is leaving the building just as youâre approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe itâs the shadowy landscape; more likely itâs the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.
âItâs been a while,â he greets.
âCoach,â you return, lowering your head. âI want to apologize forââ
âSave it,â he says, not unkindly. âThereâs nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.â
You manage a grateful smile. âIâll be back starting next week.â
âIâm glad to hear it.â He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. âI would give him some space, by the way.â
Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.
Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation.Â
Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when heâs picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where itâs plastered to his neck. Heâs alone.
You only catch sight of Hyunjinâs face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.
âI was told to give you space,â you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball heâs holding.
His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that theyâve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.
âIs this enough space?â
More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.
âDonât make me go further, please. Iâm not ready to die.â
Finally, this earns you a smile. Itâs not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.
The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You donât care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.
The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. Youâre worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.
Thereâs a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights.Â
âHow do you see under these things?â
âI donât,â he returns. âI complained about it to Coach once.â
âAnd?â
âHe made them brighter.â
âSounds about right.â
He spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjinâs way with words.
But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. Itâs not that Hyunjin has a way with words; itâs that heâs brave enough to break the silences that you canât, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you wonât have to.
This cannot be his burden alone.
You inhale. âWhatâs on your mind?â
Hyunjin doesnât answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes; the lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.
âI donât think I know how to put it into words.â
You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. âDonât think, just talk. Iâm here.â
The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.
âDo you remember Ishikawa Yuki?â
âYour role model?â
âHeâs currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.â He blows out a deep breath. âIâve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.â
The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. âHoly shit, Hwang.â
âHe emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, heâs excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldnât wrap my head around anything. I still canât.
âI am who I am because of that man, and nowâŠI have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why Iâm notânot happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he wouldââ
You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.
Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.
You stop thinking after that.
You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.
You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.
âDonât fight it.â You trace over the hill of his cheek. âHealing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.â
His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.
âYou donât have to continue if you canât.â
âSâokay.â Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. âI want to.â
You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before. Does he do the same?
âI used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feetâI blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.â He smiles at the memory. âBut every time I came close to quitting, Iâd go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and Iâd promise myself it would be me on some other kidâs screen someday.
âThat kid would tell everyone whoâd listen about how cool I am. That Iâm a secret superhero. That Iâm living proof humans can fly if they really, really tryâjust like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.
âThe other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proudâeven if it meant losing myself.â He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. âThatâs whatâs on my mind.â
Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.
The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; itâs long overdue.
âEvery time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,â you say. âHe is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.â
Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.
âJeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,â you continue, âeven for things related to schoolâwhich I still find hard to believe, Iâm not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.
âI know you think he canât stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. Itâs written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. Youâre like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.â
âThen thereâs me.â You pause to catch your breath. âWhen I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didnât like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone elseâs personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.
âBut I found a person. Someone who wouldnât know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearlyâyour body is not normal, by the way.â
Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like youâre flying.
âDonât get me wrong,â you say. âYour sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when Iâm around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.â
The next time you blink, you discover that heâs not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?
âThereâs so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.â You give him a watery smile. âThat kid will be spoiled for choice.â
When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: âI knew you cared about me.â
You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.
âHow the fuck are you still sweaty?â
You think you like his cologne after all.
Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.
A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like youâve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead.Â
Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.
âCan you come inside, please? My RA will think Iâm doing some freaky shit again.â
You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. âWhat, exactly, does freaky shit entail?â
He smirks as the door falls shut. âYou want me to tell you or show you?â
You turn to Kkami, disgusted. âYour ownerâs a bit of a pervert, my dear.â
Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjinâs eyes narrow to slits.
âTraitor.â
Naturally, Hyunjinâs parents chose the eve of his final anthropology examâand the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his careerâto ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration.Â
âDo you want anything to drink?â He calls from the kitchen area.
You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. âWhat do you have?âÂ
âAlcohol.â He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. âAmericanos.â
He stops speaking.
âIs that all?â
âYes. Waitâand apple juice.â
âYou are about to be a professional athlete.â
âWhat the Italians donât know wonât hurt them. You want apple juice, donât you? I can see it in your eyes.â
âMaybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.â
Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.
âLetâs get this over with.â
At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.
At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.
You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then heâs kicking open the door.
Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a monthâs worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.
âHyunâKkami?â Seungmin swivels. âYo, what the fuck isââ
Hyunjin is already out the door.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.
âWhat is this thing?â Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass.Â
âKkami gets sad after throwing up,â he sighs. âHis blanket makes him feel better.â
Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. âHe ate too fast again?â
Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. âI donât get it. Nobodyâs gonna take his food from him.â
Seungmin laughs. âI didnât even know he was on campus.â
âI picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for workâthey say hi, by the way.â
âI say hi back. I miss your momâs cooking.â
âMe too,â Hyunjin says, smiling. âShe would love to cook for you againâsheâs always saying youâre too skinny.â
âShe really is.â
A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.
Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of themâa concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjinâs backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjinâs dissuading; half of Hyunjinâs fatherâs wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.
It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the netâs fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungminâs hitterâSeungmin, always Hyunjinâs setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.
At least, thatâs what Hyunjin used to think.
Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know?Â
Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he canât remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not âtalkedâ as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practiceââtalkedâ as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.
Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago.Â
âYeonwoo, right?â
He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what heâs trying to doâand forgives him.
âYeonwoo,â Seungmin affirms. âWeâre in the same songwriting intensive this semester.â
âAlso a singer?â
He shakes his head. âPiano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I donât think Iâve ever met someone so talented.â
âWow, thatâsâhi, old man. You done?â
Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkamiâs head as he hydrates.
âYouâve suffered,â he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.
âAs I was sayingâthatâs crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.â
âThanks. Itâs weird. Iâm happy.â
âYou deserve it. You really do, Kim.â They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. âWhen are you introducing us?â
âThe arcade wasnât enough?â
âDonât insult me.â
âWhenever you want, then.â
âDinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,â Hyunjin recounts. âIâm holding you to it.â
âBet.â
They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasnât already reassured by Seungminâs smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that theyâll be okay.
âWhat about you?â Seungmin asks. âAre you together yet?â
Hyunjin knew this was coming. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou know what I mean.â Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. âSomeone you have questions for that youâre too scared to ask. Someone whoâs lived in your mind since the day you met. Thereâs someone like that, isnât there?â
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.Â
Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjinâs been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.
He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time youâre within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because heâs happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.
Itâs impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. Heâs already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?
Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. âThere is.â
Hyunjin doesnât know what to say.
âIt mightâve been me, at some point,â he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkamiâs ears. âBut it has always been you, Hyun.â
Four floors above them and inside Hyunjinâs place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkamiâs return.
Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all thatâs in front of you.
Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what mustâve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns districtâs first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of âace spikerâ label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang âChristopherâ Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. Thereâs oneâWho is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolutionâbeside which heâs written the singular word âmouthful.â You laugh; you agree.
But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.
You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as youâre playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you canât see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kimâs email. You, you, you.
You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didnât know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.
It has always been him.
The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes.Â
Itâs not awkward this time.
Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.
He moves his eyes to his best friendâs back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play theyâve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration.Â
He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.
The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjinâs heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. Heâs not scared at all.
He balls his fingers into fists.
âJUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACEââ
An arm seizes Hyunjinâs neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He canât feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesnât care. He doesnât care.
ââDEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEARââ
His eyes find Seungminâs among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungminâs gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.
He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.
ââYOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!â
Hyunjinâs post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.
The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: âIs there anyone youâd like to thank?â
Hyunjin exhales. âYou want the short answer or the longââ
Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.
âLove you,â he yells before hurrying off.Â
âLove you too, Bin.â
Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.
âThe short answer,â she deadpans.
He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his familyâhis first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys heâs ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.
In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. Thereâs a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.
Hyunjin thanks you.
You didnât ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and theyâre all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselvesâitâs hard to believe youâve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.
What are you like? What arenât you like, is the better question. Youâre caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sunâs doting radius, and so did he.
You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; youâre wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky. Theyâre right.
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed. âWhy the fuck am I still talking to you?âÂ
âPardon?â The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.
He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.
He calls out to you.
You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the areaâs busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but heâs used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.
Youâre beautiful. God, youâre fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like heâs everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will.Â
Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashesâif he didnât have something far better to do.
âTell me now if you donât want me to do this,â he whispers.
A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. âMy lips are sealed.â
Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before theyâre colliding again.
He kisses you until heâs crying, again, until heâs no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and heâs really won everything, now.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.
âThanks, cap.â Hyunjin swears heâs had this exact exchange before.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âRead.â
From: Nicola Daldello «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game
Christopher,
Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza.
It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki.
Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwangâs travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club.
Iâm looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all.
Yours,
Nicola Daldello
Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano
âI told you, some opportunities just present themselves,â Bang says, turning his monitor back around. âAs for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social evâHwang, is that foam coming out of your moâNOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!â
In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baekâs king with a triumphant yelp.
âI knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!â She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. âYou! Get over here. Your reign is over.â
You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldnât even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.
âAs excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,â you call back.Â
She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.
Hyunjin:
Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris
Hyunjin:
Same park?
Y/N:
yes
Hyunjin:
Whoâs the opp today
Y/N:
mrs. choi
Hyunjin:
Not that bitch again
Y/N:
?
Heâll be here in eight minutes.
You return to the task at hand. Youâve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all thatâs left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely youâll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.
Instead of hitting the âdeleteâ button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.
You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.
He finds you a sobbing mess.
âHey, hey, whoa.â Heâs on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. âBaby, whatâs happening? Are you okay?â
âYes,â you say in a flustered haste. âYes, Iâm okay. I donâtâI donât really know whatâs happening.â
âDid that hag do this to you?â He asks this question so seriously. âIâll beat up a senior citizen, I donât give a fuckââ
âNo!â You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. âNo, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.â
âThen what is it? Whatâs wrong?â
Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.
Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.
âIâll tell you later,â you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline.Â
He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then youâre smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.
You rest your foreheads together. âHave I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?â
He smiles. âDoes that make you my flower, then?â
âBecause youâre irresistably drawn to me?â
âNo, because I wanna put my pollen inââ
You shove him away. âYou are grotesque.â
He returns in a flash. âYou love me.â
You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.
âWhy did Coach hold you back, by the way?â You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. âAre you in trouble again?â
âNo, no. The opposite, actually.â
Your brow furrows. âThe opposite? Whatââ
âIn this lifetime, please,â Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.
âDuty calls, my love.â
âTell me your thing later too?â
âOf course.â
You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, ânow watch me beat up a senior citizen.â
He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.
âHypocrite.â
Hyunjin:
[1 Audio Message]
This is my seventh take and Iâm not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I donât care anymore.
I understand if you donât wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldnât, either. I just wanted to say that you donât have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I wonât be able to fulfill my end of our deal, soâŠyeah, it wouldnât be fair to you. Youâve already done so much for us. For me.
As for team manager, youâll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesnât sound like a fun conversation, I knowâbut if thatâs what you decide, Iâll have your back. They donât scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.
Youâve beenâŠdistant, this week. Iâve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldnât care less if youâre my tutor or my team manager or whateverâI just donât want you to be a stranger. Maybe thatâs selfish of me to say, but Iâm tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesnât terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.
Iâm gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I wouldâve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, andâŠIâm sorry about everything. You deserve better.
Come back to me whenever youâre ready, okay? Iâll be waiting.
đ (send an ask to be added)ă»@astraystayyhă»@like-a-diamondintheskyă»@fire-08ă»@starsandrqindropsă»@txtxlză»@laylasbunbunnyă»@strayghibliă»@nuronheă»@seungminsapuppyă»@vivisoniă»@moon0fthenightă»@sweetpickledjinsă»@svintsandghostsă»@nhyunn ă»@ur-boyfiendă»@liknwsă»@hotgorloikawaă»@randomwimpă»@automaticpersonabatpaperă»@aceofvernonsă»@linos-kittenă»@newhope8ă»@weedforthoughtză»@hyunverse
i know it's been over a month since u rb'd but i want u to know that i remember these tags so clearly still :') smth about u giving the fic a chance despite not biasing hyun or knowing much ab volleyball and coming to enjoy it so much made me so, so happy. and not to mention the sweetest comments EVER like 'this is how i want to write someday' 'i felt every. single. thing' wow i'm gonna combust. THANK YOU for reading and commenting and being so kind to me and this story (and i hope your sister liked it too đ€)
â volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.
wordsă»15.2k
pairingă»volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)
genresă»college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. hyunjin is a huge flirt. mc #DGAF. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!
warningsă»mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.
playlistă»collision by stray kidsă»value by adoă»waiting for us by stray kidsă»eternity by bang chană»dreaming by smallpoolsă»fly high!! by burnout syndromes
a/nă»writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved âĄ
âNot a word out of you,â you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. âIâm serious.â
Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. âWhen did people stop saying good morning?â
Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âPlease, angel.â
âNo! Leave me alone.â
Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. âCoffee on me for a week.â
At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you.Â
When you finally humor him and turn around, youâre flinching like youâre in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashes if he wasnât so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.
âWhat the hell did you do?â
âTried to cut my own bangs,â you sigh. âIt didnât go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.â
Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. âYouâve seen Naruto?â
You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when heâs staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.
The air between you curdles like sour milk.
Things are awkward between you often, heâs realized recently. Whatâs more, he didnât think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailorâs knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh youâve given him since. Maybe thereâs more to it, maybe there isnâtâHyunjin doesnât think about it much. He doesnât like thinking in general.
You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere.Â
âOf course Iâve seen Naruto,â you quip, and everything is normal again. âWhy do you seem surprised?â
âBecause youâre so scholarly.â
âI am not scholarly.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.â
âI need to get my steps in somehow!"
âYou didnât know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look upââ
ââugh, I learned so much about you that day."
âYour favorite social media platform is Quizlet,â he bursts, exasperated. âQuizlet.â
âIt is not.â An introspective pause. âIs it?â
âI wouldnât be surprised.â Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. âThere is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I donât buy it.â
âHonestly, I thought youâd have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.â
He does, though. Matter of fact, heâs been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorerâs hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.
But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. Itâs hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at your face at the same time.
He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.
âWatermelon,â he mumbles with a sickening smile.
You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. âYouâre getting soft.â
He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.
âI only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,â you say as youâre strolling out the building together, âand I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?â
âYour faith gets me out of bed in the morning,â Hyunjin deadpans. âIâll handle it, love. Text me your order.â
All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that heâd recognize anywhere.
âBody flicker jutsu,â you whisper, and then youâre scurrying off without another wordâbut you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quadâs busy thrum.
Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the courtâs sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.
âDonât look at me,â Minho says mid-stretch. âGodspeed.â
âThanks, cap.â Useless.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. Itâs all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the manâs propensity for violence. Heâs packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âYou can read, right?â
âYes, coach,â he sighs. Everyoneâs expectations for him are subterranean.
From: Jinyoung Park «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Not good
See email from Hwangâs antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now heâs failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP
JP
Sent from my iPad
Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. âWrong email.â
âYep.â
From: Kyeyoung Kim «[email protected]»
To: Jinyoung Park «[email protected]»
Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin
To Director of Athletics Park,
I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kidsâ movie instead of his midterm paper.
It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him.
Regards,
Kyeyoung Kim
Professor of Anthropology
âThatâs bullshit!â
âWeâre in agreement there.â Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. âDo you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says, Hwang?â
âDoes anyone?â Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman.
âNo way you just had that.â
âI had it delivered ten minutes ago,â Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. âAll student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.â
Hyunjin stiffens. âWhat the fuck? Iâve never heard ofââ
âIf any Department of Athletics personnel,â Bang continues, raising his voice, âhave reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.â
He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. âRead that name aloud for me.â
Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.
âHwang Hyunjin,â he says under his breath.
The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.
Then comes the yelling.
âThe Trolls movie, Hwang Hyunjin? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me right now?â
âIt was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! Howâs that for anthropology?â
âBAD!â Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. âVERY, VERY BAD!â
Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.
âYouâve never had trouble with school before.â He leans over his desk imposingly. âWhat the hell happened this semester? What changed?â
Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjinâs pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists havenât discovered yet.
He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.
âBeats me,â he lies. âTypical junior year stress, maybe.â
âDoes any of it have to do with Piazza?âÂ
Hyunjin shudders.
It just might, actually.
Modesty has no place in the career heâs had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolution. Itâs a mouthful, he knows.
It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.
At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the worldâand current home to Hyunjinâs personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.
Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didnât ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.
Piazza replied to his email within the week.
For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the teamâs social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazzaâs emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.
But thatâs the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because heâs laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldnât care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you canât contain your excitement. You, you, you.
He cards a hand through his air, regaining his focus. âYou know how I feel about Piazza.â
âExpect the worst, hope for the best.â Bangâs chair skids backwards as he stands up. âI think itâs a good approach.â
Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.
âBut hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,â he says. âDo not let it, Hyunjin. Iâm not asking.â
Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin canât help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.
Bang lets go of him. âIâm not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.â
Hyunjin groans. âYeah, yeah. Iâm on it.â
A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.
âI thought you said your order was complicated.â
You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.
âWas it not?â You ask.
âIt was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.â
âWell, I wasnât sure if you could handle that much.â He flips you off as you squint at the cup. âSomeone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.â
âWhat? Really?â
âNo.â
He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest. Youâre still cackling by the time youâve straightened up again.
âWhy did you get this, anyway?â Hyunjin grumbles. âI thought you had a sweet tooth.â
âI do, but you donât.â
Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.
âThanks,â he says at last. âNice of you.â
âI know, right? Hated it,â you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.
You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âYo.â
Hyunjin dabs it up without putting down his Americano. âI fully forgot you were in this class.â
âWell, Iâm due for my weekly appearance.â Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. âHey, Y/N.â
âHi,â you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.
You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the âI relinquish my rightsâ way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. Heâs funny, gorgeous, and talentedâa vocal performance major with a student-athlete contractâand you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks itâs hilarious.
You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. Youâre met with something far more worrisome.
Heâs thinking.
That canât be good.
Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. âCan this guy do his fucking job?â
âHe wouldnât have to if you didnât quit,â Seungmin answers. âIâll never forget you, Manager Hwang.â
âShut up.â You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. âOur captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League ruleâSeung, why do you look morose?â
âIâm mourning.â Seungmin does look morose indeed. âHyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the year. It was so funny.â
Hyunjin slides down his seat. âIt was the worst experience of my life.â
Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the larceny thing. You choose to digress. âCan I ask why?â
âHe had to be responsible,â Seungmin whispers. âFor other people.â
The top of Hyunjinâs head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. âPoor thing.â
âHardass refused to do it again this year, so now weâre recruiting.â Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. âI donât suppose you have four hours to spare every day.â
Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. âThis one? Team manager?â
âI can see it.â
âI can see killing myself, maybe.â
The next time you reach for him is to smack his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall, and Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.
âSeems like a great candidate to me,â Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, itâs pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.
Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. âI miss when you didnât come to class, Seungmin.â
Eighty minutes later, youâve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.
âSorry.â He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. âI couldnât unsee it.â
You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.
Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.
âI didnât like that at all.â
âI donât care. I have something to tell you.â
âYou have a kid, donât you?â
âHelloâwho do you think I am?â
âThe one-night-standâs poster child,â you reply. âThe champion of the contraception industry.â
âYeah, contraception industry. Itâs right there in the name.â
You canât argue with that.
âWhat do you have to tell me?â
A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjinâs face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that youâre about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you shouldâve saved the secret son bit for another time.
âIâm failing anthro.â
So much for a serious conversation.Â
âCome again?â
He repeats the mystifying statement.
âYouâre joking.â
The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair.
âYouâre failing anthro?â
âI just said that, yes.â
âYouâre failing anthropology?â
âMhm.â
âJust so weâre clearâyouâre failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?â
âYes. Iâm glad youâre having fun.â
This is the best day of your life. âI didnât even know that was possible.â
âYeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,â he mutters.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â Hyunjin clears his throat. âAnyways, I was thinkingââ
âWow! Congratulations. Thatâs a bigâoomfââ
Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.
âI was thinking,â he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, âyou and I can work out some kind of deal.â
You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. âI think I just ate some athletic tape.â
âHappens. You wanna hear the deal or not?â
âDoes it involve ingesting more sports equipment?â
âDo you want it to?â
âJust tell me the deal, boy.â
âAlright.â He takes a deep breath. âIf you help me pass this classâIâll set you up with Seungmin.â
Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: âIâm gonna need you to elaborate.â
âOn which part?â
âAll of them. Everything.â
Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. âAre you hungry?â
You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think itâs the prime minister youâre about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.
Heâs chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they donât know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that heâs drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager youâve had better company.
âYou like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.â He traces over the wrapperâs left corner. âAnd I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?â
âYes, definitely,â you mumble around a mouthful of bread. âPlease continue.â
âConclusion one: you should be my tutor.â He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. âYou also like my teammate, but heâs neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold ofâfor most people.â
âLet me guess. Not for you.â
âTen points to Ravenclaw.â His British accent is nightmarish. âSeung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.â
âTo dinner or to practice?â
âTo both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusionââ
He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.
ââyou should manage our team.â
âI knew it!â You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. âYouâre trying to swindle me! You canât pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?â
âItâs not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didnât do shit!â
âYeah? Who was your last manager?â
âMe!â
Oh, right. âBut you hated it!â
âI hate everything that isnât playing volleyball. Try again.â
You fold your arms over your chest. âYou said youâd kill yourself if I managed you.â
Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. âItâs true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seungâsââ
âSTOP!â A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. âStop right there. I get it. Stop.â
âItâs a good plan.â He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. âYou know it is.â
Youâre loath to admit that you do. âWhen did you even come up with all this?â
He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class.
âNo fucking wonder youâre failing.â
âWhat is this, mock trial?â
The owner of this voice is the third man youâve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighborâs cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. Thereâs a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like heâs enjoying the company of a court jester.
âSlamming tables like fuckinâ tariff lawyers,â the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âI could see it from all the way inside.â
âCaptain!â Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. âJust the man I was hoping to see.â
âReally? I thought youâd be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.â
âI would never.â
âYou did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.â He pauses for emphasis. âAs fast as possible.â
âWell, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.â Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. âAnd today, I bring you a new team manager.â
You stiffen. âI havenâtââ
âIs that so!â When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. âMusic to my ears. Whatâs your name, cutie?â
You catch Hyunjinâs eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungminâsâ
Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.
âY/N,â you grumble. âIâm looking forward to working with you.â
He shakes on it heartily. âLikewise. Iâm Minho. Welcome to the team.â
âYes, welcome to the team,â Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.
Heâs lucky that his proposal holds so much water. Heâs lucky that you donât plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.
You do kick him under the table, though.
The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You canât tell which is the bigger endeavor.
âIâm going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,â you tell Changbin.
The teamâs libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the universityâs sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and youâve already decided heâs the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.
âYou will not,â Changbin answers. âOne, because this wonât involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldnât ask you to help if it did.â
âYouâve misunderstood me,â you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. âI want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.â
âOh.â He opens the door with a frown. âOh dear.â
Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.
âI am going to get maimed,â Hyunjin tells Changbin.
âHave some faith, both of you,â Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages youâre looking for and begin poring over them like youâre cramming for an exam. âYouâll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.â
âStudied?â He repeats. âFor this?â
âIâm pretty sure Quizlets were made.â
âThree, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. âNow tape me.â
Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. âSee? What could go wrong?â
The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly âsprained his ass,â leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.
You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypressâlaundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesnât wear that insufferable cologne to practice.
âGo easy on me, yeah?â
While Hyunjinâs tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.
âI canât promise anything.â
With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.
A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. Itâs the first time youâve seen his fingers untaped; theyâre pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.
Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.
âYouâre not nervous, are you?â
âNo. Maybe a little.â You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. âFine, yes. Very.â
âBut you made Quizlets. Youâre prepared for anything.â
âThatâs what Iâm saying!â You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that heâs making fun of you. âI hate you.â
âActually,â he hums, âI think you care about me, love. Thatâs why youâre nervous.â
âNonsenseâI care about disappointing Changbin. Thatâs it.â
âAnd me. And hopping on Seungminâs dick. All these things donât have to be mutually exclusive.â
You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.
âHave you lost your mind?â You whisper-shout, your face on fire. âDonât bring that up here. Iâll maim you for real.â
The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you donât hate when that happens.
âMy bad, my bad. It slipped out. I wonâtââ
One incremental shift of Hyunjinâs body later, you find that youâre precariously, alarmingly close to one another.
So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath.Â
Things are awkward between you often, youâve realized recently. Youâre both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later youâll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.
Since youâve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. Youâre not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesnât go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as theyâre doing now.
Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.
âThank you,â he murmurs.
Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. âWhat for?â
He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.
âCaring about me.â
Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.
âNow stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.â
âOkay,â you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. âNo need to get violent.â
It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.
As youâre walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. âItâs not too tight, is it?â
âItâs perfect.â He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. âWant another taste?â
You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. âYou are truly grotesque.â
The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.
The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.
You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.
Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ballâs tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.
âOi, this isnât your backyard! Go pick that up!â Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.
Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. âCrazy bitch. What the fuck was that?â
âLower and faster. Further from the net too,â Seungmin returns. âHowâd it feel?â
The grin on Hyunjinâs face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. âLike we just won everything.â
He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. Youâve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjinâand you canât move.
It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.
A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you.Â
âHello?â He immediately starts laughing. âWhere the fuck are you?â
You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. âMy face is preoccupied at the moment.â
âOh, you have to show me. Please.â
You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.
âMotherfucker!â
He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.
âThank you,â he says earnestly. âIâll treasure this forever.â
âYouâll be punished, Hwang.â
âDonât threaten me with a good time.â
You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle.Â
âAaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.â
The first thing you did as Hyunjinâs tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the âtruly piteous timbreâ of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.
âYou shouldâve opened with that,â you grumble.
âI tried! Someone distracted me.â
âRead it before I change my mind.â
You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.
You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that itâs as if youâre leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.
Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldnât move for ten minutes.
With that, his attention span has run its course.
âBaby,â he interrupts gently. âLetâs stop here, okay? You seem tired.â
You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.
âI suppose I am,â you concede. âWill you keep working tonight?â
âI think so. I hit my stride.â
âText me if you have questions, then. Iâll respond when I wake up.â
âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjinâs face incurably quickly.Â
âI had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know,â you murmur.
âWhy is that?â
âWell, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime youâd experienced since preschool.â
âIt really is.â
âYou also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.â
âI really would.â
âAnd you once referred to academia as âVirgin Village.ââ
âDidnât you come up with that?â
âNo, hello? I live in that village.â
He grins. âI know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.â
âFuck you.â
âAh, donât threaten me with a goodââ
âWhat Iâm trying to say,â you cut in, âis that I didnât think you would take this seriously, but Iâm happy to be proven wrong.â
Hyunjin leans back. âWell, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.â
âReally?â
âNo.â
You pretend to punch him through the screen. Itâs so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.
âBut I do give a fuck about you.â
Thereâs nothing crazy about the statement. Youâre friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didnât. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a starâs final breath. And Hyunjinâs heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.
He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.
Then he opens his texts.
Hyunjin:
We have team bonding tomorrow btw
Hyunjin:
Donât forget
Y/N:
i forgot.
Y/N:
pick me up at 6:45?
Hyunjin:
đ«Ą
He picks you up at 7:53.
You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and heâs walking too close to your lawn.
âHis fault,â Hyunjin says before you start yelling.
Minho simpers at you through his open window. âHey, you! So glad you could join us!â
You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. âArenât you the captain? Why are you this late?â
âWhoa, okay. I wouldâve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.â
âYou did schedule it for earlier,â you say. âYou scheduled it for way earlier.â
âYeah, well, youâre fired.â
âYou canât fire me, Minho.â
âI can too. Tell âem, Hwang.â
âI want nothing to do with this.â
When you step through the doors of the arcade, youâre met with a surge of sensory input that you havenât experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that theyâve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.
âIâll go pay,â Hyunjin says. âHow much time do we want?â
âNo youâre not,â the two men answer in perfect unison.
You glance between them warily. âI donât mind watching, seriously. I donât even know how most of these games workââ
âThereâs Tetris,â Hyunjin cuts in.
You purchase an hour.
One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU menâs volleyball team, not to bond them. Youâve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like itâs a shot. Itâs a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.
But theyâre happy. Youâve picked up on it when theyâre on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as theyâre eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that youâre glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so specialâespecially because thereâs Tetris.
âHave you ever considered going pro?â Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.
You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. Heâs been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.
You donât respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.
âI already did,â you finally answer.
âSorry, what? You played professional Tetris?â
âIn middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.â You pause. âThen I got bored again and switched to chess.â
âHow do you look like this with these hobbies?â
Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. âI think Iâm washed.â
He looks at you like youâve lost your mind. âYou just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.â
âItâs a small pond,â you say, and an idea occurs to you. âDo you wanna try?â
âI get the feeling I donât have a choice.â
âThen youâre smarter than you look.â
âWell, you lookââ
His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.
âWhat was that?â
âUgly. I said you look ugly.â He cracks his knuckles. âNow letâs break some fuckin' blocks.âÂ
When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade.Â
He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy princeâand heâs with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.
Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.
Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjinâs chair. You canât watch. You canât think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.
âSeung!â Thatâs Jisung, you think. âYou made it!â
âYo, sorry weâre late.â Thatâs Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. âDinner took longer than I thought.â
âMin, are you sure Iâm allowed to be here?â You donât know who this voice belongs to and youâre not sure you want to. âI feel like Iâm intrudingââ
âHwang,â you say suddenly. âI have to go.â
He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. âAlready?â
âI forgot I had an important call to make.â You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. âSorry. Iâll see you on Monday.â
You have touched Hyunjinâs hands many times. Heâs asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment.Â
Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when itâs been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.
He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.
âDo you want to be alone?â
You have never been asked such a thingâyou have never asked to be asked such a thingâbut, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes.Â
âYes, please,â you whisper, and you pull your hand away.
When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting.Â
Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where youâve left your phone.
You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.
Hyunjinâs right; the team manager doesnât have to do much.
Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someoneâs waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything your schedule allows.Â
Last week, you could be found helping Minho put down the volleyball nets, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professorâs distinct âcabbage scent.â Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammatesâ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the teamâs water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. Youâd spent more time in the gymnasium in those ten days than you had in the last ten years.
Then came the arcade.
Five days have come and gone. You havenât attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. Youâve taken the best notes of your life. He doesnât mention the previous weekend; he doesnât mention much of anything.Â
In person, that is.
That Friday afternoon, youâre reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. Itâs from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.
Then you listen to it again.
And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.
As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you havenât the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.
Coach Bang is leaving the building just as youâre approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe itâs the shadowy landscape; more likely itâs the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.
âItâs been a while,â he greets.
âCoach,â you return, lowering your head. âI want to apologize forââ
âSave it,â he says, not unkindly. âThereâs nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.â
You manage a grateful smile. âIâll be back starting next week.â
âIâm glad to hear it.â He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. âI would give him some space, by the way.â
Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.
Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation.Â
Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when heâs picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where itâs plastered to his neck. Heâs alone.
You only catch sight of Hyunjinâs face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.
âI was told to give you space,â you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball heâs holding.
His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that theyâve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.
âIs this enough space?â
More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.
âDonât make me go further, please. Iâm not ready to die.â
Finally, this earns you a smile. Itâs not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.
The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You donât care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.
The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. Youâre worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.
Thereâs a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights.Â
âHow do you see under these things?â
âI donât,â he returns. âI complained about it to Coach once.â
âAnd?â
âHe made them brighter.â
âSounds about right.â
He spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjinâs way with words.
But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. Itâs not that Hyunjin has a way with words; itâs that heâs brave enough to break the silences that you canât, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you wonât have to.
This cannot be his burden alone.
You inhale. âWhatâs on your mind?â
Hyunjin doesnât answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes; the lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.
âI donât think I know how to put it into words.â
You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. âDonât think, just talk. Iâm here.â
The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.
âDo you remember Ishikawa Yuki?â
âYour role model?â
âHeâs currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.â He blows out a deep breath. âIâve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.â
The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. âHoly shit, Hwang.â
âHe emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, heâs excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldnât wrap my head around anything. I still canât.
âI am who I am because of that man, and nowâŠI have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why Iâm notânot happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he wouldââ
You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.
Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.
You stop thinking after that.
You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.
You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.
âDonât fight it.â You trace over the hill of his cheek. âHealing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.â
His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.
âYou donât have to continue if you canât.â
âSâokay.â Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. âI want to.â
You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before. Does he do the same?
âI used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feetâI blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.â He smiles at the memory. âBut every time I came close to quitting, Iâd go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and Iâd promise myself it would be me on some other kidâs screen someday.
âThat kid would tell everyone whoâd listen about how cool I am. That Iâm a secret superhero. That Iâm living proof humans can fly if they really, really tryâjust like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.
âThe other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proudâeven if it meant losing myself.â He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. âThatâs whatâs on my mind.â
Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.
The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; itâs long overdue.
âEvery time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,â you say. âHe is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.â
Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.
âJeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,â you continue, âeven for things related to schoolâwhich I still find hard to believe, Iâm not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.
âI know you think he canât stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. Itâs written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. Youâre like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.â
âThen thereâs me.â You pause to catch your breath. âWhen I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didnât like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone elseâs personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.
âBut I found a person. Someone who wouldnât know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearlyâyour body is not normal, by the way.â
Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like youâre flying.
âDonât get me wrong,â you say. âYour sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when Iâm around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.â
The next time you blink, you discover that heâs not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?
âThereâs so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.â You give him a watery smile. âThat kid will be spoiled for choice.â
When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: âI knew you cared about me.â
You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.
âHow the fuck are you still sweaty?â
You think you like his cologne after all.
Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.
A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like youâve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead.Â
Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.
âCan you come inside, please? My RA will think Iâm doing some freaky shit again.â
You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. âWhat, exactly, does freaky shit entail?â
He smirks as the door falls shut. âYou want me to tell you or show you?â
You turn to Kkami, disgusted. âYour ownerâs a bit of a pervert, my dear.â
Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjinâs eyes narrow to slits.
âTraitor.â
Naturally, Hyunjinâs parents chose the eve of his final anthropology examâand the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his careerâto ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration.Â
âDo you want anything to drink?â He calls from the kitchen area.
You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. âWhat do you have?âÂ
âAlcohol.â He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. âAmericanos.â
He stops speaking.
âIs that all?â
âYes. Waitâand apple juice.â
âYou are about to be a professional athlete.â
âWhat the Italians donât know wonât hurt them. You want apple juice, donât you? I can see it in your eyes.â
âMaybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.â
Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.
âLetâs get this over with.â
At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.
At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.
You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then heâs kicking open the door.
Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a monthâs worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.
âHyunâKkami?â Seungmin swivels. âYo, what the fuck isââ
Hyunjin is already out the door.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.
âWhat is this thing?â Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass.Â
âKkami gets sad after throwing up,â he sighs. âHis blanket makes him feel better.â
Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. âHe ate too fast again?â
Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. âI donât get it. Nobodyâs gonna take his food from him.â
Seungmin laughs. âI didnât even know he was on campus.â
âI picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for workâthey say hi, by the way.â
âI say hi back. I miss your momâs cooking.â
âMe too,â Hyunjin says, smiling. âShe would love to cook for you againâsheâs always saying youâre too skinny.â
âShe really is.â
A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.
Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of themâa concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjinâs backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjinâs dissuading; half of Hyunjinâs fatherâs wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.
It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the netâs fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungminâs hitterâSeungmin, always Hyunjinâs setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.
At least, thatâs what Hyunjin used to think.
Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know?Â
Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he canât remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not âtalkedâ as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practiceââtalkedâ as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.
Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago.Â
âYeonwoo, right?â
He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what heâs trying to doâand forgives him.
âYeonwoo,â Seungmin affirms. âWeâre in the same songwriting intensive this semester.â
âAlso a singer?â
He shakes his head. âPiano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I donât think Iâve ever met someone so talented.â
âWow, thatâsâhi, old man. You done?â
Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkamiâs head as he hydrates.
âYouâve suffered,â he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.
âAs I was sayingâthatâs crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.â
âThanks. Itâs weird. Iâm happy.â
âYou deserve it. You really do, Kim.â They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. âWhen are you introducing us?â
âThe arcade wasnât enough?â
âDonât insult me.â
âWhenever you want, then.â
âDinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,â Hyunjin recounts. âIâm holding you to it.â
âBet.â
They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasnât already reassured by Seungminâs smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that theyâll be okay.
âWhat about you?â Seungmin asks. âAre you together yet?â
Hyunjin knew this was coming. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou know what I mean.â Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. âSomeone you have questions for that youâre too scared to ask. Someone whoâs lived in your mind since the day you met. Thereâs someone like that, isnât there?â
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.Â
Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjinâs been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.
He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time youâre within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because heâs happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.
Itâs impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. Heâs already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?
Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. âThere is.â
Hyunjin doesnât know what to say.
âIt mightâve been me, at some point,â he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkamiâs ears. âBut it has always been you, Hyun.â
Four floors above them and inside Hyunjinâs place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkamiâs return.
Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all thatâs in front of you.
Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what mustâve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns districtâs first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of âace spikerâ label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang âChristopherâ Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. Thereâs oneâWho is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolutionâbeside which heâs written the singular word âmouthful.â You laugh; you agree.
But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.
You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as youâre playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you canât see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kimâs email. You, you, you.
You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didnât know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.
It has always been him.
The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes.Â
Itâs not awkward this time.
Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.
He moves his eyes to his best friendâs back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play theyâve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration.Â
He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.
The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjinâs heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. Heâs not scared at all.
He balls his fingers into fists.
âJUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACEââ
An arm seizes Hyunjinâs neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He canât feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesnât care. He doesnât care.
ââDEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEARââ
His eyes find Seungminâs among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungminâs gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.
He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.
ââYOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!â
Hyunjinâs post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.
The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: âIs there anyone youâd like to thank?â
Hyunjin exhales. âYou want the short answer or the longââ
Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.
âLove you,â he yells before hurrying off.Â
âLove you too, Bin.â
Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.
âThe short answer,â she deadpans.
He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his familyâhis first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys heâs ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.
In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. Thereâs a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.
Hyunjin thanks you.
You didnât ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and theyâre all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselvesâitâs hard to believe youâve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.
What are you like? What arenât you like, is the better question. Youâre caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sunâs doting radius, and so did he.
You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; youâre wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky. Theyâre right.
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed. âWhy the fuck am I still talking to you?âÂ
âPardon?â The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.
He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.
He calls out to you.
You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the areaâs busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but heâs used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.
Youâre beautiful. God, youâre fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like heâs everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will.Â
Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashesâif he didnât have something far better to do.
âTell me now if you donât want me to do this,â he whispers.
A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. âMy lips are sealed.â
Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before theyâre colliding again.
He kisses you until heâs crying, again, until heâs no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and heâs really won everything, now.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.
âThanks, cap.â Hyunjin swears heâs had this exact exchange before.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âRead.â
From: Nicola Daldello «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game
Christopher,
Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza.
It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki.
Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwangâs travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club.
Iâm looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all.
Yours,
Nicola Daldello
Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano
âI told you, some opportunities just present themselves,â Bang says, turning his monitor back around. âAs for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social evâHwang, is that foam coming out of your moâNOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!â
In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baekâs king with a triumphant yelp.
âI knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!â She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. âYou! Get over here. Your reign is over.â
You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldnât even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.
âAs excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,â you call back.Â
She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.
Hyunjin:
Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris
Hyunjin:
Same park?
Y/N:
yes
Hyunjin:
Whoâs the opp today
Y/N:
mrs. choi
Hyunjin:
Not that bitch again
Y/N:
?
Heâll be here in eight minutes.
You return to the task at hand. Youâve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all thatâs left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely youâll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.
Instead of hitting the âdeleteâ button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.
You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.
He finds you a sobbing mess.
âHey, hey, whoa.â Heâs on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. âBaby, whatâs happening? Are you okay?â
âYes,â you say in a flustered haste. âYes, Iâm okay. I donâtâI donât really know whatâs happening.â
âDid that hag do this to you?â He asks this question so seriously. âIâll beat up a senior citizen, I donât give a fuckââ
âNo!â You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. âNo, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.â
âThen what is it? Whatâs wrong?â
Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.
Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.
âIâll tell you later,â you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline.Â
He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then youâre smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.
You rest your foreheads together. âHave I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?â
He smiles. âDoes that make you my flower, then?â
âBecause youâre irresistably drawn to me?â
âNo, because I wanna put my pollen inââ
You shove him away. âYou are grotesque.â
He returns in a flash. âYou love me.â
You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.
âWhy did Coach hold you back, by the way?â You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. âAre you in trouble again?â
âNo, no. The opposite, actually.â
Your brow furrows. âThe opposite? Whatââ
âIn this lifetime, please,â Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.
âDuty calls, my love.â
âTell me your thing later too?â
âOf course.â
You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, ânow watch me beat up a senior citizen.â
He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.
âHypocrite.â
Hyunjin:
[1 Audio Message]
This is my seventh take and Iâm not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I donât care anymore.
I understand if you donât wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldnât, either. I just wanted to say that you donât have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I wonât be able to fulfill my end of our deal, soâŠyeah, it wouldnât be fair to you. Youâve already done so much for us. For me.
As for team manager, youâll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesnât sound like a fun conversation, I knowâbut if thatâs what you decide, Iâll have your back. They donât scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.
Youâve beenâŠdistant, this week. Iâve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldnât care less if youâre my tutor or my team manager or whateverâI just donât want you to be a stranger. Maybe thatâs selfish of me to say, but Iâm tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesnât terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.
Iâm gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I wouldâve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, andâŠIâm sorry about everything. You deserve better.
Come back to me whenever youâre ready, okay? Iâll be waiting.
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eeee thank you so much for reading and commenting, my love :') very glad to hear about all the elements you enjoyed <3 i love volleyball player hyun as well
â in which volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.
wordsă»15.2k
pairingă»volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)
genresă»college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. hyunjin is a huge flirt. mc #DGAF. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!
warningsă»mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.
playlistă»collision by stray kidsă»midnight city by m83ă»eternity by bang chană»waiting for us by stray kidsă»value by adoă»dreaming by smallpools
a/nă»writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved âĄ
âNot a word out of you,â you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. âIâm serious.â
Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. âWhen did people stop saying good morning?â
Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âPlease, angel.â
âNo! Leave me alone.â
Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. âCoffee on me for a week.â
At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you.Â
When you finally humor him and turn around, youâre flinching like youâre in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your perfume reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashes if he wasnât so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.
âWhat the hell did you do?â
âTried to cut my own bangs,â you sigh. âIt didnât go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.â
Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. âYouâve seen Naruto?â
You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when heâs staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.
The air between you curdles like sour milk.
Things are awkward between you often, heâs realized recently. Whatâs more, he didnât think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailorâs knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh youâve given him since. Maybe thereâs more to it, maybe there isnâtâHyunjin doesnât think about it much. He doesnât like thinking in general.
You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere.Â
âOf course Iâve seen Naruto,â you quip, and everything is normal again. âWhy do you seem surprised?â
âBecause youâre so scholarly.â
âI am not scholarly.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.â
âI need to get my steps in somehow.â
âYou didnât know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look upââ
âUgh, I learned too much about you that day.â
âYour favorite social media platform is Quizlet,â he bursts, exasperated. âQuizlet.â
âIt is not.â An introspective pause. âIs it?â
âI wouldnât be surprised.â Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. âThere is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I donât buy it.â
âHonestly, I thought youâd have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.â
He does, though. Matter of fact, heâs been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorerâs hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.
But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. Itâs hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at your face at the same time.
He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.
âWatermelon,â he mumbles with a sickening smile.
You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. âYouâre getting soft.â
He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.
âI only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,â you say as youâre strolling out the building together, âand I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?â
âYour faith gets me out of bed in the morning,â Hyunjin deadpans. âIâll handle it, love. Text me your order.â
All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that heâd recognize anywhere.
âBody flicker jutsu,â you whisper, and then youâre scurrying off without another wordâbut you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quadâs busy thrum.
Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the courtâs sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.
âDonât look at me,â Minho says mid-stretch. âGodspeed.â
âThanks, cap.â Useless.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. Itâs all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the manâs propensity for violence. Heâs packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âYou can read, right?â
âYes, coach,â he sighs. Everyoneâs expectations for him are subterranean.
See email from Hwangâs antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his final paper and now heâs failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP
JP
Sent from my iPad
Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. âWrong email.â
I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kidsâ movie instead of his final paper.
It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him.
Regards,
Kyeyoung Kim
Professor of Anthropology
âThatâs bullshit!â
âWeâre in agreement there.â Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. âDo you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says, Hwang?â
âDoes anyone?â Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman.
âNo way you just had that.â
âI had it delivered ten minutes ago,â Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. âAll student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.â
Hyunjin stiffens. âWhat the fuck? Iâve never heard ofââ
âIf any Department of Athletics personnel,â Bang continues, raising his voice, âhave reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.â
He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. âRead that name aloud for me.â
Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.
âHwang Hyunjin,â he says under his breath.
The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.
Then comes the yelling.
âThe Trolls movie, Hwang Hyunjin? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me right now?â
âIt was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! Howâs that for anthropology?â
âBAD!â Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. âVERY, VERY BAD!â
Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.
âYouâve never had trouble with school before.â He leans over his desk imposingly. âWhat the hell happened this semester? What changed?â
Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjinâs pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists havenât discovered yet.
He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.
âBeats me,â he lies. âGraduation stress, maybe.â
âDoes any of it have to do with Piazza?âÂ
Hyunjin shudders.
It just might, actually.
Modesty has no place in the career heâs had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolution. Itâs a mouthful, he knows.
It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.
At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the worldâand current home to Hyunjinâs personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.
Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didnât ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.
Piazza replied to his email within the week.
For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the teamâs social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazzaâs emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.
But thatâs the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because heâs laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldnât care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you canât contain your excitement. You, you, you.
He cards a hand through his air, regaining his focus. âYou know how I feel about Piazza.â
âExpect the worst, hope for the best.â Bangâs chair skids backwards as he stands up. âI think itâs a good approach.â
Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.
âBut hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,â he says. âDo not let it, Hyunjin. Iâm not asking.â
Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin canât help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.
Bang lets go of him. âIâm not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.â
Hyunjin groans. âYeah, yeah. Iâm on it.â
A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.
âI thought you said your order was complicated.â
You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.
âWas it not?â You ask.
âIt was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.â
âWell, I wasnât sure if you could handle that much.â He flips you off as you squint at the cup. âSomeone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.â
âWhat? Really?â
âNo.â
He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest. Youâre still cackling by the time youâve straightened up again.
âWhy did you get this, anyway?â Hyunjin grumbles. âI thought you had a sweet tooth.â
âI do, but you donât.â
Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.
âThanks,â he says at last. âNice of you.â
âI know, right? Hated it,â you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.
You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âYo.â
Hyunjin dabs it up without putting down his Americano. âI fully forgot you were in this class.â
âWell, Iâm due for my weekly appearance.â Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. âHey, Y/N.â
âHi,â you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.
You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the âI relinquish my rightsâ way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. Heâs funny, gorgeous, and talentedâa vocal performance major with a student-athlete contractâand you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks itâs hilarious.
You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. Youâre met with something far more worrisome.
Heâs thinking.
That canât be good.
Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. âCan this guy do his fucking job?â
âHe wouldnât have to if you didnât quit,â Seungmin answers. âIâll never forget you, Manager Hwang.â
âShut up.â You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. âOur captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League ruleâSeung, why do you look morose?â
âIâm mourning.â Seungmin does look morose indeed. âHyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the year. It was so funny.â
Hyunjin slides down his seat. âIt was the worst experience of my life.â
Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the larceny thing. You choose to digress. âCan I ask why?â
âHe had to be responsible,â Seungmin whispers. âFor other people.â
The top of Hyunjinâs head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. âPoor thing.â
âHardass refused to do it again this year, so now weâre recruiting.â Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. âI donât suppose you have four hours to spare every day.â
Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. âThis one? Team manager?â
âI can see it.â
âI can see killing myself, maybe.â
The next time you reach for him is to smack his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall, and Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.
âSeems like a great candidate to me,â Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, itâs pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.
Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. âI miss when you didnât come to class, Seungmin.â
Eighty minutes later, youâve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.
âSorry.â He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. âI couldnât unsee it.â
You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.
Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.
âI didnât like that at all.â
âI donât care. I have something to tell you.â
âYou have a child, donât you?â
âHelloâwho do you think I am?â
âThe one-night-standâs poster child,â you reply. âThe champion of the contraception industry.â
âYeah, contraception industry. Itâs right there in the name.â
You canât argue with that.
âWhat do you have to tell me?â
A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjinâs face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that youâre about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you shouldâve saved the secret son bit for another time.
âIâm failing anthro.â
So much for a serious conversation.Â
âCome again?â
He repeats the mystifying statement.
âYouâre joking.â
The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair.
âYouâre failing anthro?â
âI just said that, yes.â
âYouâre failing anthropology?â
âMhm.â
âJust so weâre clearâyouâre failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?â
âYes. Iâm glad youâre having fun.â
This is the best day of your life. âI didnât even know that was possible.â
âYeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,â he mutters.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â Hyunjin clears his throat. âAnyways, I was thinkingââ
âWow! Congratulations. Thatâs a bigâoomfââ
Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.
âI was thinking,â he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, âyou and I can work out some kind of deal.â
You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. âI think I just ate some athletic tape.â
âHappens. You wanna hear the deal or not?â
âDoes it involve ingesting more sports equipment?â
âDo you want it to?â
âJust tell me the deal, boy.â
âAlright.â He takes a deep breath. âIf you help me pass this classâIâll set you up with Seungmin.â
Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: âIâm gonna need you to elaborate.â
âOn which part?â
âAll of them. Everything.â
Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. âAre you hungry?â
You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think itâs the prime minister youâre about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.
Heâs chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they donât know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that heâs drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager youâve had better company.
âYou like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.â He traces over the wrapperâs left corner. âAnd I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?â
âYes, definitely,â you mumble around a mouthful of bread. âPlease continue.â
âConclusion one: you should be my tutor.â He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. âYou also like my teammate, but heâs neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold ofâfor most people.â
âLet me guess. Not for you.â
âTen points to Ravenclaw.â His British accent is nightmarish. âSeung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.â
âTo dinner or to practice?â
âTo both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusionââ
He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.
ââyou should manage our team.â
âI knew it!â You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. âYouâre trying to swindle me! You canât pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?â
âItâs not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didnât do shit!â
âYeah? Who was your last manager?â
âMe!â
Oh, right. âBut you hated it!â
âI hate everything that isnât playing volleyball. Try again.â
You fold your arms over your chest. âYou said youâd kill yourself if I managed you.â
Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. âItâs true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seungâsââ
âSTOP!â A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. âStop right there. I get it. Stop.â
âItâs a good plan.â He flicks the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. âYou know it is.â
Youâre loath to admit that you do. âWhen did you even come up with all this?â
He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class.
âNo fucking wonder youâre failing.â
âWhat is this, mock trial?â
The owner of this voice is the third man youâve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighborâs cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. Thereâs a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like heâs enjoying the company of a court jester.
âSlamming tables like fuckinâ tariff lawyers,â the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âI could see it from all the way inside.â
âCaptain!â Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. âJust the man I was hoping to see.â
âReally? I thought youâd be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.â
âI would never.â
âYou did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.â He pauses for emphasis. âAs fast as possible.â
âWell, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.â Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. âAnd today, I bring you a new team manager.â
You stiffen. âI havenâtââ
âIs that so!â When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. âMusic to my ears. Whatâs your name, cutie?â
You catch Hyunjinâs eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungminâsâ
Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.
âY/N,â you grumble. âIâm looking forward to working with you.â
He shakes on it heartily. âLikewise. Iâm Minho. Welcome to the team.â
âYes, welcome to the team,â Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.
Heâs lucky that his proposal holds so much water. Heâs lucky that you donât plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.
You do kick him under the table, though.
The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You canât tell which is the bigger endeavor.
âIâm going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,â you tell Changbin.
The teamâs libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the universityâs sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and youâve already decided heâs the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.
âYou will not,â Changbin answers. âOne, because this wonât involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldnât ask you to help if it did.â
âYouâve misunderstood me,â you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. âI want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.â
âOh.â He opens the door with a frown. âOh dear.â
Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.
âI am going to get maimed,â Hyunjin tells Changbin.
âHave some faith, both of you,â Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages youâre looking for and begin poring over them like youâre cramming for an exam. âYouâll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.â
âStudied?â He repeats. âFor this?â
âIâm pretty sure a Quizlet was made.â
âThree, actually,â you interject, sticking out your hand. âNow tape me.â
Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. âSee? What could go wrong?â
The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly âsprained his ass,â leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.
You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypressâlaundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesnât wear that insufferable cologne to practice.
âGo easy on me, yeah?â
While Hyunjinâs tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.
âI canât promise anything.â
With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.
A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. Itâs the first time youâve seen his fingers untaped; theyâre pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.
Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.
âYouâre not nervous, are you?â
âNo. Maybe a little.â You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. âFine, yes. Very.â
âBut you made Quizlets. Youâre prepared for anything.â
âThatâs what Iâm saying!â You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that heâs making fun of you. âI hate you.â
âActually,â he hums, âI think you care about me, love. Thatâs why youâre nervous.â
âNonsenseâI care about disappointing Changbin. Thatâs it.â
âAnd me. And hopping on Seungminâs dick. All these things donât have to be mutually exclusive.â
You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.
âHave you lost your mind?â You whisper-shout, your face on fire. âDonât bring that up here. Iâll maim you for real.â
The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you donât hate when that happens.
âMy bad, my bad. It slipped out. I wonâtââ
One incremental shift of Hyunjinâs body later, you find that youâre precariously, alarmingly close to one another.
So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath.Â
Things are awkward between you often, youâve realized recently. Youâre both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later youâll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.
Since youâve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. Youâre not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesnât go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as theyâre doing now.
Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.
âThank you,â he murmurs.
Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. âWhat for?â
He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.
âCaring about me.â
Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.
âNow stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.â
âOkay,â you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. âNo need to get violent.â
It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.
As youâre walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. âItâs not too tight, is it?â
âItâs perfect.â He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. âWant another taste?â
You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. âYou are truly grotesque.â
The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.
The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.
You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.
Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ballâs tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.
âOi, this isnât your backyard! Go pick that up!â Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.
Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. âCrazy bitch. What the fuck was that?â
âLower and faster. Further from the net too,â Seungmin returns. âHowâd it feel?â
The grin on Hyunjinâs face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. âLike we just won everything.â
He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. Youâve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjinâand you canât move.
It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.
A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you.Â
âHello?â He immediately starts laughing. âWhere the fuck are you?â
You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. âMy face is preoccupied at the moment.â
âOh, you have to show me. Please.â
You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.
âMotherfucker!â
He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.
âThank you,â he says earnestly. âIâll treasure this forever.â
âYouâll be punished, Hwang.â
âDonât threaten me with a good time.â
You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle.Â
âAaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.â
The first thing you did as Hyunjinâs tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the âtruly piteous timbreâ of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.
âYou shouldâve opened with that,â you grumble.
âI tried! Someone distracted me.â
âRead it before I change my mind.â
You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.
You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that itâs as if youâre leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.
Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldnât move for ten minutes.
With that, his attention span has run its course.
âBaby,â he interrupts gently. âLetâs stop here, okay? You seem tired.â
You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.
âI suppose I am,â you concede. âWill you keep working tonight?â
âI think so. I hit my stride.â
âText me if you have questions, then. Iâll respond when I wake up.â
âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjinâs face incurably quickly.Â
âI had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know,â you murmur.
âWhy is that?â
âWell, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime youâd experienced since preschool.â
âIt really is.â
âYou also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.â
âI really would.â
âAnd you once referred to academia as âVirgin Village.ââ
âDidnât you come up with that?â
âNo, hello? I live in that village.â
He grins. âI know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.â
âFuck you.â
âAh, donât threaten me with a goodââ
âWhat Iâm trying to say,â you cut in, âis that I didnât think you would take this seriously, but Iâm happy to be proven wrong.â
Hyunjin leans back. âWell, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.â
âReally?â
âNo.â
You pretend to punch him through the screen. Itâs so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.
âBut I do give a fuck about you.â
Thereâs nothing crazy about the statement. Youâre friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didnât. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a starâs final breath. And Hyunjinâs heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.
He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.
Then he opens his texts.
Hyunjin:
We have team bonding tomorrow btw
Hyunjin:
Donât forget
Y/N:
i forgot.
Y/N:
pick me up at 6:45?
Hyunjin:
đ«Ą
He picks you up at 7:53.
You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and heâs walking too close to your lawn.
âHis fault,â Hyunjin says before you start yelling.
Minho simpers at you through his open window. âHey! So glad you could join us!â
You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. âArenât you the captain? Why are you this late?â
âWhoa, okay. I wouldâve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.â
âYou did schedule it for earlier,â you say. âYou scheduled it for way earlier.â
âYeah, well, youâre fired.â
âYou canât fire me, Minho.â
âI can too. Tell âem, Hwang.â
âI want nothing to do with this.â
When you step through the doors of the arcade, youâre met with a surge of sensory input that you havenât experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that theyâve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.
âIâll go pay,â Hyunjin says. âHow much time do we want?â
âNo youâre not,â the two men answer in perfect unison.
You glance between them warily. âI donât mind watching, seriously. I donât even know how most of these games workââ
âThereâs Tetris,â Hyunjin cuts in.
You purchase an hour.
One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU menâs volleyball team, not to bond them. Youâve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like itâs a shot. Itâs a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.
But theyâre happy. Youâve picked up on it when theyâre on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as theyâre eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that youâre glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so specialâespecially because thereâs Tetris.
âHave you ever considered going pro?â Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.
You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. Heâs been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.
You donât respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.
âI already did,â you finally answer.
âSorry, what? You played professional Tetris?â
âIn middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.â You pause. âThen I got bored again and switched to chess.â
âHow do you look like this with these hobbies?â
Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. âI think Iâm washed.â
He looks at you like youâve lost your mind. âYou just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.â
âItâs a small pond,â you say, and an idea occurs to you. âDo you wanna try?â
âI get the feeling I donât have a choice.â
âThen youâre smarter than you look.â
âWell, you lookââ
His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.
âWhat was that?â
âUgly. I said you look ugly.â He cracks his knuckles. âNow letâs break some fuckinâ blocks.âÂ
When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade.Â
He has hair the color of dark chocolate the face of a fairy princeâand heâs with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.
Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.
Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjinâs chair. You canât watch. You canât think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.
âSeung!â Thatâs Jisung, you think. âYou made it!â
âYo, sorry weâre late.â Thatâs Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. âDinner took longer than I thought.â
âMin, are you sure Iâm allowed to be here?â You donât know who this voice belongs to and youâre not sure you want to. âI feel like Iâm intrudingââ
âHwang,â you say suddenly. âI have to go.â
He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. âAlready?â
âI forgot I had an important call to make.â You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. âSorry. Iâll see you on Monday.â
You have touched Hyunjinâs hands many times. Heâs asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment.Â
Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when itâs been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.
He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.
âDo you want to be alone?â
You have never been asked such a thingâyou have never asked to be asked such a thingâbut, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes.Â
âYes, please,â you whisper, and you pull your hand away.
When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting.Â
Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where youâve left your phone.
You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.
Hyunjinâs right; the team manager doesnât have to do much.
Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someoneâs waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything your schedule allows.Â
Last week, you could be found helping Minho put down the volleyball nets, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professorâs distinct âcabbage scent.â Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammatesâ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the teamâs water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. Youâd spent more time in the gymnasium in those ten days than you had in the last ten years.
Then came the arcade.
Five days have come and gone. You havenât attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. Youâve taken the best notes of your life. He doesnât mention the previous weekend; he doesnât mention much of anything.Â
In person, that is.
That Friday afternoon, youâre reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. Itâs from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.
Then you listen to it again.
And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.
As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you havenât the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.
Coach Bang is leaving the building just as youâre approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe itâs the shadowy landscape; more likely itâs the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.
âItâs been a while,â he greets.
âCoach,â you return, lowering your head. âI want to apologize forââ
âSave it,â he says, not unkindly. âThereâs nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.â
You manage a grateful smile. âIâll be back starting next week.â
âIâm glad to hear it.â He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. âI would give him some space, by the way.â
Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.
Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation.Â
Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when heâs picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where itâs plastered to his neck. Heâs alone.
You only catch sight of Hyunjinâs face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.
âI was told to give you space,â you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball heâs holding.
His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that theyâve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.
âIs this enough space?â
More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.
âDonât make me go further, please. Iâm not ready to die.â
Finally, this earns you a smile. Itâs not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.
The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You donât care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.
The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. Youâre worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.
Thereâs a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights.Â
âHow do you see under these things?â
âI donât,â he returns. âI complained about it to Coach once.â
âAnd?â
âHe made them brighter.â
âSounds about right.â
He spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjinâs way with words.
But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. Itâs not that Hyunjin has a way with words; itâs that heâs brave enough to break the silences that you canât, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you wonât have to.
This cannot be his burden alone.
You inhale. âWhatâs on your mind?â
Hyunjin doesnât answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes; the lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.
âI donât think I know how to put it into words.â
You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. âDonât think, just talk. Iâm here.â
The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.
âDo you remember Ishikawa Yuki?â
âYour role model?â
âHeâs currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.â He blows out a deep breath. âIâve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.â
The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. âHoly shit, Hwang.â
âHe emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, heâs excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldnât wrap my head around anything. I still canât.
âI am who I am because of that man, and nowâŠI have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why Iâm notânot happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he wouldââ
You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.
Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.
You stop thinking after that.
You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.
You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough for your lips to meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lose your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.
âDonât fight it.â You trace over the hill of his cheek. âHealing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.â
His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.
âYou donât have to continue if you canât.â
âSâokay.â Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. âI want to.â
You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before. Does he do the same?
âI used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feetâI blew through so many different pairs that my mom almost made me quit.â He smiles at the memory. âBut every time I came close to quitting, Iâd go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and Iâd promise myself it would be me on some other kidâs screen someday.
âThat kid would tell everyone whoâd listen about how cool I am. That Iâm a secret superhero. That Iâm living proof humans can fly if they really, really tryâjust like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.
âThe other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proudâeven if it meant losing myself.â He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. âThatâs whatâs on my mind.â
Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.
The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; itâs long overdue.
âEvery time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,â you say. âHe is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.â
Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.
âJeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,â you continue, âeven for things related to schoolâwhich I still find hard to believe, Iâm not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.
âI know you think he canât stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. Itâs written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. Youâre like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.â
âThen thereâs me.â You pause to catch your breath. âWhen I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didnât like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone elseâs personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.
âBut I found a person. Someone who wouldnât know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearlyâyour body is not normal, by the way.â
Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like youâre flying.
âDonât get me wrong,â you say. âYour sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when Iâm around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.â
The next time you blink, you discover that heâs not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?
âThereâs so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.â You give him a watery smile. âThat kid will be spoiled for choice.â
When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: âI knew you cared about me.â
You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.
âHow the fuck are you still sweaty?â
You think you like his cologne after all.
Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.
A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like youâve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead.Â
Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.
âCan you come inside, please? My RA will think Iâm doing some freaky shit again.â
You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. âWhat, exactly, does freaky shit entail?â
He smirks as the door falls shut. âYou want me to tell you or show you?â
You turn to Kkami, disgusted. âYour ownerâs a bit of a pervert, my dear.â
Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjinâs eyes narrow to slits.
âTraitor.â
Naturally, Hyunjinâs parents chose the eve of his final anthropology examâand the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his careerâto ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration.Â
âDo you want anything to drink?â He calls from the kitchen area.
You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. âWhat do you have?âÂ
âAlcohol.â He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. âAmericanos.â
He stops speaking.
âIs that all?â
âYes. Waitâand apple juice.â
âYou are about to be a professional athlete.â
âWhat the Italians donât know wonât hurt them. You want apple juice, donât you? I can see it in your eyes.â
âMaybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.â
Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.
âLetâs get this over with.â
At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.
At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.
You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then heâs kicking open the door.
Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a monthâs worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.
âHyunâKkami?â Seungmin swivels. âYo, what the fuck isââ
Hyunjin is already out the door.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.
âWhat is this thing?â Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass.Â
âKkami gets sad after throwing up,â he sighs. âHis blanket makes him feel better.â
Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. âHe ate too fast again?â
Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. âI donât get it. Nobodyâs gonna take his food from him.â
Seungmin laughs. âI didnât even know he was on campus.â
âI picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for workâthey say hi, by the way.â
âI say hi back. I miss your momâs cooking.â
âMe too,â Hyunjin says, smiling. âShe would love to cook for you againâsheâs always saying youâre too skinny.â
âShe really is.â
A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.
Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of themâa concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjinâs backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjinâs dissuading; half of Hyunjinâs fatherâs wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.
It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the netâs fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungminâs hitterâSeungmin, always Hyunjinâs setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.
At least, thatâs what Hyunjin used to think.
Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know?Â
Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he canât remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not âtalkedâ as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practiceââtalkedâ as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.
Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago.Â
âYeonwoo, right?â
He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what heâs trying to doâand forgives him.
âYeonwoo,â Seungmin affirms. âWeâre in the same songwriting intensive this semester.â
âAlso a singer?â
He shakes his head. âPiano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I donât think Iâve ever met someone so talented.â
âWow, thatâsâhi, old man. You done?â
Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkamiâs head as he hydrates.
âYouâve suffered,â he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.
âAs I was sayingâthatâs crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.â
âThanks. Itâs weird. Iâm happy.â
âYou deserve it. You really do, Kim.â They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. âWhen are you introducing us?â
âThe arcade wasnât enough?â
âDonât insult me.â
âWhenever you want, then.â
âDinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,â Hyunjin recounts. âIâm holding you to it.â
âBet.â
They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasnât already reassured by Seungminâs smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that theyâll be okay.
âWhat about you?â Seungmin asks. âAre you together yet?â
Hyunjin knew this was coming. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou know what I mean.â Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. âSomeone you have questions for that youâre too scared to ask. Someone whoâs lived in your mind since the day you met. Thereâs someone like that, isnât there?â
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.Â
Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjinâs been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.
He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time youâre within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because heâs happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.
Itâs impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. Heâs already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?
Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. âThere is.â
Hyunjin doesnât know what to say.
âIt mightâve been me, at some point,â he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkamiâs ears. âBut it has always been you, Hyun.â
Four floors above them and inside Hyunjinâs place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkamiâs return.
Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all thatâs in front of you.
Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what mustâve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns districtâs first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of âace spikerâ label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang âChristopherâ Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. Thereâs oneâWho is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolutionâbeside which heâs written the singular word âmouthful.â You laugh; you agree.
But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer in the middle of your anthropology classroom.
You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as youâre playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you canât see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kimâs email. You, you, you.
You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didnât know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.
It has always been him.
The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes.Â
Itâs not awkward this time.
Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.
He moves his eyes to his best friendâs back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play theyâve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration.Â
He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.
The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjinâs heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. Heâs not scared at all.
He balls his fingers into fists.
âJUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACEââ
An arm seizes Hyunjinâs neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He canât feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesnât care. He doesnât care.
ââDEFENDING THEIR TITLE AS YOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEARââ
His eyes find Seungminâs among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungminâs gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.
He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.
ââWE PRESENT TO YOU: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!â
Hyunjinâs post-game interview is a nightmarish affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.
The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: âIs there anyone youâd like to thank?â
Hyunjin exhales. âYou want the short answer or the longââ
Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.
âLove you,â he yells before hurrying off.Â
âLove you too, Bin.â
Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.
âThe short answer,â she deadpans.
He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his familyâhis first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys heâs ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.
In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. Thereâs a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.
Hyunjin thanks you.
You didnât ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and theyâre all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselvesâitâs hard to believe youâve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.
What are you like? What arenât you like, is the better question. Youâre caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sunâs doting radius, and so did he.
You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. Youâre wasting your potential among humans, theyâd argue, when it should exist in the heavens. They are the only ones to deserve you. Theyâre right.
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed.
âWhy the fuck am I still here?âÂ
âPardon?â The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an injured glare. He shrugs.
He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.
He calls out to you.
You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the areaâs busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but heâs used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.
Youâre beautiful. God, youâre fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like heâs everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will.Â
Tendrils of your perfume reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashesâif he didnât have something far better to do.
âTell me now if you donât want me to do this,â he whispers.
A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. âMy lips are sealed.â
Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before theyâre colliding again.
He kisses you until heâs crying, again, until heâs no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and heâs really won everything, now.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.
âThanks, cap.â Hyunjin swears heâs had this exact exchange before.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âRead.â
From: Nicola Daldello «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game
Christopher,
Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza.
It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki.
Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwangâs travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club.
Iâm looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all.
Yours,
Nicola Daldello
Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano
âI told you, some opportunities just present themselves,â Bang says, turning his monitor back around. âAs for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social evâHwang, is that foam coming out of your moâNOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!â
In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baekâs king with a triumphant yelp.
âI knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!â She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. âYou! Get over here. Your reign is over.â
You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldnât even do that. It was then you decided you canât live like this anymore.
âAs excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,â you call back.Â
She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.
Hyunjin:
Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris
Hyunjin:
Same park?
Y/N:
yes
Hyunjin:
Whoâs the opp today
Y/N:
mrs. choi
Hyunjin:
Not that bitch again
Y/N:
?
Heâll be here in eight minutes.
You return to the task at hand. Youâve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all thatâs left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely youâll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.
Instead of hitting the âdeleteâ button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.
You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.
He finds you a sobbing mess.
âHey, hey, whoa.â Heâs on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. âBaby, whatâs happening? Are you okay?â
âYes,â you say in a flustered haste. âYes, Iâm okay. I donâtâI donât really know whatâs happening.â
âDid that hag do this to you?â He asks this question so seriously. âIâll beat up a senior citizen, I donât give a fuckââ
âNo!â You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. âNo, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.â
âThen what is it? Whatâs wrong?â
Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.
Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.
âIâll tell you later,â you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline.Â
He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then youâre smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.
You rest your foreheads together. âHave I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?â
He smiles. âDoes that make you my flower, then?â
âBecause youâre irresistably drawn to me?â
âNo, because I wanna put my pollen inââ
You shove him away. âYou are grotesque.â
He returns in a flash. âYou love me.â
You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.
âWhy did Coach hold you back, by the way?â You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. âAre you in trouble again?â
âNo, no. The opposite, actually.â
Your brow furrows. âThe opposite? Whatââ
âIn this lifetime, please,â Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.
âDuty calls, my love.â
âTell me your thing later too?â
âOf course.â
You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, ânow watch me beat up a senior citizen.â
He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.
âHypocrite.â
Hyunjin:
[1 Audio Message]
This is my seventh take and Iâm not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I donât care anymore.
I understand if you donât wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldnât, either. I just wanted to say that you donât have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I wonât be able to fulfill my end of our deal, soâŠyeah, it wouldnât be fair to you. Youâve already done so much for us. For me.
As for team manager, youâll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesnât sound like a fun conversation, I knowâbut if thatâs what you decide, Iâll have your back. They donât scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.
Youâve beenâŠdistant, this week. Iâve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldnât care less if youâre my tutor or my team manager or whateverâI just donât want you to be a stranger. Maybe thatâs selfish of me to say, but Iâm tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesnât terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.
Iâm gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I wouldâve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, andâŠIâm sorry about everything. You deserve better.
Come back to me whenever youâre ready, okay? Iâll be waiting.
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â volleyball superstar and your personal hell hwang hyunjin proposes a trade-off you can't refuse: his matchmaking services for a passing anthropology grade. the plan is foolproof in theory; in practice, it is something else entirely.
wordsă»15.2k
pairingă»volleyball player!hyunjin x tutor!reader (gn)
genresă»college!au, sports!au, fake enemies to friends to lovers, fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, slice of life, mutual pining, slow burn. hyunjin is a huge flirt. mc #DGAF. two polar opposites sharing one soul. a seungjin fic if u squint. loosely inspired by the manga/anime haikyuu!!
warningsă»mentions of anxiety, fear of failure, heartbreak, loneliness, and self-image. course language and callous banter (as always) ft. suggestive flirting and one kms joke. some of the referenced players and coaches are real; this fic is not.
playlistă»collision by stray kidsă»value by adoă»waiting for us by stray kidsă»eternity by bang chană»dreaming by smallpoolsă»fly high!! by burnout syndromes
a/nă»writing this felt like returning to my roots tbh. i love volleyball and i love sports aus and i love, love hwang hyunjin. thank u to my sahar for bringing this fic to life with me, as always; i can no longer write for him without also writing for you. i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i adored writing it. happy late birthday, our jinnie, our hyunjin, our forever ace; you are so unbelievably loved âĄ
âNot a word out of you,â you say, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the lecture hall with a heavy-handed flick. âIâm serious.â
Hyunjin glances up at you with a frown. âWhen did people stop saying good morning?â
Your lack of an immediate comeback tells him the situation is dire. He observes you for a moment, his mouth falling open, hanging still, then curving into a slow, serpentine smile.
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âLook at me.â
âNo.â
âPlease, angel.â
âNo! Leave me alone.â
Hyunjin slumps back into his seat, thinking hard. The solution occurs to him with a poke of his tongue into his cheek. âCoffee on me for a week.â
At this, your hands stop rummaging in your bag. You cock your head, your interest piqued. Got you.Â
When you finally humor him and turn around, youâre flinching like youâre in pain, eyes closed and breath held and all. He giggles and leans in for a closer look. Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashes if he wasnât so flummoxed by the state of your forehead.
âWhat the hell did you do?â
âTried to cut my own bangs,â you sigh. âIt didnât go very well and now I look like Rock Lee.â
Hyunjin lets out a forceful laugh. âYouâve seen Naruto?â
You open your eyes. Only then does Hyunjin remember how little distance he left between your faces, when heâs staring straight into them and all the strange, starry speckles they hold.
The air between you curdles like sour milk.
Things are awkward between you often, heâs realized recently. Whatâs more, he didnât think he was capable of being awkward with anyone anymore until he met you. It was your ill-fated seat that he chose to sit next to on the first day of ANTH 111, your ill-fated lap onto which he chose to spill his Americano, and the rest was history (or, in this case, anthropology). His tongue ends up in sailorâs knots with every smart-aleck comment and pitiful laugh youâve given him since. Maybe thereâs more to it, maybe there isnâtâHyunjin doesnât think about it much. He doesnât like thinking in general.
You pull away from each other in unison. You clear your throat, glancing elsewhere.Â
âOf course Iâve seen Naruto,â you quip, and everything is normal again. âWhy do you seem surprised?â
âBecause youâre so scholarly.â
âI am not scholarly.â
He raises an eyebrow. âYou go to a park to play chess with old people on weekends.â
âI need to get my steps in somehow!"
âYou didnât know what Urban Dictionary was until I told you to look upââ
ââugh, I learned so much about you that day."
âYour favorite social media platform is Quizlet,â he bursts, exasperated. âQuizlet.â
âIt is not.â An introspective pause. âIs it?â
âI wouldnât be surprised.â Hyunjin throws his feet up on the chair below him, jabs in your direction with a bandaged finger. âThere is no way you enjoy watching 2D men beat each other up in your free time. I donât buy it.â
âHonestly, I thought youâd have more to say about my current appearance than my hobbies.â
He does, though. Matter of fact, heâs been curating a list since this conversation started: Vector from Despicable Me, Dora the Explorerâs hot older sibling, Spock. You face-planted into a lawnmower. You mistook a paper shredder for a hat. It goes on.
But then his head turns. Your eyes meet again. Itâs hard to sustain an inner monologue and look at your face at the same time.
He reaches up, nudges a lock of your hair over a centimeter or so, and gives the patch of forehead a gentle flick.
âWatermelon,â he mumbles with a sickening smile.
You divert your attention to your lecture notes with a disappointed click of your tongue. âYouâre getting soft.â
He spends the entire lecture daydreaming about tropical coastlines.
âI only get coffee from that one place on the east side of campus, by the way,â you say as youâre strolling out the building together, âand I get it a very specific way. Can you handle it?â
âYour faith gets me out of bed in the morning,â Hyunjin deadpans. âIâll handle it, love. Text me your order.â
All of a sudden, you position your hands close to your stomach, the lapels of your jacket casting them in shadow. Your fingers begin to move in a sequence that heâd recognize anywhere.
âBody flicker jutsu,â you whisper, and then youâre scurrying off without another wordâbut you do glance back at him to gauge his response. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the main quadâs busy thrum.
Hyunjin gapes at your retreating figure for so long that phosphenes start prancing around his field of view. Then he heads to the gym. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Hyunjin stops lacing up his shoes to see Coach Bang standing on the courtâs sideline with a grim air about him. He glances at his captain, confused.
âDonât look at me,â Minho says mid-stretch. âGodspeed.â
âThanks, cap.â Useless.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. Itâs all fluorescent lights and spotless white walls, the only decorative fixture a picture of his siblings, parents, and dog in front of the Sydney Opera House, framed and facing him atop his desk. Hyunjin once snuck the thing into the bathroom, an innocent plot to satiate his curiosity, and promptly discovered the manâs propensity for violence. Heâs packing beneath those dry-cleaned polos, by the way.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âYou can read, right?â
âYes, coach,â he sighs. Everyoneâs expectations for him are subterranean.
From: Jinyoung Park «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Not good
See email from Hwangâs antopology professor below . He submitted the complete script of the Trolls movie instead of his mid term paper and now heâs failing the class . Not good . Sort out ASAP
JP
Sent from my iPad
Bang snatches up his mouse and scrolls, his ears turning scarlet. âWrong email.â
âYep.â
From: Kyeyoung Kim «[email protected]»
To: Jinyoung Park «[email protected]»
Subject: Regarding Hwang Hyunjin
To Director of Athletics Park,
I am writing to inform you that, as of yesterday, Mr. Hwang Hyunjin has a D- (64.9%) in ANTH 111: Cultural Anthropology, due to his submission of the complete script of a kidsâ movie instead of his midterm paper.
It is disappointing to see Mr. Hwang trivialize and ridicule my class to such a degree. Please see to it that he reorganizes his priorities lest his Student-Athlete Participation Agreement do so for him.
Regards,
Kyeyoung Kim
Professor of Anthropology
âThatâs bullshit!â
âWeâre in agreement there.â Bang folds his arms over his chest, throws his foot over his knee. âDo you know what your Student-Athlete Participation Agreement says, Hwang?â
âDoes anyone?â Hyunjin scoffs. Bang whips out a form and brings it to eye level, the thing covered from top to bottom in microscopic Times New Roman.
âNo way you just had that.â
âI had it delivered ten minutes ago,â Bang confesses, then clears his throat and begins to recite. âAll student-athletes must complete the academic term with a C or higher in all courses, should they wish to continue their participation in athletics thereafter.â
Hyunjin stiffens. âWhat the fuck? Iâve never heard ofââ
âIf any Department of Athletics personnel,â Bang continues, raising his voice, âhave reason to believe that a student-athlete will not be able to satisfy this requirement, they are encouraged to utilize resources such as academic advising or peer tutoring in guiding said student-athlete back onto the correct path.â
He shoves the piece of paper across his desk. âRead that name aloud for me.â
Hyunjin stares at the signature at the bottom of the page, scrawled so carelessly that most of it deviates away from its designated line. There is a rare hollowness in his chest that he recognizes as anxiety. With it comes a glimpse of a life without volleyball, the question of what little of him would remain.
âHwang Hyunjin,â he says under his breath.
The office goes silent. Bang tucks the form back into his drawer. It closes with a gentle click.
Then comes the yelling.
âThe Trolls movie, Hwang Hyunjin? Trolls?! Are you fucking with me right now?â
âIt was a cultural reset! The pinnacle of modern media! Howâs that for anthropology?â
âBAD!â Bang explodes, gesturing to the email emphatically. âVERY, VERY BAD!â
Hyunjin slumps over, dejected.
âYouâve never had trouble with school before.â He leans over his desk imposingly. âWhat the hell happened this semester? What changed?â
Nothing is the first answer that comes to mind, but Hyunjinâs pulse spikes like a lie detector. Upon the inside of his eyes replays a scene of a certain someone with watermelon bangs doing teleportation jutsu at him from a few yards away, wearing a smile made of some kind of space dust that astronomists havenât discovered yet.
He grits his teeth, annoyed. This is what happens when he thinks.
âBeats me,â he lies. âTypical junior year stress, maybe.â
âDoes any of it have to do with Piazza?âÂ
Hyunjin shudders.
It just might, actually.
Modesty has no place in the career heâs had: high school national champion turned ace hitter in both the South Korean U21 roster and regular rotation for Seoul National University, the best collegiate volleyball team in the country. His name has lived at the top of ranking lists and the center of gold medals since he turned old enough to qualify for them; the press believes him the instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolution. Itâs a mouthful, he knows.
It was never a question that he would go professional; the question was who he should talk to and where he would go.
At the start of the school year, Bang, acting in place of the agent he was advised to find and never bothered to, gave him a list of people to reach out to. On the very top was none other than Roberto Piazza, the chairman and head coach of Allianz Milano, one of the most eminent club teams in the worldâand current home to Hyunjinâs personal idol, outside hitter Ishikawa Yuki.
Hyunjin thought his poor coach had finally succumbed to his old age. The thought of stepping onto the same court as Ishikawa felt sacrilegious, let alone donning the red, white, and navy blue of Allianz Milano with him. But Bang slapped him on the back of the neck and reminded him that going professional was equal parts preparation and opportunity; he was never going to know the answers to questions he didnât ask. Hyunjin was coerced to fire off an introductory email despite his reservations.
Piazza replied to his email within the week.
For the last five months, Hyunjin has been fighting with tooth and nail to manage his expectations. He scrolls past the teamâs social media posts like they burn his eyes. He replies to Piazzaâs emails right before working out with Changbin under the assumption that whatever the shredded libero does to him will eviscerate his brain. If his world is made of dreams, this is the one at its very core, imbued with destructive potential the second it became attainable.
But thatâs the last five months. The last five weeks have been you kicking him in the shin because heâs laughing (or trying to make you laugh) and the professor is staring; you listening to him rant and rave about volleyball when he knows you couldnât care less about the sport; you relaying the contents of your class readings like hot gossip, your eyes wild and hands flying around because you canât contain your excitement. You, you, you.
He cards a hand through his air, regaining his focus. âYou know how I feel about Piazza.â
âExpect the worst, hope for the best.â Bangâs chair skids backwards as he stands up. âI think itâs a good approach.â
Suddenly, he is directly in front of Hyunjin, low enough to meet his eyes. His hands rest upon his shoulders firmly.
âBut hope is hungry, and it will consume you if you let it,â he says. âDo not let it, Hyunjin. Iâm not asking.â
Even while being squeezed to a pulp and regarded with the cold intensity of a statue, Hyunjin canât help but feel anchored, somehow, to the floor of this miserable office. Protected.
Bang lets go of him. âIâm not asking you to find a tutor by the end of the week, either.â
Hyunjin groans. âYeah, yeah. Iâm on it.â
A set of bandaged fingers appear in your periphery to place a paper cup onto your laptop. Accompanying the smell of fresh coffee is that of smoky rose, as decidedly douchey as ever.
âI thought you said your order was complicated.â
You look up from your phone to see Hyunjin plop into the adjacent seat. His long, caramel-colored hair is damp and unstyled in the aftermath of a morning shower, droplets of water pearling on the lapels of a navy blue windbreaker, layered over a white long sleeve. You recognize the outfit by now as game gear.
âWas it not?â You ask.
âIt was an Americano, love. I walked up to the cashier and placed an order for an Americano.â
âWell, I wasnât sure if you could handle that much.â He flips you off as you squint at the cup. âSomeone wrote their number on the lid, by the way.â
âWhat? Really?â
âNo.â
He shoves you hard enough for your upper body to drape over the opposite armrest. Youâre still cackling by the time youâve straightened up again.
âWhy did you get this, anyway?â Hyunjin grumbles. âI thought you had a sweet tooth.â
âI do, but you donât.â
Only then does the fool understand that you had no intention of charging him in coffee just for a haircut reveal. He takes back the coffee hesitantly.
âThanks,â he says at last. âNice of you.â
âI know, right? Hated it,â you respond, and he almost chokes on his first sip.
You almost choke on nothing when Kim Seungmin materializes in the aisle adjacent. He holds out a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âYo.â
Hyunjin dabs it up without putting down his Americano. âI fully forgot you were in this class.â
âWell, Iâm due for my weekly appearance.â Seungmin slips into the seat directly below you, glancing at you over his shoulder. âHey, Y/N.â
âHi,â you say, somehow managing to stumble over the single syllable the word has. You thank your lucky stars that you fixed your hair yesterday.
You like Kim Seungmin. Not just in the cutesy, crushy way, but in the âI relinquish my rightsâ way where you spend every waking moment cursing out whatever stroke of misfortune placed Hyunjin in the seat next to you instead of him. Heâs funny, gorgeous, and talentedâa vocal performance major with a student-athlete contractâand you think your infatuation is more than justified. Hyunjin thinks itâs hilarious.
You side-eye your blonde adversary, prepared to see one of three things: a suppressed laugh, a dramatic eye-roll, or a mature kissy face that usually results in the first option. Youâre met with something far more worrisome.
Heâs thinking.
That canât be good.
Suddenly, his phone screen lights up with a text that temporarily wipes the conspiratorial gleam from his eye. Hyunjin scans it over and groans. âCan this guy do his fucking job?â
âHe wouldnât have to if you didnât quit,â Seungmin answers. âIâll never forget you, Manager Hwang.â
âShut up.â You peer at Hyunjin, silently requesting an explanation. âOur captain is forcing us to help him look for a new team manager. We need one for playoffs because of some stupid U-League ruleâSeung, why do you look morose?â
âIâm mourning.â Seungmin does look morose indeed. âHyunjin committed larceny last year and our coach punished him by making him our team manager for the rest of the year. It was so funny.â
Hyunjin slides down his seat. âIt was the worst experience of my life.â
Neither man seems inclined to elaborate on the larceny thing. You choose to digress. âCan I ask why?â
âHe had to be responsible,â Seungmin whispers. âFor other people.â
The top of Hyunjinâs head stops right next to your armrest. You reach over and pat his hair in faux sympathy. âPoor thing.â
âHardass refused to do it again this year, so now weâre recruiting.â Seungmin props an elbow upon the back of his chair, looks at you contemplatively. âI donât suppose you have four hours to spare every day.â
Hyunjin scoffs from below you. Loudly. âThis one? Team manager?â
âI can see it.â
âI can see killing myself, maybe.â
The next time you reach for him is to smack his forehead. A crisp smack resounds around the barren lecture hall, and Hyunjin cusses into his seat cushion.
âSeems like a great candidate to me,â Seungmin muses, and the warm smile he gives you mirrors onto your face before you can think better of it. God, itâs pretty. You wonder how it would feel pressed against your own.
Hyunjin is now completely out of sight and halfway onto the floor. âI miss when you didnât come to class, Seungmin.â
Eighty minutes later, youâve just emerged from the classroom when Seungmin calls out to you. You come to such a sudden halt that Hyunjin almost trips over you, but you barely notice him stumble, utterly enraptured by the hand Seungmin brings to the strands of hair by your ear, the fingers that dust your cheek as they pluck a small piece of lint from out of the tresses.
âSorry.â He flicks it away with a sheepish smile. âI couldnât unsee it.â
You manage to thank him just before your whole body ceases to function. Hyunjin sidesteps the two of you, yawning.
Seungmin excuses himself not too long after you reach the main quad. You also turn to leave, sparing Hyunjin a curt farewell in the process. He hooks his pointer finger around the handle at the top of your backpack and lugs you backwards with infuriating ease.
âI didnât like that at all.â
âI donât care. I have something to tell you.â
âYou have a kid, donât you?â
âHelloâwho do you think I am?â
âThe one-night-standâs poster child,â you reply. âThe champion of the contraception industry.â
âYeah, contraception industry. Itâs right there in the name.â
You canât argue with that.
âWhat do you have to tell me?â
A shadow of hesitation flits across Hyunjinâs face. Your smile falters. Is it possible that youâre about to have a serious conversation with him for the first time? Maybe you shouldâve saved the secret son bit for another time.
âIâm failing anthro.â
So much for a serious conversation.Â
âCome again?â
He repeats the mystifying statement.
âYouâre joking.â
The look on his face says otherwise, though, and your eyebrows disappear into your hair.
âYouâre failing anthro?â
âI just said that, yes.â
âYouâre failing anthropology?â
âMhm.â
âJust so weâre clearâyouâre failing Introduction to Cultural Anthropology?â
âYes. Iâm glad youâre having fun.â
This is the best day of your life. âI didnât even know that was possible.â
âYeah, well, our professor has no media literacy,â he mutters.
âWhat?â
âNothing.â Hyunjin clears his throat. âAnyways, I was thinkingââ
âWow! Congratulations. Thatâs a bigâoomfââ
Hyunjin puts his entire hand over your face. Your mangled noises of protest go unacknowledged.
âI was thinking,â he continues, pushing your head around like a stick shift, âyou and I can work out some kind of deal.â
You shove his wrist off you with a revolted groan. âI think I just ate some athletic tape.â
âHappens. You wanna hear the deal or not?â
âDoes it involve ingesting more sports equipment?â
âDo you want it to?â
âJust tell me the deal, boy.â
âAlright.â He takes a deep breath. âIf you help me pass this classâIâll set you up with Seungmin.â
Your head performs a triple-axel on your neck. You are unable to respond for what feels like multiple hours. Finally: âIâm gonna need you to elaborate.â
âOn which part?â
âAll of them. Everything.â
Hyunjin sighs, then scans the courtyard. His gaze settles on the student union a little ways off. âAre you hungry?â
You pick up a sandwich and a smoothie in a state of nervous stupor. One would think itâs the prime minister youâre about to have lunch with and not an imbecilic left-side hitter eating from three different entrees at the same time.
Heâs chosen a table a few yards away from a planter of flowering cherry blossom trees. You feel jealous eyes on the side of your face as you take a seat across from Hyunjin, but they donât know that his telephone pole legs still bump against yours even with them drawn as close to your body as anatomically possible. Or that heâs drawing up a literal Ponzi scheme on your sandwich wrapper. You wager youâve had better company.
âYou like anthropology. I like listening to you talk about anthropology.â He traces over the wrapperâs left corner. âAnd I kinda want you to boss me around. That weird?â
âYes, definitely,â you mumble around a mouthful of bread. âPlease continue.â
âConclusion one: you should be my tutor.â He taps in place as if applying a finishing touch, then swaps to the opposite side. âYou also like my teammate, but heâs neck-deep in volleyball and music this semester, which makes him hard to get a hold ofâfor most people.â
âLet me guess. Not for you.â
âTen points to Ravenclaw.â His British accent is nightmarish. âSeung and I live in the same building. We get dinner when we go back from practice together. Conclusion two: you should come with us.â
âTo dinner or to practice?â
âTo both. Which brings us to my third and final conclusionââ
He slams a fist onto the center of the wrapper.
ââyou should manage our team.â
âI knew it!â You slam the table as well, your smoothie wobbling upon impact. âYouâre trying to swindle me! You canât pay for my labor with more labor. What do you take me for?â
âItâs not labor, dumbass! Ask our last manager! He didnât do shit!â
âYeah? Who was your last manager?â
âMe!â
Oh, right. âBut you hated it!â
âI hate everything that isnât playing volleyball. Try again.â
You fold your arms over your chest. âYou said youâd kill yourself if I managed you.â
Hyunjin starts balling up your sandwich wrapper. âItâs true. I thought about you and my coach getting along and promptly got a rash. But it makes so much sense: you do whatever you want during practice, tutor me afterwards, and then you and Seung can eyefuck over ramen or something. My coach hops off my dick, you hop on Seungâsââ
âSTOP!â A girl drops her receipt not too far away, startled by your outburst. âStop right there. I get it. Stop.â
âItâs a good plan.â He slings the paper ball towards the nearest trash can. It drops into the hole without so much as a brush against the rim. âYou know it is.â
Youâre loath to admit that you do. âWhen did you even come up with all this?â
He flicks a thumb in the direction of your anthropology class.
âNo fucking wonder youâre failing.â
âWhat is this, mock trial?â
The owner of this voice is the third man youâve seen today donning that navy windbreaker, white long-sleeve combo. He has a face that reminds you of your neighborâs cat from back home, sleek and sharp and only slightly sinister. Thereâs a dash of humor in his expression as he approaches your table like heâs enjoying the company of a court jester.
âSlamming tables like fuckinâ tariff lawyers,â the cat-man hums, lifting a hand in Hyunjinâs direction. âI could see it from all the way inside.â
âCaptain!â Hyunjin crows, dabbing him up without missing a beat. They really do that like breathing. âJust the man I was hoping to see.â
âReally? I thought youâd be avoiding me like the rest of our homunculus team.â
âI would never.â
âYou did. Yesterday. When you saw me and started running in the opposite direction.â He pauses for emphasis. âAs fast as possible.â
âWell, that was yesterday. Today is a new day.â Hyunjin tosses you a proud glance. âAnd today, I bring you a new team manager.â
You stiffen. âI havenâtââ
âIs that so!â When the stranger smiles at you, you feel the same satisfaction you did every time the cat let you scratch her on the chin. âMusic to my ears. Whatâs your name, cutie?â
You catch Hyunjinâs eye across the table; he nods enthusiastically as if saying go on, then. You briefly picture yourself strangling him with his own athletic tape. You then picture yourself hopping on Seungminâsâ
Rigidly, you throw a hand out to the cat-man, your face aflame.
âY/N,â you grumble. âIâm looking forward to working with you.â
He shakes on it heartily. âLikewise. Iâm Minho. Welcome to the team.â
âYes, welcome to the team,â Hyunjin parrots, looking positively jolly. You gnash your teeth together so hard your jaw throbs.
Heâs lucky that his proposal holds so much water. Heâs lucky that you donât plan to strangle him until after you try that eyefucking thing.
You do kick him under the table, though.
The team has five weeks to prepare for the Korean University League, the biggest college-level volleyball tournament in the country. You have five days to learn how the hell athletic tape works. You canât tell which is the bigger endeavor.
âIâm going to cause him irreversible skeletal damage,â you tell Changbin.
The teamâs libero is twice as kind as he is talented, a full-time sweetheart working part-time at the universityâs sports medicine clinic. Only your first week on the job and youâve already decided heâs the only person on Earth you would permit to usher you through the gym at 6:45 A.M., a roll of athletic tape pressed to your back like a pistol.
âYou will not,â Changbin answers. âOne, because this wonât involve his skeleton, and two, because I wouldnât ask you to help if it did.â
âYouâve misunderstood me,â you return as the two of you stop in front of an examination room. âI want to cause him irreversible skeletal damage.â
âOh.â He opens the door with a frown. âOh dear.â
Inside, Hyunjin is sitting cross-legged on top of a taping table, fitted in a loose gray tee and athletic shorts. He watches in pessimistic silence as you enter the room and beeline straight towards the shelf on the right. You slip a thick binder into your hands and bury your nose inside it without so much as a greeting.
âI am going to get maimed,â Hyunjin tells Changbin.
âHave some faith, both of you,â Changbin replies sternly. You find the pages youâre looking for and begin poring over them like youâre cramming for an exam. âYouâll be fine, Jinnie. Y/N studied.â
âStudied?â He repeats. âFor this?â
âIâm pretty sure Quizlets were made.â
âThree, to be exact," you interject, sticking out your hand. âNow tape me.â
Hyunjin mouths the words tape me in baffled silence. The latter obliges your request with a smile. âSee? What could go wrong?â
The answer to that, actually, is a lot. Especially after Changbin gets called away to help stretch out a teammate named Felix who allegedly âsprained his ass,â leaving Hyunjin to you and your binder.
You detect no smoky rose in the air around him today, just the subtle smells of cedar and cypressâlaundry detergent or shampoo, maybe. Figures he doesnât wear that insufferable cologne to practice.
âGo easy on me, yeah?â
While Hyunjinâs tone is teasing, yours is downright somber.
âI canât promise anything.â
With that, you turn your palms face-up in a silent request for his hand.
A few strands of hair fall into your face as you lean in for a better look. Itâs the first time youâve seen his fingers untaped; theyâre pretty, long and slender and surprisingly manicured, but also battered in their delicacy, the veins running over the back of his hand and forearm prominent, his bottom knuckles discolored from the healing bruises they bear. His hard work is palpable upon the smooth skin as evidently as if tattooed.
Hyunjin says your name in close proximity. You respond with an absent hum.
âYouâre not nervous, are you?â
âNo. Maybe a little.â You let his hand fall free and go to rummage for supplies. âFine, yes. Very.â
âBut you made Quizlets. Youâre prepared for anything.â
âThatâs what Iâm saying!â You realize only after spotting the gentle smile on his face that heâs making fun of you. âI hate you.â
âActually,â he hums, âI think you care about me, love. Thatâs why youâre nervous.â
âNonsenseâI care about disappointing Changbin. Thatâs it.â
âAnd me. And hopping on Seungminâs dick. All these things donât have to be mutually exclusive.â
You try to tackle him. Hyunjin catches your hands a few inches away from his face, fingers closing around your wrists with obnoxious agility.
âHave you lost your mind?â You whisper-shout, your face on fire. âDonât bring that up here. Iâll maim you for real.â
The laugh that explodes out of him throws his entire body backwards, turns his eyes to crescent moons and his mouth into a little rectangle. You hate that you donât hate when that happens.
âMy bad, my bad. It slipped out. I wonâtââ
One incremental shift of Hyunjinâs body later, you find that youâre precariously, alarmingly close to one another.
So much so that you notice the mole beneath his left eye for the first time, that you're nearly cross-eyed looking at it. That the tip of your nose actually brushes against his before you pull away with a quiet intake of breath.Â
Things are awkward between you often, youâve realized recently. Youâre both professional yappers, always quick to digress, quick to find a new topic to bicker about before the awkwardness marinates. But hours later youâll look back on the interaction and still remember how the air shifted: like a layer of dust had been blown away and something untouched and unknown was discovered just underneath.
Since youâve met him, Hyunjin has spent more time on your nerves than on your mind. Youâre not exactly losing sleep over such a circumstantial acquaintance; you know that his presence in your life will end the way it began, naturally and anticlimactically and inside the ANTH 111 lecture hall. Still, it doesnât go unnoticed when your heart and stomach launch into an elaborate gymnastics routine in the wake of something he says or does, just as theyâre doing now.
Hyunjin glances into your right eye a moment, then your left. The mole just below his left eye disappears when he smiles, the expression soft, saccharine, and sincere. How anyone casually looks the way he does is beyond your abilities of comprehension.
âThank you,â he murmurs.
Your face continues to burn, now perhaps for different reasons. âWhat for?â
He lets go of your wrist, sweeps the lock of hair that keeps getting in your eyes behind the cuff of your ear.
âCaring about me.â
Then he flicks your forehead. You recoil with a quiet ow.
âNow stop stalling and tape me, dumbass.â
âOkay,â you mutter, rubbing the injury tenderly. âNo need to get violent.â
It turns out the arduous taping procedure described in the instruction manual is for serious hand injuries. Hyunjin splints his fingers together for support, not rehabilitation, so it takes all of five minutes for him to talk you through his process. You finish taping both of his hands with nineteen minutes to spare. So maybe the Quizlets were overkill.
As youâre walking him down to practice, you take his hand and lift it to eye level, scanning your craftsmanship dubiously. âItâs not too tight, is it?â
âItâs perfect.â He swivels the hand around and grabs onto your entire face, the sensation by now eerily familiar. âWant another taste?â
You shove him down the stairs that remain. Unfortunately, there are only two. âYou are truly grotesque.â
The gym has come to life since you arrived earlier this morning, now illuminated by shining ceiling lights in addition to the sun spilling through high, narrow windows. Most of the team has yet to step onto the court, still stretching or jogging along the sidelines: Minho and Coach Bang are talking strategy on the bench, the coach taking notes on a handheld whiteboard every now and then; Changbin is leaning over a recumbent Felix below the scoreboard, presumably trying to fix his ass.
The only one already with a ball in hand is Seungmin, setting to himself by the net. Once, twice, thrice straight up in the air, and then he glances in your direction and sends the fourth towards the left side of the court in a buoyant arc.
You only glean bits and pieces of the next few seconds. Hyunjin is at your side one moment, making a break for the net the next. His arms draw backwards in perfect synchrony. Feet hit the floor with laserlike intent. His entire body unravels like a fraying chrysalis as he rises to meet the ball, pounds it over the net and into the ground at an angle so clean that the sound of its landing resounds within your ribcage. It rebounds over the railing of the second floor and barely misses the doorway of the examination room you just emerged from.
Hyunjin drops lightly back onto his feet, following the ballâs tumultuous trajectory with proud eyes. A leftover breeze tosses a strand of hair over the bridge of your nose, and time starts moving again.
âOi, this isnât your backyard! Go pick that up!â Their coach booms, though his words lack their usual bitterness after what he just witnessed his ace hitter do.
Hyunjin swivels towards Seungmin first. âCrazy bitch. What the fuck was that?â
âLower and faster. Further from the net too,â Seungmin returns. âHowâd it feel?â
The grin on Hyunjinâs face reminds you of a wildfire, untamed and all-consuming and frightening in its fervor. âLike we just won everything.â
He tousles your hair as he jogs past you and back up the stairs to fetch the volleyball. Seungmin waves at you with one hand and palms another ball into his other. His face is warm and bare, his slim build flattered by his volleyball gear. Youâve witnessed few people so nice to look at and even fewer things as elegant as his setting form. But you are still thinking about Hyunjinâand you canât move.
It is debilitating, watching somebody do the very thing they were destined for.
A little less than a week later, Hyunjin is approaching hour three of spewing hot garbage into a Word document when he decides to give up and call you.Â
âHello?â He immediately starts laughing. âWhere the fuck are you?â
You poke the top of your head into the shot of your ceiling, gesturing to your headband. âMy face is preoccupied at the moment.â
âOh, you have to show me. Please.â
You flip your phone up for no more than half a second. A camera shutter goes off, followed by a shriek so loud that it peaks your mic.
âMotherfucker!â
He basically sprints to his camera roll. His prize: you with your face slathered in cleanser, hair pinned back by a Miffy headband, looking like the abominable snowman if he liked cute merchandise.
âThank you,â he says earnestly. âIâll treasure this forever.â
âYouâll be punished, Hwang.â
âDonât threaten me with a good time.â
You brandish your middle finger at him in response. He props his phone up against his computer screen with a chuckle.Â
âAaanyways, I have a thesis statement to run by you.â
The first thing you did as Hyunjinâs tutor was help draft an email to Professor Kim, begging her to let him resubmit the two essays he royally botched. She replied with a lengthy quotation from her syllabus, specifically the section that talked about (and prohibited) resubmissions, but ended up making an exception for Hyunjin on account of the âtruly piteous timbreâ of his email. You fell out of your chair laughing when he read you her response.
âYou shouldâve opened with that,â you grumble.
âI tried! Someone distracted me.â
âRead it before I change my mind.â
You spend a few minutes at most on the thesis itself, advising him to avoid passive voice, answer the prompt, establish a refutable argument, the works. Then he asks you a question about the research topic itself, allusions to the afterlife in Ancient Egyptian artwork, and the tutoring session takes a turn into what feels like a podcast episode.
You talk about the God of Death, Anubis, and his connections to the underworld; the elaborate, lavish funerary rituals intended to ensure the souls of the dead traveled safely; the vibrant murals that flanked their final resting spots as pictorial requests for divine protection. And you talk about them all with such confidence, such eloquence, that itâs as if youâre leading him through a history museum rather than talking to your phone as you do your skincare. He could listen to you for hours. He does, actually.
Around 1 A.M., Hyunjin stops typing mid-sentence when you come into frame for the first time, collapsing into your bed with a sigh of relief. Your eyes are soft and sleepy as they blink at your screen, strands of damp hair clinging to your cheeks. He feels his heart physically shift inside his ribcage when your mouth stretches into a yawn. It is the same sensation as the time you shot him a smile over your shoulder and he couldnât move for ten minutes.
With that, his attention span has run its course.
âBaby,â he interrupts gently. âLetâs stop here, okay? You seem tired.â
You open your mouth as if to protest, only to yawn again.
âI suppose I am,â you concede. âWill you keep working tonight?â
âI think so. I hit my stride.â
âText me if you have questions, then. Iâll respond when I wake up.â
âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Your lips curve into the smallest of smiles. It copies onto Hyunjinâs face incurably quickly.Â
âI had my doubts about this tutoring thing, you know,â you murmur.
âWhy is that?â
âWell, you told me this class was the closest thing to daily naptime youâd experienced since preschool.â
âIt really is.â
âYou also told me you would rather slam your tongue in a car door than read more than three sentences in one sitting.â
âI really would.â
âAnd you once referred to academia as âVirgin Village.ââ
âDidnât you come up with that?â
âNo, hello? I live in that village.â
He grins. âI know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.â
âFuck you.â
âAh, donât threaten me with a goodââ
âWhat Iâm trying to say,â you cut in, âis that I didnât think you would take this seriously, but Iâm happy to be proven wrong.â
Hyunjin leans back. âWell, turns out I might give a fuck about anthropology after all.â
âReally?â
âNo.â
You pretend to punch him through the screen. Itâs so cute that he forgets to think before he opens his mouth next.
âBut I do give a fuck about you.â
Thereâs nothing crazy about the statement. Youâre friends, sort of. You manage his team. It would be strange if he didnât. But the seconds that follow are terrible, a silent prophecy of something disastrous, like a cloud of rubble before an avalanche, the standstill during a starâs final breath. And Hyunjinâs heartbeat is hounding against his ears like a performance of traditional taiko.
He says good night in a haste. The call ends. He stares at the wall of his bedroom in a muddled haze for who knows how long.
Then he opens his texts.
Hyunjin:
We have team bonding tomorrow btw
Hyunjin:
Donât forget
Y/N:
i forgot.
Y/N:
pick me up at 6:45?
Hyunjin:
đ«Ą
He picks you up at 7:53.
You approach his car with your fists balled and your eyebrows knitted together like a mean old curmudgeon and heâs walking too close to your lawn.
âHis fault,â Hyunjin says before you start yelling.
Minho simpers at you through his open window. âHey, you! So glad you could join us!â
You fix the man with a judgmental glare as you slide into the backseat. âArenât you the captain? Why are you this late?â
âWhoa, okay. I wouldâve scheduled this for earlier if I knew right now was honesty hour.â
âYou did schedule it for earlier,â you say. âYou scheduled it for way earlier.â
âYeah, well, youâre fired.â
âYou canât fire me, Minho.â
âI can too. Tell âem, Hwang.â
âI want nothing to do with this.â
When you step through the doors of the arcade, youâre met with a surge of sensory input that you havenât experienced in years. The air hangs thick with the smells of greasy concessions; everywhere you look are flashing screens and neon signs, stuffed animals and fading posters; clamoring against your ears are the sounds of games being won or lost, of balls being pocketed or launched, and of a horde of fully grown men spectating a match of Dance Dance Revolution so passionately (and loudly) that theyâve scared everyone away from that side of the room. You recognize the current competitors as Changbin and Jeongin.
âIâll go pay,â Hyunjin says. âHow much time do we want?â
âNo youâre not,â the two men answer in perfect unison.
You glance between them warily. âI donât mind watching, seriously. I donât even know how most of these games workââ
âThereâs Tetris,â Hyunjin cuts in.
You purchase an hour.
One would imagine the point of the evening is to break the SNU menâs volleyball team, not to bond them. Youâve never seen so many strained blood vessels in your life. Nor have you heard of half the insults they spew at each other as the night goes on. Felix has to pay a fee for lodging an air hockey puck in the side of the MarioKart machine. Changbin loses at skee-ball and has to down an XL slushie like itâs a shot. Itâs a scary amount of boyishness expressed in scary ways.
But theyâre happy. Youâve picked up on it when theyâre on the court, noticed the raw elation they emanate just from playing together. Yet, their closeness has never been more evident to you than tonight. The men are either laughing or making someone else laugh, arms draped over each other at all times, equally happy to celebrate victories as theyâre eager to punish losses. It dawns on you at some point that youâre glad to be here with them, grateful to be a part of something so specialâespecially because thereâs Tetris.
âHave you ever considered going pro?â Hyunjin asks over your shoulder.
You waited until most of the team was distracted to slink off to your beloved machine. Hyunjin tagged along, undoubtedly with the intention of making fun of you, only to be rendered speechless by your mastery. Heâs been watching in a state of stupor, forearms propped against the back of your chair.
You donât respond for a while, too focused on a precarious patch to even blink, let alone partake in conversation.
âI already did,â you finally answer.
âSorry, what? You played professional Tetris?â
âIn middle school. Then I got bored and switched to backgammon.â You pause. âThen I got bored again and switched to chess.â
âHow do you look like this with these hobbies?â
Your run ends a few minutes later with a somber sound effect. You turn around in your seat with an anguished groan. âI think Iâm washed.â
He looks at you like youâve lost your mind. âYou just set a new record by three hundred thousand points.â
âItâs a small pond,â you say, and an idea occurs to you. âDo you wanna try?â
âI get the feeling I donât have a choice.â
âThen youâre smarter than you look.â
âWell, you lookââ
His eyes move between your shoes and your face, and then his voice is an inaudible mutter as he sinks into your seat. You think you hear something along the lines of unfair.
âWhat was that?â
âUgly. I said you look ugly.â He cracks his knuckles. âNow letâs break some fuckin' blocks.âÂ
When Hyunjin learns that the pieces can be rotated (so six or seven attempts later), a man walks into the arcade.Â
He has hair the color of dark chocolate, the face of a fairy princeâand heâs with someone. The two of them appear arm in arm, laughing at something he said. He looks at this person the way astronomers do to the sky.
Something shatters inside you like old porcelain.
Your hands loosen around the back of Hyunjinâs chair. You canât watch. You canât think. You can only feel a void of disappointment rip open, stretch over you like an elongating shadow.
âSeung!â Thatâs Jisung, you think. âYou made it!â
âYo, sorry weâre late.â Thatâs Seungmin. That is undoubtedly Seungmin. âDinner took longer than I thought.â
âMin, are you sure Iâm allowed to be here?â You donât know who this voice belongs to and youâre not sure you want to. âI feel like Iâm intrudingââ
âHwang,â you say suddenly. âI have to go.â
He turns around, confused. An unattended block falls into a terrible spot on the screen behind him. âAlready?â
âI forgot I had an important call to make.â You turn away, training your eyes on the patterned carpet. âSorry. Iâll see you on Monday.â
You have touched Hyunjinâs hands many times. Heâs asked you to tape his fingers every day since the first; he likes the way you cut off his circulation, says it helps him hit harder. But you never hold his hand so much as you examine it, the act stiff and unfeeling, cordoned within the professional pretense of athletic treatment.Â
Now, Hyunjin catches your hand like a gardener repotting their favorite flower: delicately, careful of leaving its roots intact and petals untouched, but firmly, securely, so the flower continues to stand tall even when itâs been extracted from the soil, not even a speck of dirt slipping through the cracks between their fingers. That is the image you conjure when he slips his between yours, his metal rings cold where his fingertips are warm.
He says your name. There is a pinch of pain in the word, and you know that he knows.
âDo you want to be alone?â
You have never been asked such a thingâyou have never asked to be asked such a thingâbut, for some reason, the question brings tears to your eyes.Â
âYes, please,â you whisper, and you pull your hand away.
When you stalk past him, you hear Jisung notice you, call out to you, a note of worry in his question. You also count three pairs of eyes on your back: one concerned, the next confused, and the last you are wholly incapable of meeting.Â
Unknown to you is the fourth pair fixed upon the top of the Tetris machine, where youâve left your phone.
You emerge into the parking lot. The frigid air stills your mind for a fraction of a second, the last moment of mental quietude you will allow yourself that night.
Hyunjinâs right; the team manager doesnât have to do much.
Coach Bang allows you to come to whichever practices and games you feel like, during which you might at most lug around a ballbag or fill someoneâs waterbottle before holing up somewhere to do your own thing. But you like the people you work for too much to do so little for them, so you attend everything your schedule allows.Â
Last week, you could be found helping Minho put down the volleyball nets, your laughter echoing throughout the spacious gym as he complained to you about his biochemistry professorâs distinct âcabbage scent.â Or running to grab materials for Changbin as he treated his teammatesâ injuries like you were assisting an orthodontist giving someone a root canal. The dinner invitations you extended to Seungmin were always turned down, but his teammates were more than happy to assist you and Hyunjin in your quest to establish the best kimbap joint in the area once and for all. You even had a heart-to-heart with Coach Bang during one of the teamâs water breaks, in which you managed to get half a smile out of the guy; Hyunjin was convinced that was his way of asking you to elope. Youâd spent more time in the gymnasium in those ten days than you had in the last ten years.
Then came the arcade.
Five days have come and gone. You havenât attended practice since, but you still see Hyunjin every morning at anthropology. The two of you sit in uncharacteristic silence for most of the lectures. Youâve taken the best notes of your life. He doesnât mention the previous weekend; he doesnât mention much of anything.Â
In person, that is.
That Friday afternoon, youâre reading on the terrace of the library when you receive a text. Itâs from Hyunjin, a two-minute voice note. You hesitate for a moment, stick a pencil into the gutter of your textbook to save your place, and slip your earbuds in. You listen to it.
Then you listen to it again.
And again as you wrap up your study session and go home. Again as you cook yourself dinner and load the dishwasher. Again as you shrug on a jacket and pocket your keys, setting off on the familiar trek to the gym.
As for what you plan to do there on a Friday night, long after the team has finished practice, you havenât the slightest clue. You continue to move regardless, fueled by the feeling that there is where you need to be.
Coach Bang is leaving the building just as youâre approaching it. He halts in his footsteps and raises his eyebrows when he notices you. The man has always been difficult to read, but his face is exceptionally opaque now. Maybe itâs the shadowy landscape; more likely itâs the uneasiness that began to mount within you once you noticed the lights in the gym were still on.
âItâs been a while,â he greets.
âCoach,â you return, lowering your head. âI want to apologize forââ
âSave it,â he says, not unkindly. âThereâs nothing to apologize for, alright? The team is lucky to have you.â
You manage a grateful smile. âIâll be back starting next week.â
âIâm glad to hear it.â He starts to walk away, stops himself, and glances into the illuminated building. âI would give him some space, by the way.â
Your uneasiness morphs into anxiety as you watch his broad back retreat into the shadows. You remain outside the gym for a few minutes more, accompanied by the distant melodies of cricket chorales and the muffled squeaking of shoes against laminated hardwood, the harsh sounds of flesh meeting leather.
Briskly, you walk home, rummage around, and return to the gym ten minutes later with your textbook tucked beneath your arm. This time, you unlock and enter the building without a moment of hesitation.Â
Hyunjin is positioned multiple yards behind the service line, rotating a volleyball in his hands. A high toss, two resounding steps, and a collision like the crack of a whip. The previous ball has barely landed in the furthest corner of the court when heâs picking up the next, retreating to the same spot to do it all again. His tank top is the color of charcoal over his sweaty skin, his hair auburn where itâs plastered to his neck. Heâs alone.
You only catch sight of Hyunjinâs face when you descend the stairs. His expression is crystalline, hardened with concentration and fortified by courage, but fragile all at once, rendered delicate by fatigue and fear, spilling from his every seam and splintering off his person like a broken vase. You recognize it as clearly as if you were looking at a picture of yourself from the worst years of your life.
âI was told to give you space,â you call out, and Hyunjin drops the volleyball heâs holding.
His lips fall apart. Nothing comes out of them. The only sounds to follow are your footsteps as you make your way towards the bleachers, a vertical wall of plastic now that theyâve been retracted for the night. You fold your legs into a criss-cross as you take a seat at their base.
âIs this enough space?â
More silence. You gesture to the volleyball nervously.
âDonât make me go further, please. Iâm not ready to die.â
Finally, this earns you a smile. Itâs not much, but it loosens the nervous coils in your heart, permits your lungs to contract once more, and it remains on his face as he swipes the ball back into his hands. You open your textbook.
The rest of the night elapses in turning pages and soaring volleyballs. You donât care for minutes or hours; you give him all the time in the world, as he did you.
The only time you glance at the clock on the wall is around midnight, when Hyunjin hobbles to the middle of the court and collapses. Youâre worried at first. Then he rolls onto his back and releases a guttural groan into his hands, and your held breath comes out a laugh. You set down your book and stand up.
Thereâs a lake of perspiration forming around him. You pay it no mind and flop onto the floor, your eyes instantly narrowing beneath the fluorescent lights.Â
âHow do you see under these things?â
âI donât,â he returns. âI complained about it to Coach once.â
âAnd?â
âHe made them brighter.â
âSounds about right.â
He spends the next few minutes catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in your peripheral vision. You sift through your mind for phrases of consolation or gestures of support and come up empty. You wish you had Hyunjinâs way with words.
But you think about the way his smile reached his eyes as he thanked you for caring about him, the tenderness with which he caught your hand at the arcade, the I give a fuck about you he blurted before ending the study call. You think about the voice note. Itâs not that Hyunjin has a way with words; itâs that heâs brave enough to break the silences that you canât, like he perceives your anxiety for the aftermath, shouldering the responsibility so you wonât have to.
This cannot be his burden alone.
You inhale. âWhatâs on your mind?â
Hyunjin doesnât answer right away. You give up on squinting and close your eyes; the lights are still bright enough to dance around the murky darkness.
âI donât think I know how to put it into words.â
You nearly laugh; you know how that feels. âDonât think, just talk. Iâm here.â
The same advice you gave yourself seems to work on him as well.
âDo you remember Ishikawa Yuki?â
âYour role model?â
âHeâs currently playing for a club team in Italy called Allianz Milano.â He blows out a deep breath. âIâve been talking to their coach, Roberto Piazza, for the last six months.â
The gears in your head creak in their effort to process the implications of these words. âHoly shit, Hwang.â
âHe emailed again, this morning. Said he was coming to the tournament later this month, heâs excited to see me play in person, whatever. And it hit me, finally, that this is all real. Like, this is actually happening to me. I spent all of today freaking out and asked Coach to let me stay back after practice. Usually, it wears out my brain if I tire my body, but it only half-worked today. I couldnât wrap my head around anything. I still canât.
âI am who I am because of that man, and nowâŠI have a shot at playing with him. I keep asking myself why Iâm notânot happier. I should be bouncing off the fucking walls, no? If I told my past self that this would be happening to him one day, he wouldââ
You open your eyes, confused by the sudden silence.
Hyunjin is sitting up next to you, staring intensely into the bleachers. You first notice the tip of his tongue prodding into his cheek, then his shuddering breath. He lifts a hand to his face, pressing against his eyes.
You stop thinking after that.
You sit up with him. When you settle your fingers around his wrist, he allows you to pull his hand back to his side. But he turns away as if trying to hide from you; he squeezes his eyes shut as if that would obstruct your view of his pain.
You reach to cradle his face, bringing him back to you. The cuff of your sleeves wipe at the saltwater on his cheeks, push the hair off his forehead with gentle sweeps. The two of you are close, close enough that your lips would meet the space between his eyes if you so much as lost your balance. His gaze traverses to your face, but you resolve not to meet it. You know you will traipse into uncharted territory the moment you do.
âDonât fight it.â You trace over the hill of his cheek. âHealing becomes easier if you let yourself hurt. Trust me, Hyunjin.â
His first name should feel foreign on your tongue, yet you suspect the syllables have accompanied you all your life.
âYou donât have to continue if you canât.â
âSâokay.â Hyunjin lifts your hand away from his face, presses a kiss to the base of your palm. âI want to.â
You feel yourself stumble ungracefully into the uncharted territory from before. Does he do the same?
âI used to play volleyball on this expanse of cracked blacktop, behind my primary school. It was pretty brutal on my feetâI blew through so many different pairs of sneakers my mom almost made me quit.â He smiles at the memory. âBut every time I came close to quitting, Iâd go home and rewatch the same USA vs. Poland match from the 2008 Summer Olympics I asked my dad to record, and Iâd promise myself it would be me on some other kidâs screen someday.
âThat kid would tell everyone whoâd listen about how cool I am. That Iâm a secret superhero. That Iâm living proof humans can fly if they really, really tryâjust like I talked about the volleyball players I grew up watching on my TV.
âThe other day, Coach told me that hope would consume me. I thought it was just some senile drivel at the time, but..I think I get what he means now. I would do anything and everything to make that kid proudâeven if it meant losing myself.â He lowers his head, auburn strands falling into his eyes. âThatâs whatâs on my mind.â
Amidst the ensuing pause, a storm approaches. It does not come in the form of rain or snow, sleet or hail, no; it is a gathering of words unsaid and emotions unacknowledged, all emerging from the deepest chambers of your heart in synchrony. The same entities you used to scapegoat for all the times things were awkward between you and Hyunjin when you were the culprit all along. You and your blind cowardice.
The storm tears open the seam of your lips. You do not resist; itâs long overdue.
âEvery time Changbin sees you, he turns into a smitten schoolgirl,â you say. âHe is physically unable to contain how endearing he finds you. He told me so himself.â
Hyunjin looks at you with widened eyes. You think you can see your own reflection in them, and you are the spitting image of a lighter dropped into gasoline, unstoppable in your vehemence.
âJeongin comes to you for advice before anyone else,â you continue, âeven for things related to schoolâwhich I still find hard to believe, Iâm not gonna lie. But you have his best interests in mind, and it shows in everything you do for him. Of course your opinion matters more than anything in the world.
âI know you think he canât stand you, but you are the reason Coach Bang loves this job, why he loves this sport. Itâs written all over his face every time he calls you something mean, every time he makes you run another lap, every time he looks at you. Youâre like a son to him. Everyone sees it but you.â
âThen thereâs me.â You pause to catch your breath. âWhen I think about what my life used to be, I remember a lot of things. I remember loneliness. Insecurity. I remember my books and my backgammon boards and the way I taught myself to disappear inside them so the world would never find me. I remember avoiding mirrors like a vampire because I didnât like seeing my own reflection. I remember feeling like I had to put on someone elseâs personality every time I left the house because nobody would want to know me for me. All I ever wanted was a place where I could be myself, love myself, without consequence. I have yet to find that place.
âBut I found a person. Someone who wouldnât know time and place if they kicked his dick into his body. Someone who thinks instant ramen is high in nutritional value because it comes with dried vegetables. Someone who sweats the same amount of rain the Sahara Desert receives yearlyâyour body is not normal, by the way.â
Hyunjin giggles; it is soft and short, a small, tearful huff into the quiet air that makes you feel like youâre flying.
âDonât get me wrong,â you say. âYour sense of humor sucks and your taste in coffee is so boring and you are the one with no media literacy, not Professor Kim. But I love spending time with you. I love who I am when Iâm around you. And none of that has to do with volleyball.â
The next time you blink, you discover that heâs not the only one with tears in his eyes. How long has that been going on?
âThereâs so much about you to be proud of, Hyunjin.â You give him a watery smile. âThat kid will be spoiled for choice.â
When Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, you fall into each other like going to bed after a long day. Your face burrows into the crook of his neck in your embarrassment; he is laughing and crying at the same time when he mumbles something into your shoulder: âI knew you cared about me.â
You are so happy for the comedic relief you could sob. It helps that you already are.
âHow the fuck are you still sweaty?â
You think you like his cologne after all.
Six days later, Hyunjin opens the door of his apartment.
A fun-sized flurry of black and white barrages into the hallway outside and almost runs headfirst into the figure waiting there. You fall to your knees like youâve just been gravely wounded, emitting an ear-piercing wail to match. All it takes is a few good head scratches for Kkami to stop yipping bloody murder and start whining for attention instead.Â
Upon minute five of watching you and his dog cuddle in the hallway directly outside his home, Hyunjin sighs.
âCan you come inside, please? My RA will think Iâm doing some freaky shit again.â
You side-eye him as you walk into his apartment, Kkami perched happily in your arms. âWhat, exactly, does freaky shit entail?â
He smirks as the door falls shut. âYou want me to tell you or show you?â
You turn to Kkami, disgusted. âYour ownerâs a bit of a pervert, my dear.â
Kkami licks you on the chin. Hyunjinâs eyes narrow to slits.
âTraitor.â
Naturally, Hyunjinâs parents chose the eve of his final anthropology examâand the week before the tournament that will determine the trajectory of his careerâto ask him to look after Kkami for a few days. He nearly canceled their plane tickets himself, but his impromptu roommate is currently ransacking your face with kisses on his couch, and he thinks your laugh complements his studio better than any decoration.Â
âDo you want anything to drink?â He calls from the kitchen area.
You meander over, Kkami (still) perched happily in your arms. âWhat do you have?âÂ
âAlcohol.â He opens his fridge far enough so you can peer over his shoulder. âAmericanos.â
He stops speaking.
âIs that all?â
âYes. Waitâand apple juice.â
âYou are about to be a professional athlete.â
âWhat the Italians donât know wonât hurt them. You want apple juice, donât you? I can see it in your eyes.â
âMaybe. Can you open it for me? My hands are full.â
Hyunjin does so with far less reluctance than he feigns. You thank him jubilantly, popping the straw into your mouth.
âLetâs get this over with.â
At 10:32 P.M., all is calm. You are sitting on the floor, your back against the side of his mattress. Hyunjin is where the universe intended: curled up in bed, both him and his laptop lying on their sides. You have studied eight out of ten units in only two and a half hours, and the night is still young. Kkami is but a fluffy, sleepy Oreo by your waist.
At 10:33 P.M., the Oreo begins to retch.
You startle a foot into the air. Hyunjin is out of bed and on his feet in the blink of an eye, the very image of a dog dad on duty. He grabs three different things off the kitchen counter with one hand and scoops up the long-haired chihuahua with the other, and then heâs kicking open the door.
Seungmin appears out of thin air carrying two heaping bags of groceries. Hyunjin nearly knocks him and a monthâs worth of fresh produce down four flights of stairs.
âHyunâKkami?â Seungmin swivels. âYo, what the fuck isââ
Hyunjin is already out the door.
A few minutes later, Hyunjin squats off to the side, pouring fresh water into a portable dog bowl. A little ways away, Kkami is throwing up ebulliently; a set of footsteps approaches.
âWhat is this thing?â Seungmin squats down next to Hyunjin, picking up the piece of patterned fabric lying on the grass.Â
âKkami gets sad after throwing up,â he sighs. âHis blanket makes him feel better.â
Seungmin watches the chihuahua for a few moments, a soft flinch crimping his features. âHe ate too fast again?â
Hyunjin rakes a hand through his hair. âI donât get it. Nobodyâs gonna take his food from him.â
Seungmin laughs. âI didnât even know he was on campus.â
âI picked him up last night. My parents are traveling for workâthey say hi, by the way.â
âI say hi back. I miss your momâs cooking.â
âMe too,â Hyunjin says, smiling. âShe would love to cook for you againâsheâs always saying youâre too skinny.â
âShe really is.â
A beat passes; it is then that Hyunjin has an epiphany.
Seungmin was the one who put a volleyball in his hands for the first time. Back then, Hyunjin was the lesser troublemaker between the two of themâa concept that neither of them can wrap their heads around to this day. Seungmin suggested they use the clotheslines in Hyunjinâs backyard as a makeshift net, despite Hyunjinâs dissuading; half of Hyunjinâs fatherâs wardrobe caught on fire, Seungmin had a black eye for a week, and nobody knows what happened to that volleyball. The two of them have been attached at the hip ever since.
It is a crazy thing, having your best friend as a teammate; a singular flick of the wrist or a point of his shoe and Seungmin will know exactly Hyunjin wants the ball down to the netâs fraying fibers; Hyunjin will be exactly where Seungmin needs him down to the flecks of paint on the volleyball court. Hyunjin has always been Seungminâs hitterâSeungmin, always Hyunjinâs setter. Nothing will ever change between them so long as that remains the case.
At least, thatâs what Hyunjin used to think.
Learning that Seungmin was in a relationship was as much a wake-up call for Hyunjin as it was for you. At first, he was just fucking pissed; how could Seungmin be so stupid as to turn down someone like you, especially when Hyunjin had shot his mouth off about his wingman services? More importantly, how long had his best friend of eighteen years been in love, and why was he the last to know?Â
Only now, as they wait for his nine-year-old chihuahua to finish barfing, does Hyunjin realize that he canât remember the last time he and Seungmin talked. Not âtalkedâ as in a brief exchange inside the locker room or the lecture hall, about a new approach he wants to try or what Seungmin got on number four or if he wants a ride to practiceââtalkedâ as in talked, about Hyunjin, about Seungmin, about the eighteen years they shared, about all the years yet to come.
Hyunjin sees his setter every day; he stopped looking for his friend a long time ago.Â
âYeonwoo, right?â
He senses surprise in Seungmin without having to look at him. But he also senses a smile, a subtle show that Seungmin recognizes what heâs trying to doâand forgives him.
âYeonwoo,â Seungmin affirms. âWeâre in the same songwriting intensive this semester.â
âAlso a singer?â
He shakes his head. âPiano player. Performed at the Carnegie Hall in the United States at, like, seven years old. I donât think Iâve ever met someone so talented.â
âWow, thatâsâhi, old man. You done?â
Kkami walks over with his head hung low and tail between his legs, and Hyunjin hurries to drape the pup in his favorite blanket, pulling the bowl of water in front of him in tandem. Seungmin runs a hand over the top of Kkamiâs head as he hydrates.
âYouâve suffered,â he tells him solemnly, and Hyunjin snorts.
âAs I was sayingâthatâs crazy to hear, coming from the most talented person I know. You guys looked so good together.â
âThanks. Itâs weird. Iâm happy.â
âYou deserve it. You really do, Kim.â They exchange smiles, and Hyunjin gives Seungmin a playful nudge. âWhen are you introducing us?â
âThe arcade wasnât enough?â
âDonât insult me.â
âWhenever you want, then.â
âDinner with my mom, dinner with Yeonwoo,â Hyunjin recounts. âIâm holding you to it.â
âBet.â
They shake on it. If Hyunjin wasnât already reassured by Seungminâs smile, he knows by his clasp around his hand that theyâll be okay.
âWhat about you?â Seungmin asks. âAre you together yet?â
Hyunjin knew this was coming. âWhat do you mean?â
âYou know what I mean.â Seungmin strings his hands together, letting them dangle in the space between his knees. âSomeone you have questions for that youâre too scared to ask. Someone whoâs lived in your mind since the day you met. Thereâs someone like that, isnât there?â
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek.Â
Ever since that night on the gym floor, Hyunjinâs been having these dreams. By the time his alarm goes off in the morning, every detail of the dream has eluded him, leaving behind only a ghost of emotion, akin to the breeze that grazes your face moments after walking past another person.
He still addresses you by the pet names you hate. He still finds any excuse to be close to you; he still pesters you like a child with a crush. But now, he calls you his baby like one wishes on a star; his eyes drift to your lips every time youâre within two feet of each other; he makes fun of your likes and dislikes only because heâs happy to know about them at all. Ever since that night on the gym floor.
Itâs impossible for nothing and everything to change at once. Two people teetering on the precipice of something cannot withstand a gust of wind so powerful. Heâs already hanging off the ledge, losing his grip; where are you?
Next to him, Seungmin lets out a soft laugh. âThere is.â
Hyunjin doesnât know what to say.
âIt mightâve been me, at some point,â he hums, returning his hand to scratch the back of Kkamiâs ears. âBut it has always been you, Hyun.â
Four floors above them and inside Hyunjinâs place, you are pacing between his fridge and his bed, nervously awaiting his and Kkamiâs return.
Something catches your eye, wide and flat and hung on the wall by his bathroom door. You approach it curiously, your lips pulling into a fond smile the moment you realize all thatâs in front of you.
Many of the photographs are of Hyunjin: him in his preteens, dead asleep in bed while dressed head to toe in volleyball gear, braces visible because his mouth is open; an action shot taken at what mustâve been a U21 match, the South Korean flag stitched into the shoulder of his jersey; him with half a birthday cake in front of him and the rest smeared all over his face. There are headlines, too: Underdog team earns districtâs first high school volleyball state title; Hwang Hyunjin proves himself worthy of âace spikerâ label at South Korea V. Croatia U19 match; Coach Bang âChristopherâ Chan leads Seoul National University to second consecutive KUL championship. Thereâs oneâWho is Hwang Hyunjin? Meet the twenty-year-old instigant of South Koreaâs imminent volleyball revolutionâbeside which heâs written the singular word âmouthful.â You laugh; you agree.
But pinned to the corkboard is also a photograph of Minho, surrounded by stray cats in the alleyway outside a K-BBQ restaurant; his parents cradling Kkami in an apple costume; his high school volleyball team silhouetted against a pretty sunset. Him and Seungmin as kids, covered in grime and scrapes but beaming nonetheless; him and Seungmin at age nineteen, stadium lights on their backs, unadulterated elation on their faces as they charge towards each other, beaming still. Changbin piggybacking Felix through the hallways of the gym, neither of them wearing a shirt; Jisung offering Coach Bang a beer while the latter looks direly unamused (you make a mental note to ask about that one later); what looks like a Rock Lee cosplayer grimacing in the middle of your anthropology classroom.
You rush forward as if decreed by gravitational force. Not too far away is another picture of you, in which you boast a Miffy headband and a face full of foaming cleanser. Then another, your eyes narrowed like that of a sniper taking aim as youâre playing Tetris; you with so many volleyballs piled into your arms that you canât see your own face; your cheeks squished by a bandaged hand after you lost a bet about pandas (they can swim); you clutching your stomach on the library floor, brought to hysterical tears by Professor Kimâs email. You, you, you.
You bring your pointer finger to this last image, tracing it over the curve of your own cheek. You see a dimple on your face you didnât know you had. You realize it only comes out for him.
It has always been him.
The front door opens. A man with telephone poles for legs and a long-haired chihuahua in his arms appears behind it. You sense in him that something has changed since you last saw each other. The two of you lock eyes.Â
Itâs not awkward this time.
Multiple yards behind the service line, Hyunjin is rotating a volleyball in his hands. It feels solid and sentient, an extension of himself held in cotton-clad fingers. He knows how this story will end.
He moves his eyes to his best friendâs back. Four fingers flash back at him twice, signaling a high lob set to the left, the very play theyâve practiced tirelessly for the last five weeks. The breath Hyunjin blows out of his cheeks seems to crystallize in the air, almost solid in all its exhilaration.Â
He bends low and throws high. His arms drop behind his body like a spread of feathered wings; his feet fall into place below him like a meteor shower, two consecutive strikes against the earth that fissure its mantle. The lights overhead are bright. His palm pulls taut when it slams into leather. He knows how this story will end.
The volleyball tears towards the ground. It trembles as if scared by all that it holds: the guarantee of a flawless denouement, the catalyst of a radiant future. Hyunjinâs heart is beating hard enough to crack his ribs when he lands back on the ground, when the volleyball lands in the furthest corner of the court. Heâs not scared at all.
He balls his fingers into fists.
âJUST LIKE LAST YEAR, BACK TO BACK ON AN ACEââ
An arm seizes Hyunjinâs neck; another drags him onto the floor. His head thuds onto the hardwood with a sound he hears over the whole world detonating. His vision fills with the faces of the people he cares for most, some covered in tears and others rivaling the ceiling with their blinding smiles. He canât feel most of his body; his sweat drips into his mouth. He doesnât care. He doesnât care.
ââDEFENDING THEIR TITLE FOR THE THIRD CONSECUTIVE YEARââ
His eyes find Seungminâs among the fray. Their hands clap together with such force that Hyunjin cusses at the impact. Seungminâs gaze burns into his with a ferocity that Hyunjin plans to take to his grave. His setter. His best friend.
He says something inaudible, but Hyunjin reads the words off his lips, and his eyes fill with tears: we win everything.
ââYOUR NATIONAL CHAMPIONS: SEOUL NATIONAL UNIVERSITY!â
Hyunjinâs post-game interview is a lawless affair. He is allowed at most half an answer before a new teammate is barreling over with an animalistic screech or a new friend is screaming congratulations from out of frame.
The reporter is visibly agitated by her final question, unpursing her lips to ask: âIs there anyone youâd like to thank?â
Hyunjin exhales. âYou want the short answer or the longââ
Changbin seizes him by the head. Hyunjin bursts into a peal of high-pitched laughter as the libero litters kisses all over his face, nearly crumpling to the floor in his attempt to escape.
âLove you,â he yells before hurrying off.Â
âLove you too, Bin.â
Hyunjin turns a sheepish smile to the reporter.
âThe short answer,â she deadpans.
He starts counting off his fingers. He thanks his familyâhis first and last teammates, his eternal anchors. His other family, his actual teammates, the best boys heâs ever known. His coach, who will let him call him Chris someday. His best friend and setter, Kim Seungmin, who set a clothesline on fire once and changed his life forever.
In the distance, a figure emerges from the locker rooms. Thereâs a navy blue SNU banner draped over your shoulders, two overflowing duffel bags in your hands. Jisung and Jeongin run over to take them from you, and the smile you give them is wide and flushed, a remnant of the elation you shared from afar. The three of you start walking out of the gym.
Hyunjin thanks you.
You didnât ask for the position, he tells the reporter, but some idiot roped you into it, and theyâre all so grateful that you decided to stick around. You know the team better than they know themselvesâitâs hard to believe youâve been with them for five weeks instead of five years.
What are you like? What arenât you like, is the better question. Youâre caring, smart, strong; you see so much goodness in the people around you, all while unaware that it is your warmth that brings it out of them. Flowers only bloom in the sunâs doting radius, and so did he.
You have the sort of soul that incurs the scorn of the stars. They are the only ones to deserve you, they'd argue; youâre wasting your potential among humans when you belong to the sky. Theyâre right.
Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, suddenly annoyed. âWhy the fuck am I still talking to you?âÂ
âPardon?â The reporter returns, but Hyunjin is already vaulting over the bleachers, making a mad dash for the exit. She gives her cameraman an affronted glare. He shrugs.
He explodes onto the concrete, looking around in a frantic haze. He finds the blue banner heading toward the team bus and flanked by his teammates with ease.
He calls out to you.
You glance backwards. Your smile is purely effulgent, your laugh but a faint sigh against the areaâs busy thrum. His heart is pounding against his ribs like a battering ram again, but heâs used to this feeling by now. Jeongin and Jisung make themselves scarce.
Youâre beautiful. God, youâre fucking beautiful. That was the first thought to enter his mind when he spilled an iced Americano on your lap all those months ago and you looked at him like he hailed from another planet. And it is the first thought to enter his mind now, when he runs up to you and cradles your face in his hands, his touch infinitely, impossibly gentle, and you look at him like heâs everything that has ever existed, everything that ever will.Â
Tendrils of your body spray reach him from here, floral and light like a tropical coastline. He couldâve counted your eyelashesâif he didnât have something far better to do.
âTell me now if you donât want me to do this,â he whispers.
A stupid smile crosses the face of the smartest person he knows. âMy lips are sealed.â
Hyunjin kisses you. He kisses you until the banner around your shoulders is wrinkled under his touch, until your hands are tangled in his hair and aching his scalp, until the breaths you take are breaths you share, passed between your mouths like a puff of smoke before theyâre colliding again.
He kisses you until heâs crying, again, until heâs no longer tasting your lips but your grin, and he kisses you only harder when those scornful stars start to dance before him, for you are his, not theirs, and heâs really won everything, now.
âHwang, I need you in my office.â
Six months later, Hyunjin sees Coach Bang standing a few yards away with a grim air about him. He stops in his footsteps and glances at his captain, confused.
âThanks, cap.â Hyunjin swears heâs had this exact exchange before.
Head volleyball coach Christopher Bangâs workspace still reminds Hyunjin of a morgue. But there are two picture frames on his desk now: one of his family in front of the Sydney Opera House, the other of a band of boys clad in navy blue, draped over one another in exhausted bliss. The latter lends the room a much-needed sense of vitality. Too bad it still houses a rusty cyborg.
Hyunjin closes the door and takes a seat. Bang taps a knuckle against the tempered glass of his monitor. âRead.â
From: Nicola Daldello «[email protected]»
To: Bang âChristopherâ Chan «[email protected]»
Subject: Re: Allianz Milano V. Pallavolo Perugia practice game
Christopher,
Allow me to apologize for my delayed response as I shared your request with Chairman Piazza.
It is my great pleasure to inform you that we would love for Mr. Hwang Hyunjin to participate in our practice game versus Pallavolo Perugia. The match is scheduled for Monday, October 7th, 5-7 P.M. CET in the Giurati Sports Centre in Milan. Mr. Hwang will be playing for Allianz Milano as an outside hitter alongside Mr. Matey Kaziyski, Mr. Osniel Mergarejo, and Mr. Ishikawa Yuki.
Please let me know of your availability to call regarding Mr. Hwangâs travel logistics. His transportation and lodging costs will be paid for by the club.
Iâm looking forward to speaking with you and welcoming Mr. Hwang to Italy once and for all.
Yours,
Nicola Daldello
Assistant Coach, Allianz Milano
âI told you, some opportunities just present themselves,â Bang says, turning his monitor back around. âAs for next steps, I need a holistic calendar view of your entire month of October, including social evâHwang, is that foam coming out of your moâNOT ON MY CARPET! HWANG!â
In a park about a ten minute walk away, a small crowd of elderly people are scattered across a few stone tables, hunched over the fading chess boards painted into the granite surfaces. Mrs. Choi whisks away Mrs. Baekâs king with a triumphant yelp.
âI knew it, I knew it, I knew it! That opening is unbeatable!â She swivels towards you, shaking a fist threateningly. âYou! Get over here. Your reign is over.â
You are sitting cross-legged in the shade of a broad magnolia tree, clearing out your storage. You tried to take a picture of a particularly rotund pigeon to send to Hyunjin earlier and couldnât even do that. It was then you decided you couldn't live like this anymore.
âAs excited as I am to beat you again, Mrs. Choi, I need ten more minutes,â you call back.Â
She presents you with an unpleasant hand gesture. You turn your attention back to your phone, grinning. Two new notifications sit at the top of your lock screen.
Hyunjin:
Omw now. Sorry had to talk to Chris
Hyunjin:
Same park?
Y/N:
yes
Hyunjin:
Whoâs the opp today
Y/N:
mrs. choi
Hyunjin:
Not that bitch again
Y/N:
?
Heâll be here in eight minutes.
You return to the task at hand. Youâve already cleared out your apps, your documents, and videos; all thatâs left is the audio files. You conduct a quick mental review. Surely youâll live without your downloaded music and accidental voice memos.
Instead of hitting the âdeleteâ button, you extract a pair of tangled earphones from your jacket pocket.
You go back to your texts with Hyunjin, open the shared attachments tab, and scroll for a long time before you find the voice note he sent you seven months ago.
He finds you a sobbing mess.
âHey, hey, whoa.â Heâs on his knees in an instant, gathering your hands into his, a world of concern in the brown of his eyes. Your earbuds fall out and clatter onto the cement below. âBaby, whatâs happening? Are you okay?â
âYes,â you say in a flustered haste. âYes, Iâm okay. I donâtâI donât really know whatâs happening.â
âDid that hag do this to you?â He asks this question so seriously. âIâll beat up a senior citizen, I donât give a fuckââ
âNo!â You let out an ugly laugh through your tears. âNo, no. Leave Mrs. Choi alone.â
âThen what is it? Whatâs wrong?â
Eventually, your vision clears enough for you to look at the man kneeling in front of you. His roots grow out longer every day, his hair by now nearly equal parts gold and black. A spot of sunlight infiltrates the magnolia leaves and lands on his left eye, turning it the hue of melted bronze.
Your fingers drift to the sides of his beautiful face as you lean in close; he smells like a combination of smoky rose and tropical coastlines.
âIâll tell you later,â you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hairline.Â
He is dissatisfied with this, hooking a pointer finger beneath your chin, guiding your face back to his. He laves the saltwater from your lips, your tongue, and then youâre smiling again, barely able to remember why you cried in the first place.
You rest your foreheads together. âHave I told you that you look like a bumblebee these days?â
He smiles. âDoes that make you my flower, then?â
âBecause youâre irresistably drawn to me?â
âNo, because I wanna put my pollen inââ
You shove him away. âYou are grotesque.â
He returns in a flash. âYou love me.â
You kiss him again. And again. And one more time for good measure, during which you mumble I do against his lips, and then you remember something.
âWhy did Coach hold you back, by the way?â You pull away, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. âAre you in trouble again?â
âNo, no. The opposite, actually.â
Your brow furrows. âThe opposite? Whatââ
âIn this lifetime, please,â Mrs. Choi hollers from the chess tables. You roll your eyes. Hyunjin smiles helplessly.
âDuty calls, my love.â
âTell me your thing later too?â
âOf course.â
You dust yourself off and stand up, making your way to the battleground. But not before you whisper to Hyunjin, ânow watch me beat up a senior citizen.â
He laughs with his whole body, his eyes the shape of crescent moons, his mouth a little rectangle.
âHypocrite.â
Hyunjin:
[1 Audio Message]
This is my seventh take and Iâm not recording an eighth. What you get is what you get. I donât care anymore.
I understand if you donât wanna talk about what happened at the arcade. I wouldnât, either. I just wanted to say that you donât have to do this tutoring thing anymore. I wonât be able to fulfill my end of our deal, soâŠyeah, it wouldnât be fair to you. Youâve already done so much for us. For me.
As for team manager, youâll have to talk to Minho and Coach Bang if you wanna quit. Doesnât sound like a fun conversation, I knowâbut if thatâs what you decide, Iâll have your back. They donât scare me. Well, they do. Sometimes.
Youâve beenâŠdistant, this week. Iâve known peace and quiet for the first time since we met, and I fucking hate it. I realized I couldnât care less if youâre my tutor or my team manager or whateverâI just donât want you to be a stranger. Maybe thatâs selfish of me to say, but Iâm tired of pretending the idea of losing you doesnât terrify me. It does. It truly fucking does.
Iâm gonna end this here, because I almost just stopped recording on accident and I wouldâve committed first degree murder if I had to do this all over again. Sorry that this got so long, andâŠIâm sorry about everything. You deserve better.
Come back to me whenever youâre ready, okay? Iâll be waiting.
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thank you so much for taking the time to leave me such incredible, heartwarming comments; this all made me so so happy and i truly do not deserve you.
the tag where ur like "i write these tags in real time so forgive my random outbursts" I WAS LITERALLY GONNA SAY. i love the way u quote parts of the fic back at me and include your reactions right after like it feels like ur texting me live updates and it's the cutest fucking thing ever please never stop.
also hello did u think i wouldn't notice you flirting with me ... "you're literally the whole package" like Come Here and Kiss Me before I Combust i'm so serious. "xian you're hyunjin's soulmate" and what if i don't want him. WHAT IF I WANT YOU? WHAT THEN?
tl;dr i am currently blushing and batting my eyes at my screen like some kinda slut bc i adore u and ur feedback so wholeheartedly; thank u for reading and enjoying, baby angel, i hope you're taking care <333
wordsă»749 / pairingă»hyunjin x gn!stylist!reader / includesă»fluff, established relationship, alcohol consumption / noteă»an extremely self-indulgent kinda emo take on hyunjin @ vfw. takes place in the crying lightning universe.
Hyunjin is gone.
He stopped walking and started floating about five drinks ago, bode farewell to coherent sentences and his eyesight not too long after. Simply kept plucking flutes of champagne off trays carried around by kindred waiters and let himself bask in the glorious evening.
When his stylist shows up in front of him, he mistakes them for the moon.
Gentle hands push strands of sweaty hair out of his eyes, then move to cup his cheeks fondly, protectively, as if imprinting final touches into a snow angel. He watches your lips form his name from mere centimeters away, but the sound of it seems to travel underwater.
âHyunjin,â you repeat, more audibly this time, a lick of crisp night air cutting through the afterpartyâs steamy throng.
He proceeds to melt into you in ways he cannot currently control, sliding a hand over the one you have on the side of his face, fingertips dipping in the slots between yours. Bringing you close enough to him that your chest moulds right against his. Grinning at you with a sickening sweetness that he can taste on his own mouth.
âHi,â he replies.
âYou okay? How are you?â You inquire. âDo you need anything?â
âHi,â he says again, because he canât really think of anything else, and that seems to be answer enough.
Before he knows it, heâs walking somewhere, guided only by the arm that he has slung over your shoulders and your silhouette, just barely discernible in the dim venue, which he would follow to the ends of the earth.
An indeterminate amount of time later, heâs standing in the doorway of an unoccupied lounge. The tables of polished mahogany and gold foil have become graveyards of empty wine glasses, but the couch in the middle of the room has been left pristine.
Only after he sits down does the lightheadedness hit, and it hits hard, hard enough to shut his eyes and furrow his brow. His brain swings around the inside of his skull like a pendulum.
There is a delicate brush of your finger against his chin, your quiet request for him to lift it up, and then something hard and cold comes to rest on his lower lip. Water surrounds his tonsils and slips down his throat. A few stray rivulets escape down the side of his neck, then disappear into the napkin that you have pressed upon the skin.
By the time heâs downed the whole glass, he can feel his wits beginning to returnâwith them, the rest of his senses. His eyes crack open again.
âHot,â he whispers. âItâs hot.â
You move your hands to his shoulders. Moments later, his jacket is a leather mass over the back of the couch, and he feels his dizziness subside, his oxygen return.Â
âBetter?â
With the music so far away, he hears the concern in your tone with crystalline clarity. He leans over to press his lips to the underside of your jaw, conveying a silent message: better, now.
He didnât have plans to spend the night backstage, but the premise seems riveting where he comes to lie. His head nestled in the plush of your lap, the rest of him stretched across the sofa, your hand carding through his hair with the soporific lull of a mellow tide.
âIâm sorry,â he mumbles suddenly, and you look down at him, confused.
âFor?â
âGetting so drunk.â
If your hand is the tide, your laugh is the sand, warm and ubiquitous and all-consuming. âYou had a good time, yeah?â
A good time. What an understatement for the maelstrom of feeling still raging on within him, the happiness and disbelief and pride and gratitude to himself, to you. To us.
âThe best,â he answers.
âThatâs all that matters, then,â you hum, your thumb dusting over his hairline. âYou deserve to celebrate.â
Heâs still too drunk to really think, but he doesnât have to think when it comes to youâjust knows in the very wellsprings of his soul all the love youâve woven into the thing youâre about to say, by the infinitesimal softening of your eyes alone.
âYou deserve everything, baby.â
He lifts your wrist to his lips, presses a kiss to your pulse. Above him, your features blur, then come back into focus. His answer is so soft that he almost canât hear it over the warble of his heartbeat and the descent of his tears.
âIâve got it right here.â
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