yargs

“i am not ignoring you,” you reply, tapping away, “i’m just—ah!”

you let out a sharp breath when mark tugs your blanket off, throws your laptop gently onto the other side of the couch, and straddles your legs.

“mark—” you start to protest, but he’s already kissing down your jawline, slow and deliberate.

“you’ve been studying for hours,” he whispers, voice dropping. “my patience is dying.”

you grip the hem of his shirt as his fingers slide up under yours, warm palms against your bare skin. your heartbeat skips.

“just one kiss,” he says, lips already brushing yours, “then i’ll behave.”

he’s lying. you know it. but you kiss him anyway.

and the moment your lips touch, he deepens it—hungry, hot, his hands now under your thighs, pulling you closer until you're practically in his lap. your fingers tangle in his hair. his breath hitches when your hips shift against his just slightly—and that’s when you feel it.

"you're such a liar," you whisper against his mouth, grinning.

he grins back, breathless, “okay, fine. maybe two kisses.”

you push him lightly by the chest, but he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, gaze dark and amused.

“take the break,” he murmurs, “i’ll make it worth it.”

you sighed then nodded, “okay, fine.”

your back presses into the couch cushions as mark hovers over you, wrists still gently pinned above your head. his eyes scan your face—dark, hooded, but soft around the edges. like he wants to devour you and hold you at the same time.

“you sure you wanna play this game?” you tease, breath shaky, “i’m competitive.”

mark leans in so close, his nose brushes yours.

“so am I.”

then he kisses you again—deeper, slower this time. Like he wants to memorize how you taste. his hands let go of your wrists, sliding down your arms, your sides, until they settle firmly on your waist. he guides your hips to roll against him, just enough pressure to make your stomach flip.

you gasp into his mouth, and he chuckles, lips brushing yours.

“you feel that?” he murmurs, “that’s how much I missed you.”

your fingers sneak under his shirt, palms against his warm skin. you can feel the muscles flexing as he leans closer, mouth now trailing kisses down your neck—hot, open-mouthed, and maddeningly slow.

“i have a quiz tomorrow,” you whisper, even though your hands are already pulling his shirt off.

“and I,” he says, between kisses on your collarbone, “am a very distracting boyfriend. you knew this when you signed up.”

you laugh, but it turns into a breathless moan when he sucks gently at a spot just under your ear.

“mark,” you warn.

he lifts his head, lips swollen, eyes full of mischief, “say the word, and I’ll stop.”

you look at him—completely flushed, slightly messy, but full of love.

“…you're not gonna stop.”

he smirks, “exactly.”

ge kisses you again—deeper, needier—and everything else fades. the notes, the deadlines, the clock blinking into midnight.

there’s only you, mark, and the steady rhythm of your hearts racing against each other.

You finally catch his attention, though all he does is turn his head in your direction, “Yeah? Sorry… I zoned out.” He sits up on your bed, crossing his legs underneath him. 

“I was saying how I’ll just finish this assignment and then we can go on with movie night,” you repeat, “Are you okay? Still up for it?” Your head tilts to the side and Donghyuck has to look away before you cause his heart to arrest. 

“Of course I am, I just…” He bites his bottom lip and blinks at the wheels of your chair.

“Is this about what my friends said earlier?” You frown. In all honesty, you didn’t even want to talk about it because you know your anger issues are going to take over. When Donghyuck fails to give you a reply, you follow the question up, “It is, isn’t it?”

“My feelings are valid,” he retorts stiffly, falling back onto his back, “I know I’m pathetic for not even getting my first fucking kiss at this age but—”

“You’re not pathetic, Hyuck,” you interrupt, angry at how he was putting himself down for something so ridiculous, “Don’t say that. Everyone lives life at their own pace.” You throw a soft punch at his knee and he yelps despite it not hurting. 

“I know, you’ve told me that before, but when it’s pointed out, I see why it’s stupid,” he goes on, “Like not one person has brought themselves to want to kiss me? How pathetic is that?”

Trains of thought begin running through your head and you let the question hang in the air for too long. Far too long that this makes Donghyuck nervous, “You could at least say that it is pathetic instead of not saying any–”

“What if… what if I kissed you?” 

Donghyuck shoots up, “What?”

“What if I kissed you.” You say more confidently, “Then you could say that you kissed someone.”

Donghyuck’s chewing on his lip now, unsure whether or not this would be a good idea, “You’d do that?... Would that even count?” 

“I’ll count it if you do…” You say, “Besides, if you’re okay with it, and I’m okay with it, it counts.” Your legs scooches your chair closer to Donghyuck, almost as if anticipating his answer. 

If Donghyuck was being honest, he liked the idea. It’s not like he’s been waiting for this for the longest time, no… he just thought it was a good idea. And it was you he was going to kiss for god’s sake. He trusted you, he cared about you, he wouldn’t mind if his first kiss was you. Hell, he wanted his first kiss to be you, “Okay.”

You scoot closer so that your knees touch his, “Go whenever you’re ready.”

“O-okay,” Donghyuck’s taken aback by how straight forward you’re being. He nods once and shifts forward in place, leaning forward to bring his face closer to yours, “Okay, I’ll do it now.” 

You can feel his warm breath on your face and it somehow sends you shivers down your neck. The proximity between the two of you is small. It felt like he was doing it on purpose to tease you and you were tempted to be the one who closed the gap between the two of you. 

Donghyuck comes closer and you’re ready to close your eyes, but then he pulls away, “Shit, s-sorry.” He apologizes, “I’m fucking this up, aren’t I?” A frown grows on his lips, worried that he was actually making it awkward between the two of you, just because of a kiss, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

You nod, “I’m the one who suggested it, Hyuck.” 

He huffs and nods again. He starts closing in on you. His hands instinctively reach up to grab your face, and at that point you know he’s going to commit to it. Just like earlier, you feel his breath tickle your lips, and before you know it, Donghyuck’s plush lips are pressed up against yours. 

Donghyuck holds back a gasp, holding his lips to yours. For a moment, he’s afraid he’s doing it wrong, unsure whether or not he’s moving his lips correctly, but the second you begin kissing back, hands finding the back of his neck in hopes of finding something to hold onto, a sense of relief washes over him. 

He pulls away to breathe before pushing his mouth back onto yours. The kiss was deep, that was for sure, something he didn’t expect to happen. When you suggested a kiss, he thought you meant something along the lines of a ‘one-two’ and done, not this. But he didn’t mind it. And it seemed like you didn’t either.

In fact, he likes the feeling. There’s a warm feeling growing in his chest the longer the kiss lasts and he couldn’t get enough of it. 

So this was why people did it so often. It felt good.

Donghyuck’s arms slither around your figure, bringing his hands to your back. Then he pulls you closer. And again, you don’t mind. 

And just as he feels your tongue tapping gently on his lips to let him in, Donghyuck feels something sharp scratch the bridge of his nose and it doesn’t take him long to realize that his glasses were getting in the way of everything. 

He pulls back, groaning, out of breath before he rips them off of his face—because, no, he doesn’t care if he can’t see your face. All he wants to do is kiss you. 

he was the soft thud of sneakers against wooden floors at 7am on saturdays, the sound of cartoon marathons in mismatched socks. he was messy hair and scraped elbows, crushed jasmine clinging to small palms. he was always just… there. in all your family photos, pulling faces behind you. in every secret hideout built from old bedsheets tied with stolen strings. in every belly laugh echoing across summer afternoons spent chasing honey bees and sidewalk chalk dreams.

he had summer in his laugh, sharp and golden, and thunderstorms in his eyes—eyes that darkened when he got angry, as if the world itself narrowed down to the fury of a boy who hadn't yet learned where to store all his feelings. but when he was happy, the sky felt bigger somehow. you didn’t know when looking at him stopped feeling like childhood and started feeling like heartbreak waiting to happen.

“i’m gonna marry you,” he declared one afternoon, solemn and serious, in the way only ten-year olds can be, eyes squinting up against a sky too bright to stare at. you were both lying on your backs in the middle of your shared backyard between your houses, grass blades brushing against your elbows. the air was thick with the scent of lemonade and laundry detergent.

you hadn’t answered right away. just turned your face to look at him, watching how the sunlight touched his cheeks like it had known him forever. he had a constellation of beauty marks scattered across his honey skin, and you wanted to memorise every one with your fingertips.

“okay,” you whispered finally. a promise, small and quiet, tucked beneath your ribs.

by the time you were sixteen, you and haechan had built a quiet sort of religion around each other.

when it rained too hard or the thunder sounded too much like childhood fears, he would climb into your bedroom window. you always left your curtains open for him—a silent invitation. a lighthouse in the dark. a habit neither of you spoke about, but one that felt loved.

he taught you how to drive in his dad’s old truck on empty backroads soaked in golden hour. his hand rested on your thigh more often than on the gearshift, like it was second nature, like that was where it belonged. you didn’t tell him to move it. he didn’t ask.

you gave him your first kiss on the steps of his front porch. the wood was wet with dew, but his heart-shaped lips were soft with hesitation. he tasted like apple gum and confessions neither of you knew how to say aloud. he laughed into your mouth—nervous and breathless—and you laughed too, because you were young, wild, and stupid, and it was easy to believe that love could be this simple.

you were both hungry in the way every teenager was. hungry for touch. for meaning. for something—anything—to make the world feel less sharp and unfinished.

you lost your virginity to each other the summer before graduation.

it wasn’t planned. the party belonged to someone neither of you really knew, the kind of gathering where music pulsed through the walls like a second heartbeat and strangers kissed in the shadows.

you found each other in a dark hallway, your hands tangled in his hair, his breath hot with beer and longing. his forehead pressed to yours, eyes searching your face like a map he'd forgotten how to read.

“you sure?” he asked, voice husky and uneven, thick with something between hope and fear.

you nodded—not because you were ready, but because he was haechan. your haechan. the boy who cried when he lost his teddy bear. the boy who carved your initials into the tree behind your school. the boy who had seen you at your worst and still called you pretty.

upstairs, in a stranger's bedroom that smelled like baby powder and cheap perfum, you fumbled through it together. it was rushed, awkward, limbs tangled, hands shaking, and laughter spilling between desperate kisses. you hit your elbow against the nightstand. he whispered sorry into your neck. too fast, too soft, too clumsy—but he held your face like something holy, kissed your collarbones like he wanted to memorise you. whispered things into your skin he’d probably never dare say again.

i think i love you. think i always have.

college came like a tide. a blur of new people, new names, new temptations. it was too fast, too messy, and impossible to ignore.

you dated someone for a month—a cute canadian boy with a crooked smile. he liked your ambition, said you were different, but hated how you always left parties early to check if haechan got home safe.

haechan slept with a girl from his arts and history class. he told you right after, almost like it was a sin he couldn’t carry alone.

“i saw you with that guy again last week,” he said one day, sitting beside you on the curb outside another party, both of you lit only by a flickering streetlamp.

you shrugged, trying not to flinch. “he was nice.”

he looked away. his voice was soft. “are you happy?”

you glanced at him, your chest ached. “very.”

he smiled. a lie of a smile, the kind that didn't touch his eyes. “then i’m happy too.”

you hated how easy he made it sound. as if he could love you from a distance and still be whole. as if loving you from a distance was enough for him. as if that counted as love at all.

your first real fight came the night before college graduation.

you told him about harvard. about your dream—the one that had once felt too big for you to say aloud. 

he didn’t smile. instead, his voice went quiet. cold. “you’re leaving?”

“it’s not forever.”

“it’s far.”

you nodded. “it’s my future, hyuck.”

he looked at you then, hurt bleeding through his voice, pain lacing every word. “what about our future?”

your breath caught. “we don’t… we don’t have a future.”

his jaw clenched. “so what the fuck were we then?”

you hesitated. the words trapped in the back of your heart. you wanted to say everything. you wanted to tell him that he was your everything.

“won't you tell me you love me?” he asked.

tears slipped down before you realised they’d started. he looked at you with so much hurt, it made you want to claw your own chest open. show him the ache you buried there. the amount of love you’d harboured for him all these years. the part of you that still wore him like a heartbeat.

“don’t go,” he whispered. “please.”

but the day you flew, he wasn’t there.

you waited at the immigration gate until the closing call, eyes searching the crowd, just in case. just in case he changed his mind and decided to come running into the terminal like in those rom-com movies you both mocked in high school. but he never came. no dramatic declarations. no last-minute confessions.

as the clouds swallowed the sky, you tried not to think of the boy who had once promised to marry you beneath it.

you never said goodbye. neither did he.

seven years passed before you came back.

the neighbourhood had changed, but not enough for you to forget your way home. the same laundromat with its chipped red awning. the same old man still sweeping outside the grocery store. the same curve in the road where you and haechan used to race your bikes, always cheating the bend.

but the house next door had changed.

the yellow curtains were still there, but it had a fresh coat of paint. a windchime sang gently from the porch. there were toys scattered across the lawn. a pink tricycle, ribbons tied on the handlebars. a plastic watering can with sunflowers painted on it. a half-built lego tower, its colours mismatched and bright.

you saw her first.

a little girl, maybe three or four, sitting on the porch steps with a juice box and a lollipop. she had his eyes—big, brown, burning with mischief.

she looked up at you, calm and certain. “you’re the girl from the picture.”

your heart stopped. “what?”

she pointed toward the door. “daddy keeps it in his important drawer.”

then the door creaked open.

and there he was.

lee donghyuck. older. taller. hair shorter now, dyed brown but betraying with black roots peeking. a black t-shirt hung loose on his frame, jeans faded, barefoot on the porch. he looked like time had both weathered and softened him. like the years had carved a quiet kind of tired into the way he stood.

you stared.

he stared back.

for a second, the world folded in on itself. time stretched and trembled. you remembered him at five, crying when he dropped his ice cream. at ten, grinning with dirt-streaked cheeks. at seventeen, asleep on your lap in the back of his dad’s truck. at twenty, watching you walk away with tears in his eyes and his heart on his sleeve.

“…hey,” he said.

you swallowed. “hi.”

silence bloomed between you. heavy and unspoken.

“do you… want to come in?” he asked, voice tentative.

you hesitated.

“yeah. i’d like that.”

the house smelled like cedarwood and jasmine. drawings cluttered the fridge—stick figures and suns with crooked smiles. a photo of his daughter in her school uniform. a birthday card scribbled with crayon hearts.

you sat across from him at the kitchen table, tea warming your palms. his daughter hummed quietly to herself as she played on the rug, building towers with number blocks that leaned like secrets.

“she’s beautiful,” you said. “your daughter.”

“she’s four.” he glanced at her, eyes warm. “she loves bears, chocolate milk, and asking too many questions.”

“she’s got your eyes.”

he turned to look at you, pausing, like he was remembering everything that the two of you used to be.

“you look the same.”

you smiled, small. “no. i don’t.”

he shook his head. “still pretty.”

your breath hitched.

“i wanted to call,” he admitted. “so many times.”

“why didn’t you?”

“i didn’t know if you’d want me to.”

“i waited for you to call,” you whispered. “waited for quite some time.”

“i came to the airport that day,” he said suddenly. “got there late. ran through the terminal like an idiot.” he let out a dry laugh, almost bitter. “but you were already gone.”

your hands trembled slightly around the tea mug. “why didn’t you tell me?”

he looked down, as if the answer was carved into the floor. “because i thought maybe… you’d be better off without me. we weren’t ready. i loved you, but i didn’t know how to carry it. how to carry you. not the way you deserved.”

your voice was quieter now. “and now?”

he didn’t answer right away. just turned his head, gaze softening as it landed on the little girl playing with her blocks on the rug. the silence stretched between you like something broken.

you followed his gaze. your throat tightened. “you’re married.”

a beat.

“she left,” he said finally. “said she couldn’t do it. that i wasn’t enough. that i never really gave her all of me.”

“...i'm sorry.”

he nodded. “it's fine. my girl’s the best thing that's ever happened to me... so even if she didn’t come from love, i’m going to make sure she grows up knowing it.”

you watched him. at his hands, his eyes, the way he always loved like it was something sacred.

“i thought i’d forget about you,” you said. “that if i buried you under enough time, i’d stop checking my phone on your birthday. stop dreaming of yellow curtains.”

“did you?”

“no.”

you met his eyes. “did you?”

he didn’t answer. instead, he got up and disappeared down into the hallway. when he returned, he held a polaroid—old, slightly faded. yellow at the corners.

it was the two of you, arms around each other. foreheads pressed. smiling like the world hadn’t yet taught you how to lose.

“i kept it,” he said. “from our first party.”

his daughter climbed into his lap. “daddy,” she said, her voice laced with curiosity. “is she your girlfriend?”

you smiled gently, choosing to reply in his stead. “no, honey. we're just friends.”

“but you guys were kissing in the picture.”

you laughed softly. “that was a long time ago.”

haechan looked at you, his voice soft. “feels like yesterday.”

silence.

“are you staying?” he asked.

you looked at the room. at him. at her. “i think so.”

he nodded. 

you watched his daughter trace circles on his arm, her head tucked against his chest. there was something unspeakably tender about the moment. like watching a wound that had once bled out quietly begin to scab. healing, unspoken and slow.

he walked you to the door after you finished your tea. the wind had picked up again, and the curtains fluttered—still yellow, still soft.

“thanks for letting me in,” you said.

“you never really left,” he whispered.

you turned, ready to walk away.

but then—his voice again.

“are you happy?”

the sky behind him was golden. the same shade it had been the day you kissed him on his porch, all those summers ago.

“no,” you said, the truth spilling gently from your lips. “not until today.”

It was a problem that he hated, one that he knew he wouldn’t be able to figure out. And, trust him, he knew there were only two solutions to the problem: tell you or drive a stake in the exact middle of your relationship. Neither of them were options he liked, so he just dealt with the aching in his heart, the pain caused by how much he wanted to love you openly, and stayed a normal, average friend.

He didn’t think you’d be the one to drive the stake, but at least you had done him a favor. Originally, even after you’d started dating Minhee, he had no plans of unfriending you.

Mark hated to say it, but not having you around was a blessing in disguise for him. There was no more cringing at love songs, no more lying awake at night in case you’d text him, no more feeling insecure every time you talked to anyone who wasn’t him. He surrounded himself with his other friends, with Renjun and Donghyuck, and moved on—it was blissful.

There was no stress. No heartache. Just happiness.

Maybe Mark should’ve remembered that when you texted him seven months ago, saying that you felt like your friendship with him ended too unexpectedly.

How could he have predicted this, though? For god’s sake, when he received that text, you two hadn’t talked in nearly three years. He was in university now, moved on from past grievances and outdated feelings, and, when you had sent that text, he hadn’t felt anywhere near how he used to. Hell, he viewed it as his first time rekindling with an old friend, something his mom did with high school friends all the time.

Maybe he was stupid for thinking it was okay. Maybe he was an idiot. Maybe the real issue was that he let his emotions fester for two years, ignoring them until he didn’t need to see you every single day of his life. Maybe he should’ve faced this before you weren’t in a three-year-long relationship and he had no choice but to keep things to himself, lest he wants to make you feel bad or become a homewrecker.

Now, Mark was back at step one—awake in the early hours of the morning, waiting for a possible nightmare text, or any text, from you. It was grating, and he wasn’t sure why he was going through this for the second time. You were across the country from him; while you were in Quebec, he was in Vancouver, and more likely to text you once you’d woken up for the day at this point.

This was awful. He didn’t know why he was doing this. He wanted nothing more than to be peacefully asleep, to wake up refreshed for his morning class without a care in the world. Instead, he revolved around you, waiting for the day he might just have the chance to do what he should’ve done before.

-

Something you liked to do with Mark was what you called quasi-café dates (how much did you want him dead?), where you and he sat in your respective cafés across the country from each other, talking to each other on the phone. According to your claims, you brought a little tripod to hold your phone up, so he could see you better.

He’d never tell you that, after you said that, you went out and bought the same thing. Besides, you seemed to believe him when he said he just stacked up a bunch of his useless textbooks.

When you first started doing these café dates, you’d offhandedly mentioned that Minhee said no every time you asked, each time with a different excuse than before. “He’s got classes when I don’t, and every time I’m here he’s stuck in a lecture,” you claimed, and Mark could see straight through the smile you kept on your face. “It’s okay, though. Everything is going very well between us—we call every morning and night, and we send each other letters. It’s nice.”

It seemed as though every time Minhee did something wrong, there was something good to make up for it—Mark hated that. Mark hated him, for no good reason at all, and couldn’t stand seeing you lament over his absence every time you talked to him.

Nevertheless, he would treasure these café dates with you for as long as he could.

“So, how’s the music going?” you asked, stirring a cube of sugar into your tea. The sound of the spoon hitting the sides of the cup overtook whatever you were saying, and Mark cursed the phone microphone for focusing on the wrong noise. “I mean, you were helping Chenle with something, right? A school thing.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.” Mark nodded, scratching the back of his neck. “Um, it’s an end-of-the-year thing, so he’s turned it in. We are just waiting for the grade.”

“I hope it goes well,” you offered, taking a sip of the tea. “Speaking of the end of the year, are you heading back to Ontario for the summer? I’d love to have tea with you, like, in person—it’d be nicer than this.”

Mark’s heart went up to his throat, and a wave of giddiness poured over his body. He could’ve died, right then and there; it was so painfully platonic, and, yet, he was so painfully entranced.

“Yeah, I’ll—I’ll be back. Uh, yeah, we can have tea, so long as you’re not too busy with Minhee,” he smiled, mentally cursing himself for phrasing it like that. Sure, he was still a little hurt by you leaving him in the dust all those years ago, but he hadn’t meant to say it so passive-aggressively.

You, on the other hand, weren’t too phased by his hostility.

“Oh, speaking of him!” a smile bloomed on your face, and Mark’s heart beat once more. “I told him that I was staying in Quebec, so I’m gonna surprise him. I don’t know if you’re friends with him, or know anybody who is, so don’t tell anyone I’m coming home. ‘Kay?”

Mark was almost flattered that you thought he was friends with Minhee. When you first started dating him, Minhee hated his guts. To Minhee, Mark assumed, he was the enemy—the boy who’d occupied your attention up until the moment he asked you out.

Minhee had never told Mark to stay away or to back off, rather he was sly in the way he dragged you away from him. So, Mark told all his friends about it, and they began to hate Minhee too. If any of them knew anything about him, Mark would be shocked.

“Yeah, no problem. Secret’s safe with me.”

“Anyway, do you remember that coffeehouse we always went to in our freshman year? We should go back there, for old times’ sake…”

You kept talking, kept going on and on about all the good times you had oh-so-long ago, but Mark couldn’t bring himself to listen. He just focused on your face, made up of pixels and dim light, separated from him by a screen, and wondered why he was so stupid.

“So, how is your relationship with Minhee? I’m was never really around for it.”

You and Minhee were approaching three years, you said. You wonder how you got so lucky with him; he can be a bit fickle sometimes, but he never hurt you in a way he couldn’t make it up. He apologized when he was in the wrong, he memorized your restaurant orders, he got you whatever gift reminded him of you, he’s basically your other half. You think you’re gonna marry him, one day, leaving Mark behind to writhe over what he might’ve lost over his stupid fear of losing you completely (you didn’t say the second part aloud, but it was implied).

“I’m glad. It’s not common to find the one in high school. Good for you, [First].”

He could attest to that, through and through.

-

“Dude,” Renjun said, swiping the White Claw from Mark’s hand with ease. Drunkenly, Mark reached out for it, but Jeno—who’d appeared out of nowhere—slapped his hand away and put a glass of water in front of him. “You’re going to give yourself alcohol poisoning. Lay off.”

Chenle let out a shriek as Jaemin picked him up, bringing him over to the lit-up pool and dropping him in. Jeno slid into the chair across from Mark at the previously unoccupied table, crossing his arms over his chest. Renjun pulled up another chair, joining Jeno in giving Mark disapproving stares.

“When did Jaemin and Chenle get so close?” Mark slurred, pointing at the two. In his drunken stupor, Mark imagined Jaemin and Chenle as you and him, even if you were just friends, having a good time together with Minhee nowhere in sight.

The thought made Mark’s head hurt.

“They started gaming together a lot over the past year, but that doesn’t matter,” Jeno replied, pushing the glass of water closer to him. “What’s up with you right now, man? You’re so…off.”

“I started talking with [First] again.”

“Seriously?” Renjun asked, seeming a bit appalled. After all they’d been through, all the healing they had to force upon Mark in the early stages of their friendship, it was hard to imagine him ever going back to you. Plus, he’d seemed fully, irrevocably over it by the time he graduated. Yet, here he was, back at square one, in a worse place than before. “Isn’t…you know what, never mind. Why?”

“What do you mean by ‘why?’”

“He means you were happier without her around,” Jeno commented, nodding with satisfaction as Mark took a huge swig of the water. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, [First] really is a sweetheart, but she shredded you to pieces. You were like, I don’t know, like an unpeeled, rotten banana by the time your friendship was over.”

“I couldn’t just ignore her. She reached out, and, well, I thought it—I thought it would be okay.” Mark was getting choked up,  something he’d never do sober, but both of them were well acquainted with the sad, drunken version of him (which was just normal Mark with a hint of uncontrollable crying). “I thought I was over it. She was across the country. How was I supposed to know she was just as terrible over the phone?”

“It’s not too late to start ignoring her,” Renjun suggested, raising his brows. “You’re busy with us this summer. Blow her off until she stops asking because she’s too busy planning her wedding with Minhee. It’s as good as over for the second time. Huh?”

“Can’t.”

Mark let his head drop onto the table with a thud, unable to get rid of the headache Chenle’s screech had given him. He was getting tired.

“Why not?”

“We’re getting coffee in two days. She gets back tonight and gives Minhee a big surprise tomorrow.”

“Cancel on her, then?” Jeno said as if it was that easy.

“No. I’ll go and then stop talking to her. Yeah. That’s simple enough.”

Renjun said something else, but he was getting hard to hear. Mark would just go to sleep, wake up with a bad hangover and the urge to throw up all over Chenle’s house. He’d go through the motions, feel like somebody was stabbing his heart with a burning sword, and then stay up all night until he physically couldn’t keep himself awake.

It was easy. It was routine. He could do it well.

So, he’d be dead to the world right now.

-

Mark wanted to throw his phone against the wall. It jerked him awake with a start, the sound of an obnoxious, default ringtone ringing throughout the room. Jeno, from across the room, let out an angry groan, throwing a pillow perfectly in Mark’s direction.

It was easy enough to shut it off, but it wasn’t easy enough to push himself off the floor. The moment he got to his feet, a wave of pain assaulted his head, nearly knocking him back over. He needed to find Advil, or any hangover medicine Chenle’s parents have—they told him they bought some, in case things got too wild in their words, but he couldn’t remember where they said it was.

Jeno was sprawled out along the couch, and Jaemin had been lying on the floor next to Mark and the fireplace. Chenle and Jisung were asleep on the table, cuddling into each other like a couple (if Mark wasn’t dying, he’d snap a picture). Renjun and Haechan were likely upstairs in the guest rooms they were offered the night before and were not going to make an appearance until someone came to them.

Mark stumbled into the kitchen, wincing at how much brighter it was in there. Chenle lived in one of those stereotypical rich kid houses, so there were windows everywhere. No matter where he looked, Mark was met with morning sunlight.

Looking at the oven clock, Mark groaned when he realized it was noon. It wasn’t morning sunlight, it was the blazing, unbearable, summer afternoon sun. Then, Mark realized it was noon.

He ripped his phone from his pocket, squinting as he tried to make out his notifications. Most of them were from university friends or various apps, Twitter and Instagram, but there were a special few from you—three, two-hour-old texts and a missed call from three minutes ago.

“Wish me luck!!” the first one read, along with a few random emojis you were accustomed to sending.

“Ahh, I’m so nervous. Are you not awake yet?”

Mark was amused by how correctly you texted him. He’d never get used to the capitalization and proper punctuation.

“Oh, I forgot you and your friends were having your reunion, lol. I bet it was fun!! Drink lots of water today, and I’ll call later!!”

Mark assumed that the missed call was intended to be you explaining how things were going, but he was too busy trying to wake up to answer. Without thinking, he hurried to press the call button, putting the phone up to his ear giddily. His hangover turned into nervousness, and then a bit of fear.

One ring. Two rings. You probably weren’t going to pick up, Mark reasoned. Three rings and Mark decided he’d probably missed his chance. Four rings. He’d let it run, just in case you were far away from your phone—

“Hello?”

That was not your voice. It was an unfamiliar man’s voice, certainly not Minhee’s. There was shouting in the background, from more voices Mark didn’t recognize.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Oh, this is Keeho. You’re Mark Lee, right?” the man on the other side of the phone asked. “Well, duh, that was a stupid question. How are you?”

“Um, I’m fine. Is there a reason [First] didn’t pick up?”

“Oh, yeah, haha. Well,” Keeho started, but he was cut off by more yelling. “I’ll be right out! Mark finally called, all right? The store can wait!”

“Is everything okay?”

“No, everything’s terrible. [First] isn’t dead, so don’t shit yourself, but, uh…how do I say this?”

Mark stayed quiet, waiting anxiously for Keeho to continue talking. He went silent for a moment as if he was contemplating how to break whatever news he needed to.

“Well, I guess I’ll simply come out with it. Minhee was cheating on her,” Keeho said, and Mark could’ve punched himself over the hope that began pooling in his stomach. How much of an asshole was he, to be happy she’d been cheated on? “She’s, uh, pretty inconsolable, so your coffee date is canceled. But, if you want to come by and join the damage control team, that’d be helpful.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Are you coming by? I can explain it then.”

“I can come over, just give me a minute. Is she just at her parents’ house?”

“She’s staying with me, so I’ll just text the address. We’ll be back from the store in about, hm, an hour, so don’t come any earlier.”

Keeho didn’t wait to hang up, and the effects of Mark’s hangover were almost completely gone in a second. He was practically tripping over himself to get his shit together, picking up random items he’d sprawled around the house.

“Where the hell are you headed?” Jeno asked groggily, barely gaining Mark’s attention from the question.

“Minhee cheated,” Mark replied, zipping up his backpack and looking at his phone. Sure enough, he’d been sent an address, one that was about thirty minutes away.

“Wait,” Jeno said, pushing himself up from the couch. His walking was unsteady, no doubt the effects of last night, but he didn’t cease. “You realize you’re signing yourself off right now? If you go, Mark, there’s no coming back.”

“Then, consider me signed,” Mark replied, slinging the backpack over his shoulder and walking towards the entryway. Jeno followed, forcing Mark to give him a better answer than that. “I’ll finally be able to do what I should’ve done three years ago, and the first step towards that is helping her get over him. Okay? I need to do this.”

Jeno bit his lip, leaning against the wall. Mark looked back at him one last time, unconsciously seeking out some sort of validation (or lack thereof) from his friend. Jeno stared back, and an uncomfortable silence fell between the two, signaling all Mark needed to know about this.

“You’re on your own,” Jeno said, putting his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “If this goes spiraling, we won’t spend every second of the day picking up the pieces again, Mark.”

“I know,” he responded, and, with that, he was out the door, car keys in hand and a passive ache in his heart.

-

Keeho was a good-looking guy. His eyes lit up when he saw Mark carrying a tray of coffee, simple iced Americanos that he scraped up from a nearby coffee shop, along with a fruit pastry they’d been selling. “You’re a lifesaver,” Keeho praised, instantly moving to help take everything inside. His apartment was eerily silent, with two girls sitting on the couch, one fast asleep and the other scrolling on her phone.

“She fell asleep from, well, crying too hard,” Keeho explained, kicking the door shut behind him with the flat of his foot. “Seriously, she’s never cried that hard, like, ever. I was beginning to think she didn’t have tear ducts.”

“Dude, be nice,” one of the girls said, the one Mark could recognize—Jeon Somi, one of your club friends from high school.

“I am being nice. We’re cousins. I could be a lot meaner. Coffee?”

Somi pushed herself off the couch, and Mark felt a hefty weight fall off his shoulders. Keeho was your cousin, nobody that could potentially ruin his plans of confess-and-get-rejected-without-guilt. It was especially comforting that, should Mark play his cards right, Keeho would become an ally to his cause.

“So, uh, what happened?”

“Oh, right. So, I’m sure she told you about her surprise,” Keeho hummed, taking a sip of the coffee. “Well, we drive up, and she tells us to stay outside just in case things go ‘poorly.’ I mean, she practically predicted it, but that’s beside the point. We’re waiting for her to send a text, about twenty minutes pass, and she’s calmly walking back out.”

“Like, calmly,” Somi emphasized, taking one of the coffees for herself as well. Mark was glad he decided to get four instead of three; he had the perfect amount for everyone. “So, she gets in the passenger seat, and we all kinda sat there and didn’t say anything.”

“And then,” Keeho continued, taking the rest of the coffees from the drink tray so he could throw it away. “She says, like, super nonchalantly, ‘He’s been cheating on me the whole time.’ Obviously we were shocked because Minhee was goddamn possessive, really terribly, yet he’s cheating? So we asked her to elaborate, and she just kind of shrugged.

“By this point, you could tell she was near tears, but she kept talking like things were completely normal. Then, she said, ‘The reason the long distance was going so smoothly was because he was hooking up with girls on the side.’ She goes on to explain that he tried to say it wasn’t his fault, that the girl had drugged him, but the girl got super pissed and told her everything, beginning to end, and then she just left. Now we’re here.”

Mark was a bit appalled. Cheating was the worst possible outcome, and Mark wanted to say he expected it, but Keeho was right when he said Minhee was possessive. How could he end up cheating when he hated any man, including innocent Mark, getting anywhere near you? It seemed unbelievable.

“We’re taking shifts now and hoping recovery doesn’t take the whole summer. This was a big breakup, though, so we aren’t hopeful. But, earlier, [First] was babbling on and on about how Minhee’d known her longer than any of her friends and how he made her drop all of her other longtime friends, but you’re here now, so maybe things will speed up,” Somi said. “You can take the next shift, yeah? And Keeho and I will keep searching for the strawberry shortcake ice cream she loves so dearly.”

“I don’t mind, but, uh, your friend on the couch…”

“She won’t care. Ryujin probably won’t wake up until we’re back, anyway.” Keeho waved off Mark’s worries with ease, nodding his head towards a hallway next to the kitchen. “She’s in there. There’s a couch, and we have tissues stocked up in the bathroom. Our first goal is to get her to stop crying every second of the day, so focus on that accordingly. We’ll be out. I have your number from [First]’s phone; I’ll text when we are headed back.”

“Sounds good.” Mark nodded, turning his attention towards a door that was slightly cracked. If he had to guess, that was your door, and you were in there, red-faced and fast asleep, wishing for someone to put you out of your misery. Mark had been there.

He peeked through the crack in the door, flinching as the front door opened and slammed closed. You laid unmoving on your side, facing the wall opposite the door, breathing soundly. Mark took that as a sign that he could comfortably walk inside, unafraid of you blowing up at him in your sorry state. The TV was on, with some random variety show playing quietly, deliberately put on to be background noise.

Mark rounded the bed quietly, finally coming face to face with you. You looked peaceful, with no nightmares or unhappiness plaguing whatever dreams you were having. Your face was, indeed, red, and there was still evidence of tears lingering on your cheeks, mostly in the form of poorly removed mascara. Not able to imagine that being comfortable, Mark approached the bathroom, which was attached to the bedroom with a small doorway.

He was sure you had to have some sort of makeup remover in there, especially if this was your temporary home for the summer. Sure enough, there was a container of makeup wipes on the counter, and Mark vaguely remembered Chenle going on a rant about how makeup wipes were awful for your skin. Nevertheless, he picked it up, opening the bag without making any noise as best he could.

“How many do you usually need?” he whispered to himself, deciding two was the magic number. He crept back out into the room, making barely any noise as he crouched down next to you. And, as gently as he could, Mark began scrubbing the makeup off your face, wiping at the apples of your cheeks and barely brushing against your eyelids.

He felt at peace. Even when you were sad, distraught, and angry, Mark felt as though you were the most gorgeous person he had ever seen; from your hair to even your hands, there was nothing about you that wasn’t beautiful. You were, quite possibly, the most precious person in his life, even if you weren’t more than good friends.

With one slightly-too-firm swipe, your eyes shot open, and you seemed a bit delirious. Mark smiled at you, retracting his hand and placing it on his knee. “Good morning,” he whispered, watching as you became reacquainted with your surroundings. True to Keeho’s word, you instantly began to tear up, which made Mark panic a bit.

“No, don’t cry,” he whispered, frowning. “Do you need anything? Water?”

You shook your head, pushing yourself up from your laying-down position. Mark sat on the edge of the bed next to you, waiting for you to say something—anything—with any indication of what he should do next. “I feel bad,” you sniffled, wiping away the tears falling down your face. “We were supposed to get coffee and be happy, but now you’re here watching me fall apart over wasting three years of my life.”

“No, it wasn’t wasted.” Mark shook his head, grabbing your hands and holding them tightly. “You loved him, [First], and I’m sure he loved you too. While it was happening, it was good, and then he messed up. He’s the one who wasted three years, not you. Never you.”

While it hurt to admit, Mark knew how madly in love with Minhee you were. He couldn’t imagine how you felt, believing that all those years spent loving him were a waste, because, when his friends were helping him get over you, they always assured him that loving somebody was never useless.

“How, though? I could’ve been meeting new people and loving them as much as I loved him,” you argued. “I let him tell me who to talk to and who not to talk to, I let him drag me away from my friends, from you, with the full belief that I would be with him forever. Look where that got me, Mark. Walking in on him and the girl he told me I didn’t have to worry about.”

“But look where I am right now?” he responded, squeezing your hands. You looked at him with those big, tear-filled eyes, and Mark found it difficult to ignore the pain he was feeling in his heart. He hated seeing you so sad. “I’m in front of you, even after he told you to stay away. And I’m sure if you reach out to anyone else, try to recreate any relationship he stole from you, they’ll gladly reciprocate. This is not the end of the world, so don’t let yourself feel that way.”

You stared at him, hiccuping every few seconds. Tears flowed down your face like crystal rivers, dripping onto the blankets every couple of seconds. Then, finally, you spoke. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am. You are more than him.”

-

Mark was beginning to believe Jeno was right.

Maybe he was impatient, maybe he didn’t understand the gravity of the situation, of your relationship with Minhee, but things were going nowhere. Every little thing that reminded you of him sent you into a spiral, and, while you barely cried anymore, you still sulked and shut yourself off. It was excruciating.

Slowly, Mark was realizing it wasn’t easy to help someone get over a breakup when you were in love with them. In fact, it made things unbearably difficult, to the point where he was beginning to dread it. What once was hope became pure pain, and what once was determination became despair.

He didn’t understand why you couldn’t see what was right in front of you, why you couldn’t see him right in front of you. He was tempted to explode, to ask you if Minhee would’ve done the same for you as he was doing. Why wouldn’t you look at him the way he wanted you to? Why can’t you see how he feels?

Mark was going insane, and he didn’t know how to deal with it.

Now, he was on his way to have coffee with you, as you’d insisted. You constantly talked about how guilty you felt for blowing him off, no matter how much he said he didn’t mind and that he understood why you had. Two weeks later, you’d decided that today was the day you finally had a real-life, in-person coffee date.

Somehow, though, Keeho had managed to stop him beforehand.

“I just wanted to talk to you,” Keeho said, motioning for Mark to step into the alleyway next to the café. He assumed Keeho had dropped you off and discreetly waited for him to arrive with the intent of speaking to him as he was now. “About [First].”

“What about her?” Mark responded although he knew what Keeho was going to say. He leaned against the wall of the café, glancing down at the ground before looking back up at Mark.

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you.”

Mark kept quiet, waiting for Keeho to continue.

“Look, man, you don’t have to keep doing this,” he continued, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I’m sure this is as awful for you as it is for Somi, Ryujin, and I, if not worse. She…she won’t be ready for another relationship for a while, and, as much as you’re nice, I don’t want you to be her boyfriend because she trauma-bonded with you. That’s about as good as a rebound.”

Mark contemplated Keeho’s words, halfway shocked that he wasn’t hurt by the sentiment. He just felt numb.

“I’m not planning on dating her,” Mark finally said. “Not until I know she’s forgotten him, at the very least. I’m not an idiot, and I know my worth. I’m only doing this to help her, okay? I don’t intend on trapping her in a relationship because she’s hurt and clinging onto any semblance of comfort.”

Keeho nodded, letting out a small sigh. “Then I’d rather you distance yourself for a bit. You can hang out with her and stuff, but I ask that you remove yourself from the breakup-damage-control team promptly.”

Mark knew that Keeho probably wasn’t explaining the entire story and that this meant you were probably on your way to using him as a rebound. But, for some reason, he, once again, didn’t care. Even if he was still in love with you, even if he would do anything to call himself yours, he understood how things would end up if he wasn’t careful.

“No, I get it. I’ll just let her know that my friends want to see me around more often and that I think she’s doing better,” Mark nodded, ignoring the slight discomfort he was feeling. “Thanks for talking to me. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Keeho said, pushing off against the wall. “If it’s any consolation, I think you’re a good match for her. Better than Minhee, at least.”

“Yeah, thanks, man. I’ll see you later.”

“See you.”

Both Mark and Keeho emerged from the alleyway, walking away from each other without saying another word. Mark didn’t know how he felt, and he didn’t think he ever would. Would he be able to wait? Would he move on? He didn’t know.

You were sitting directly across from the doors, two coffee cups on the table, with one filled to the brim and one half empty. You perked up at the sound of the door opening, a wide smile blooming on your face when you saw him. It made his throat close up and his heart tighten, and Mark was sure he could wait for you for however long he needed to. However long it took for you to forget Minhee. However long it took for you to realize he was right there all along.

“Hi!” you chirped, pushing the cup of coffee closer to the edge of the table as Mark slid into the booth. “How are you?”

For now, he would play friend and pretend like he never felt any differently. Pretend he didn’t want to love you openly, unapologetically, in front of everyone who would tolerate it.

“I’m good, how are you?”

Mark would wait however long you needed to get over your heartbreak and be with him.

“Passionately!”

“Darling! You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.”

“My own Ernest!” Minjeong gasps, getting to the main point of the whole act and the play itself.

“But you don’t really mean to say that you couldn’t love me if my name wasn’t Ernest?”

“But your name is Ernest,” Minejong says, stopping in her tracks at the left edge of the stage, looking at Soonyoung with undeniable confidence.

“Yes, I know it is. But supposing it was something else? Do you mean to say you couldn’t love me then?”

Minjeong shakes her head in mock disbelief, sighing as she delivers the next line. “Ah! that is clearly a metaphysical speculation, and like most metaphysical speculations has very little reference at all to the actual facts of real life, as we know them.”

“Personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, I don’t much care about the name of Ernest… I don’t think the name suits me at all,” Soonyoung mumbles, almost identical to the tone he uses when he messes up and tries to cover it up in front of the others.

“It suits you perfectly. It is a divine name. It has a music of its own. It produces vibrations,” Minejong sighs, eyes glimmering even in the singular light you’re allowed to use when you practise the play.

“Well, really, Gwendolen, I must say that I think there are lots of other much nicer names. I think Jack, for instance, a charming name.”

“Jack?...” Minjeong perks up, looking at Soonyoung. She takes a few seconds to continue, furrowing her brows as she acts lost in thought. “No, there is very little music in the name Jack, if any at all, indeed. It does not thrill. It produces absolutely no vibrations… I have known several Jacks, and they all, without exception, were more than usually plain. Besides, Jack is a notorious domesticity for John! And I pity any woman who is married to a man called John. She would probably never be allowed to know the entrancing pleasure of a single moment’s solitude. The only really safe name is Ernest.” 

The way Oscar Wilde managed to predict the very present problem of the J names phenomenon a century before it arised is truly a miracle. No wonder the play feels timeless.

“Gwendolen, I must get christened at once—I mean we must get married at once. There is no time to be lost,” Soonyoung spits with urgency, even throwing his arms up to add more effect. 

“Married, Mr. Worthing?”

“Well… surely. You know that I love you, and you led me to believe, Miss Fairfax, that you were not absolutely indifferent to me,” Soonyoung says, the tone of voice known to be a well-trained theatre performance. Even if the senior hasn’t practised his lines yet, there’s something about his tone when he says them aloud for the first time that suggests that he was born to be on the stage.

“I adore you. But you haven’t proposed to me yet. Nothing has been said at all about marriage. The subject has not even been touched on.”

“Well… may I propose to you now?” he asks.

“I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare you any possible disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to tell you quite frankly before-hand that I am fully determined to accept you.”

“Gwendolen!”

“Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you got to say to me?”

“You know what I have got to say to you.”

“Yes, but you don’t say it.”

“Gwendolen, will you marry me?” Soonyoung finally asks, getting on his knees. 

“Of course I will, darling. How long you have been about it! I am afraid you have had very little experience in how to propose,” Minjeong sighs, shaking her head.

“My own one, I have never loved anyone in the world but you,” Soonyoung dreamily explains, still kneeling on the ground.

“Yes, but men often propose for practice. I know my brother Gerald does. All my girl-friends tell me so. What wonderfully blue eyes you have, Ernest! They are quite, quite, blue. I hope you will always look at me just like that, especially when there are other people present,” Minjeong dramily exclaims, her tone getting more and more exciting.

Shin Ryujin enters the stage, the hunch in her figure not yet endorsed by the costume of an old lady, making her quite funny to look at. 

“Mr. Worthing! Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture. It is most indecorous.”

“Mamma!” Minjeong exclaims, almost a little terrified.

“Aaand cut!” the loud voice of none other than Boo Seungkwan, the leader of the theatre club and the self-proclaimed director (although no one had enough courage to nominate somebody else), cuts through the small theatre, making the actors relax in their positions and turn Seungkwan’s way, awaiting his directions.

Sitting back in your little red seat, watching the director march up the scene, murmuring something under his breath to Ryujin, the newbie that just entered the club, you hear your friend Mingyu mutter something into your ear in the dark, making you turn your head to him.

“Huh?” you ask, not hearing his question through your dear director’s exclamations echoing through the space.

“I said this play reminds me of you,” he giggles under his breath, making you furrow your brows. 

Your childhood friend really can be confusing with his remarks sometimes. Not understanding his comment, you lean closer to him, not to break the sacred silence of the theatre, and also not to annoy any of the other actors sitting on various seats scattered all across the theatre, waiting for their turn to practice, and ask him for a clarification.

“What do you mean by that?”

“With the whole Ernest obsession,” he says, his white teeth sparkling under the dim light that is shining down on the stage.

“What?” you snap again, only furrowing your brows further, still not getting his point.

“Don’t you remember your Chan obsession?”

Finally getting what he means, all while cursing the boy for knowing you for so long and for having such a good memory, you roll your eyes with a sigh. “Mingyu-”

“When in middle school you watched that drama and got so obsessed with the main character Chan that when you-”

“Mingyu shut up-” you hurriedly try to stop him, just in case someone’s listening to you in the almost empty theatre. The man doesn’t listen to you, though, and keeps on rambling, the grin on his face only growing deeper as he realises the amount of embarrassment he’s making you feel by remembering memories of yourself.

“That when you met Lee Chan in middle school, you forced yourself to have a crush on him even though you didn’t even know anything about him in the first place?”

“Kim Mingyu I told you to shut the fuck up!” you yell out, not able to bear the ick you’re getting anymore and wanting to get it out of your system and never listen to a word about this incident ever again, because Mingyu is right– you didn’t know the poor boy. You just knew his name, and that surely was not a valid reason to be the object of your conversations during lunch break with your dear best friend now sitting on your side.

The eyes of everyone in the whole room turn to you, heat rising to your cheeks as you see Seungkwan gasp, his mouth already open to scream at you as loud as he can, because, well, the position of the director gives him the permission to do so any time he pleases, as long as you’re in the theatre.

“You shut the fuck up, Y/N!” he yells out, making the rest of the actors laugh out at his outburst, for it’s always fun to see their beloved director frustrated. “This is not your house, we’re trying to act here!”

Battling your laugh, because frankly speaking, the vein that rises on his forehead whenever he screams at someone in frustration is the best sight you could get after a long day of schoolwork, you hold your hand up in apology. “I’m sorry! Go on!”

Burrowing yourself deeper into the seat, kicking your friend in the shin as he just won’t stop laughing under his breath, you try to erase the memory of your silly crush on Lee Chan,

because, well… he’s sitting only a few rows under you, waiting for his turn to practice his next scene with you as his character’s lover.

“So, what exactly is the reason behind all of this?” Mingyu asks, sitting next to you in one of the red booths of the McDonald’s that’s the closest to your university building.

“Team building,” Seungkwan says, counting up all the people on his hands so he can order the exact amount of big cokes, furrowed brows and all, full of concentration.

“So why am I here, then?” Vernon, the tech guy asks. Chwe Vernon is one of the quieter kids in the theatre extracurricular– the one that never acts, but always takes care of all the lights and sound effects– but he’s one of the group nonetheless. His presence isn’t always noticed, but once he opens his mouth and truly says something, the likelihood of everyone losing their mind over how funny his remarks can be is higher than with anyone else in the group.

“I said team building, what’s not clicking?” Seungkwan mutters, obviously already done with the whole setting.

The director disappears with Chan– his right hand, as one would say– to the counter, ordering the never-ending list of Coca Cola and fries, ignoring all the other requests on various burgers and McFlurries, because, well, his memory is not that good and he really can’t be arsed with writing it down, while the whole group remains seated, conversating together about various topics. The girls catch up on the new gossip, and the boys, well… They do as well, because frankly speaking, they’re theatre kids as well. What else would they talk about?

And when the director comes back with his self-assigned secretary Lee Chan, holding two trays full of beverages, the chatter won’t die down even when the poor leader of the theatre team tries to calm everyone down with a loud clap of his hands.

“Will everyone shut up already?” Seungkwan hisses, finally making everyone remain silent for at least a few seconds as they try to battle the laughter trying to battle its way out of their lungs. 

“See, Seungkwan? This whole team building thing wasn’t even necessary, we have good chemistry even without it,” Mingyu teases from his seat next to you, making everyone giggle and hum in agreement, because, well, you’ve known each other for at least a while already. Most of you hang out regularly, divided into few groups or pairs of people, but sometimes, even those encounters overlap and you’re forced to hang out with the whole group as well. It’s not like you’re strangers, after all. 

“Trust me on this,” Seungkwan mutters, “there’s definitely some bond making we have to do, and I’m the director, I know.”

“Here he comes again with the director card,” Soonyoung mutters under his breath, making Minjeong laugh next to him, earning herself a sharp glare from the poor, bullied Seungkwan.

Distributing the drinks in between all the members of the extracurricular, Seungkwan manages to regain his composure and talk with his usual announcer-like voice again, leading the group and having everything under control. “So, the point of this team building is to get to know better the person you’ll have the most interactions with on the stage, so it doesn’t look awkward and out of place. That’s why I want you all to get to pair with the person you’re acting with the most, and then, we’ll proceed with the activity I prepared for today!” 

The almost kindergarten teacher-esque excitement in Seungkwan makes you giggle out loud before you realise the true intention of today’s hang-out. Because, well… as Lee Chan’s lover in the play, you are surely going to spend the most time on stage with him. Something inside of you is telling you that Seungkwan gathered everyone here because of you two, since you and Chan don’t know each other that well, which, admittedly, resulted in your last rehearsal looking awkward and out-of-place. You’re usually very professional, you see– you’ve acted with almost everyone in the room so far, and you never had any trouble with it, since the atmosphere in the theatre and in the rehearsals was always pleasing and welcoming; but with Chan, it’s different. You are all tense and nervous, palms sweaty and memory hazy with the next line. 

Absent-mindedly moving your place so you’re next to Chan, you’re now facing Soonyoung and Minjeong, the couple, and Ning and Ryujin, although not appearing on the stage together as often, being paired up together, since Soonyoung and Minjeong are getting priority as the main cast. Doing mental gymnastics on how to be less awkward around your crush from middle school, your train of thought is suddenly cut off by a whine coming from the middle of the U-shaped booth. 

“Why am I getting paired up with Vernon? He’s not even in the play!” Mingyu says, earning himself a snarky grin from Seungkwan, still standing at the top of the table.

“Because you’re playing the priest, Mingyu. Do better next time and you won’t have to do team building with the tech guy.”

Snickering at the comment, you take a sip from the coke in front of you, your hands anxiously holding the cup to ground yourself. Bumping your knee up and down in nerves, your eyes meet with Mingyu’s, a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows making you roll your eyes as you look over to Seungkwan, who’s now on the mission of explaining the next step.

“Now, you’re going to share at least three fun facts about yourself with the person you paired up with! And make them fun and random, I don’t want to see any boredom in here,” he says, clapping his hands together to set off the start of the game.

“Oh god,” you mutter under your breath, sighing heavily as you put your head into your hands on the table, already hating the whole encounter. You’re bad at this, you’re very, terribly bad at this; for you think there’s nothing fun about you or the miserable state your life is in at the moment, and you don’t find anything interesting enough to tell to someone you so deeply admired in middle school. Yes, you could tell Mingyu that the whole crush thing was fake and you just made it up because his name was identical to the character in the drama, but at the end of the day, you think that the name was only the spark that made your whole obsession with the said boy real. Again, you didn’t know him well– nor do you know him well now, but still; that didn’t stop the past you from liking him in the slightest.

“Got any fun facts you wanna share?” Chan perks up from beside you, making you turn your attention to him. He’s sitting next to you, back resting against the booth, a smile sitting on his lips that makes his eyes crinkle up and make him look boyish and adorable. 

Shrugging, you shake your head. “I’m not good with fun facts. Do you have any?”

“I sure do,” he says, nodding, making you laugh. There’s something about his whole careless aura that makes you feel all giddy inside– the way he always somehow looks like he’s acting, the adrenaline of being on the stage, being the centre of attention, never escaping the boy and leaving him looking as if he was excited to be here. 

“Go ahead,” you say, trying to make yourself relax as much as you can, resting your back against the booth as well, crossing your arms at your chest.

“So,” he starts off, “I am a big fan of Michael Jackson,” he says, looking you dead in the eye. Blinking a few times, you almost awaken your inner Seungkwan (because when you’re around him so much, his characteristics tend to rub off on you. You catch yourself yelling at Mingyu a little too much after you spend some time with the said director, and while you don’t think it’s healthy or fair, you’re not actively trying to stop this behaviour either), with how your consciousness is screaming at your companion that this is not a fun fact at all. 

“And…?” you ask, trying to find the fun behind the, very much boring fact.

“I’m… also really scared of Michael Jackson,” he completes, making you even more confused. Amazed, you furrow your brows, trying to make him explain further.

“You see, he’s cool, and I even wanted to be a singer because of him! But when I look at him, he creeps me the fuck out,” he says, over-exaggarating his every word, making you subtly widen the corners of your mouth into a grin, “I had sleep paralysis once, and all I saw at the foot of my bed was Michael Jackson, laughing with that creepy hee-hee laugh, I swear to god I almost peed my pants!”

Staring at him, completely silent, you suddenly break out into a hysterical laughter, imagining the poor boy laying in his bed, not able to move as his biggest idol and his biggest fear all in one is not letting him sleep or move. “Did that fear start with that incident?”

“No!” he laughs, his face totally serious, only making you laugh more. “That’s what made the whole thing even more terrifying!”

Not being able to stop your laughter, clinging to your stomach as it’s starting to hurt a little from how much you’re laughing, something sparks inside of your mind that only adds fuel to the fire that is your uncontrollable contractions. “You know what’s funny? Wanna know what my favourite animal is?”

“What is it?” he asks, calming down only a little as he asks you with widened eyes, trying to puzzle out why you’re suddenly mentioning this as a fun fact.

“A worm,” you say.

Now is his turn to blink at you in confusion mixed with concern, shaking his head. “I mean, that’s strange as it is, but I imagine there’s a punchline to this.”

“Yeah. Wanna know what my biggest fear is?” you say, sounding almost in agony from how the casual conversation is torturing you with uncontrollable laughter.

“What?”

“Worms.” you say, already feeling tears falling down your cheeks, seeing the boy absolutely lose his mind. Silently biting down on his lower lip, trying to battle the laughter that wants to come out of his chest, he snickers.

“That makes zero sense,” he whispers in despair.

“It does! One worm is adorable, but- but multiple! Multiple worms is fucking terrifying, dude!” you mourn out, stumbling over your words, as you hear Seungkwan cut your conversation off with a raised voice, noting that he doesn’t like the way it’s going right now.

“I see Chan and Y/N-ie successfully managed to complete their mission with telling fun facts, from how much fun they’re having, but for the love of god, the rest of us can’t even hear our thoughts right now-”

“Don’t ruin our conversation, thank you very much-”

“Okay then, we’ll see how your acting progresses after this team-building!” Seungkwan announces, looking you sharply in your eyes, noting that,  after all, this whole meeting was initiated by your poor acting when you were met with the eyes of Lee Chan in one of the confession scenes in the play.

And suddenly, the smile is wiped off your face as you remember the terror you face every time you read the script. 

You’re afraid that no amount of team building will be able to make you feel better about this.

It’s Tuesday, 4:21pm, exactly three weeks before the big premiere. You’ve been rehearsing the play every day, little scrapes and scenes all scattered along the way, being perfected with the help of Seungkwan. Yes, he might be bullied and teased, but his position is still respected. What he says goes, and if your acting isn’t good enough for him, it’s most likely just not good at all. You’ve been rehearsing your scenes with Ning, Soonyoung and Chan the whole month; since this time around, you only got two months to prepare for the premiere– knowing the dialogues by heart by now, remembering them word-by-word, the tone of voice and the way you’re supposed to act them out a muscle memory to you by now; until finally, it’s time to rehearse the parts you didn’t do so well on over and over again, until Seungkwan isn’t satisfied.

“Oh, I merely came back to water the roses. I thought you were with Uncle Jack,” you say, standing on the stage, seeing Chan enter the scene.

“He’s gone to order the dog-cart for me.”

“Oh, is he going to take you for a nice drive?” you ask, tone of voice so oblivious, fitting for the character of Cecily that you’re supposed to act. You pity the poor woman a little, for you feel like if she was born in this century, she wouldn’t survive a day without getting scammed by someone on the street.

“He’s going to send me away.”

“Then have we got to part?” you gasp, frowning.

“I am afraid so. It’s a very painful parting,” Chan proposes, coming close to you. The way he acts is so convincing, looking as natural as ever in his character. Sometimes, you wonder why he’s not in the main cast, but at the same time, you can’t really imagine him in the role of Jack. Algernon suits him much more, with his quick wit and a personality of a cunning fox shining through even when he’s supposed to be somebody else.

“It is always painful to part from people whom one has known for a very brief space of time. The absence of old friends one can endure with equanimity. But even a momentary separation from anyone to whom one has just been introduced is almost unbearable,” you say, despair written all over your features. This quote is almost the most memorable to you from the whole play, for it’s, frankly speaking, not only a rare occurance of smart words coming out of Cecily’s mouth, but also words you can relate to and frown upon in real life.

“I hope, Cecily, I shall not offend you if I state quite frankly and openly that you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection,” Chan, in the role of Algernon proposes, his voice sweet as honey and his eyes an honest pool of adoration.

Sometimes, it’s hard to piece out acting and reality when you’re around Chan. He always looks so in his element, even when he’s off-stage, that the words uttered out of his mouth make goosebumps appear all over your skin, the confession making you undoubtedly hot in your cheeks. In this moment, no matter how many times you rehearse it over and over again, you always have to remind yourself that it’s just acting. It’s not real.

Although your middle school self would desire for it to be the opposite way.

“I think your frankness does you great credit, Ernest. If you will allow me, I will copy your remarks into my diary,” you say, going over to the table and beginning to write into a small, black-covered diary prepared close to you on stage-left.

“Do you really keep a diary? I’d give anything to look at it. May I?” 

“Oh no,” you put your hand over it, trying to keep the contents a secret, “you see, it is simply a very young girl’s record of her own thoughts and impressions, and consequently meant for publication. When it appears in volume form I hope you will order a copy. But pray, Ernest, don’t stop. I delight in taking down from dictation. I have reached ‘absolute perfection’. You can go on. I am quite ready for more.”

Somewhat taken aback, Chan takes a step back and clears his throat. “Ahem! Ahem!”

“Oh, don’t cough, Ernest! When one is dictating one should speak fluently and not cough. Besides, I don’t know how to spell a cough!” you announce, hearing a snicker from the audience, although, not knowing who it came from, since the single light blinds you enough for you to not see.

“Cecily, ever since I first looked upon your wonderful and incomparable beauty, I have dared to love you wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly…” Chan says with undoubted poeticness behind the script, tone of voice big, flying across the space.

“I don’t think that you should tell me that you love me wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. Hopelessly doesn’t seem to make much sense, does it?” you say, still in the role of Cecily, enough to ruin the moment. 

“Cecily!”

“Good!” Seungkwan yells from under the stage, cutting you off. “Now, we’ll skip all the way to the end of the scene, since this looks neat. Starting from….” he mutters, flipping the script in his hands over, trying to find the exact moment he wants to see, “from ‘but was our engagement ever broken off?’!”

Getting to the position on the stage, a few steps to the right, kneeling. You clear your throat before you hear Chan repeat the same replica again, getting ready for the scene you fear so much.

“Of course it was. On the 22nd of last March. You can see the entry if you like,” you say, showing the boy the diary. He looks at it with sparkling eyes, almost making you adore him twice as much as you ever did, before you propose with even more melodramaticness that’s so suited to the role of Cecily, “‘To-day I broke off my engagement with Ernest. I feel it is better to do so. The weather still continues charming.’”

“But why on earth did you break it off? What had I done? I had done nothing at all. Cecily, I am very much hurt indeed to hear you broke it off. Particularly when the weather was so charming,” Chan asks, concerned. 

“It would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it hadn’t been broken off at least once. But I forgave you before the week was out,” you say, matter-of-factly.

Chan comes closer to you, your heart speeding up in your chest with the knowledge of the next scene.  “What a perfect angel you are, Cecily.”

“You dear, romantic boy,” you say, seeing Chan get even closer to you.

See, no matter the amount of team building, trust, or deepening your friendship with the boy, the image of kissing him on stage scares you. And no, it’s not only because of the blunt incest of the original play that you all chose to ignore for the comedy of it all, it’s also mainly because Lee Chan still makes you nervous all around, and with the idea of everyone watching you kiss the boy you dreamt of in middle school– even though it’s just a fake, theatre kiss– scares you deeply. 

Leaning in a calculated way, so your head is shown towards the stage a little more, your lips not really seen to the crowd, you act out the kiss. The awkwardness of it all chases you down, making droplets of sweat appear on the top of your forehead, when Chan refuses to have eye contact with you, making the whole encounter more bearable, but also more nerve-wracking as well. And when you’re finally glad it’s over, leaning away from the one and only kiss in the whole play, satisfied with the outcome, all of the sudden, you hear an agitating, grating voice pierce through your eardrums.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this was absolutely terrible. I felt the awkwardness in my bones! You call yourselves professionals?” Seungkwan hisses, making you instantly roll your eyes– the natural response, really– as he enters the stage. “The kiss was so visibly fake and unnatural that it made me cringe from the depths of my bones!”

“Well, what else are we supposed to do!” Chan yells out, visibly offended as he stands up from his place.

“Learn how to act it more realistically! You can’t just act like this after the good performance you just did!” Seungkwan mutters, throwing his arms in the air.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, not being able to bite through the uncomfort and awkwardness it makes you feel, you shrug with despair. 

“Get off my stage. Mingyu! You’re next! And you two,” he says as you stumble down the stairs on the edge of the stage, “have some homework to do.”

Glaring at the director, you only resolve to a sigh. “Ay ay, captain!”

Sitting at the floor in one of the rooms at the back of the theatre– the room that gets used for costumes, leaving you in the mess of various fabric and scrapped ideas– looking at the face of your best friend sitting in front of you on the spare armchair, you realise that this probably wasn’t the best idea.

Lee Chan is sitting next to you, picking at the skin of his cuticles, and you suddenly feel like two children that got scolded and sent to the principal’s office for breaking the rules and running through the hallway. The embarrassment and nervousness in you only makes you sweat– which, in fault, makes you even more nervous and hesitant– when a cough is sent your way by Kim Mingyu, a sign to finally do or say anything that would make the whole situation way less weird.

“Okay, so…” you mutter out, “shall we start?” 

Chan’s eyes shoot up towards you, licking his lips as he nods and furrows his brows. “I mean, sure…”

Not moving an inch, staying in your position, the room suddenly goes still and you feel like someone just stopped the video that is currently premiering your life in a live stream right in front of your eyes. It’s like your brain shut off for a second, too overwhelmed with emotion that it lagged mid-movement, when Mingyu kicks your outstretched leg and yelps out in frustration. 

“Come on! Do anything, I don’t have the whole day,” he huffs out, rolling his eyes at you two.

“I don’t know how to start!” you yell out, finally speaking the truth now, followed by a nervous laughter that is imitated by the boy sitting next to you, as if to make the whole situation less awkward.

“You two called me here to watch you fake kiss, so do that! I didn’t sign up to sit around in silence, I have better things to do,” Mingyu scowls, making you kick his leg.

“Yeah? Like what?” you bite back, watching him with stern eyes. 

“I… I could-”

“Exactly,” you promptly say, pouting out your lower lip as you crack your knuckles and turn your body towards Chan, “now, back to what we’re here for…”

“Do you want to start it with the replica or do we just… go straight to it?” Chan asks, making you shrug.

“I think we can just go for it,” you suggest, “we know the whole script by heart by now, it’s the kiss part that’s making us struggle.”

“Okay, so,” Chan moves a little further back, glancing behind him so he doesn’t move too far back and collide with the stationary that’s situated in the corner of the room, “we’re… in this kind of position… aren’t we?” 

Nodding, you feel your heart speeding up with the incoming motion, noticing Chan already leaning towards you. You don’t have much time to prepare yourself for the next step, so when it happens, you naturally move away a little as he leans in, and Mingyu yells out in frustration.

“What was that supposed to be? I thought you were supposed to act like you’re kissing, why’d you move away?!”

“Shut up,” you grunt, feeling heat rising in your cheeks, “I just got surprised.”

“Okay, again!” Mingyu yells out, taking advantage of the position of a director that usually falls on Seungkwan. 

Breathing in and out heavily, you move to your original position, letting Chan lead the scene, as he would in the original script anyway. Standing still, the boy leans forward to you, until your faces are only a few centimetres away from each other, your eyes wide open and staring into his. Biting down on your lower lip, trying to surpass the nervous laughter, you already hear Mingyu’s orders from behind.

“Maybe come a little closer to each other? You seem to be too far away from the back.”

Doing as you’re told, your faces inch towards each other a little more, so much your noses almost touch, you stay still in your position. 

“Can you lean your head to the side a bit? So it looks more natural! You look like statues right now,” Mingyu chirps, letting you two to move your heads to the side at the same time, making you snicker at the automatic response.

Moving away so you can try again, you get closer to each other and you let Chan lean a little to the right, inching closer. Your noses brush against each other, making droplets of sweat appear all over your lower back, your palms now a bottomless pool of liquid from how nerve-wrecking the whole situation is. Something in the back of your head is screaming at you to either cross the distance between you two or to move away completely, yet, you can’t do either, stuck in the situation that is admittedly, making you a little light-headed.

You wonder if you’d feel this way with anyone else. Thinking of sitting around like this with Soonyoung, your lips almost touching, you almost giggle; you don’t think it would be awkward to have a kissing scene with the skilled senior. The same goes for Mingyu– the awkwardness is just not there, the only thing left is a playful aura that leaves you feeling comfortable and safe. 

But with Lee Chan in the position of your love interest, you feel yourself getting weak in your knees and hesitant in all your actions. This is not a replica you can repeat all over and over again alone in your room until you get it right. This is a kissing scene you have to rehearse with the person; an intimate, although fake, situation that leaves you breathless just by seeing him in front of you from so up-close, leaving you to count his eyelashes and roam your eyes all over his face, studying him to the last detail.

You don’t dare to give a name to these feelings. You’d feel like you’re in middle school again.

“Okay, good! I like this one,” Mingyu says, “now, try it again, from the top!”

Letting out the breath you were unknowingly holding in, leaning away from the male, you try to relax your shoulders and make yourself less tense. Awaiting his next move, you see him wipe his hands on his pants, a gesture that makes you relax the tiniest bit, since it means he’s just as nervous as you are about the whole encounter. Watching him take a big breath in and out, he slowly inches towards you again, his face growing closer and closer.

Getting lost in his eyes, the situation almost feels too real. He looks so gentle, so pretty, and as your orbs wander down to his lips– although a little chapped– he seems too inviting to let go. Giving in, you close your eyes, a natural reflex before a kiss, awaiting his lips on yours.

“Yo, why did you close your eyes!” Chan yells out in surprise, laughing at your face. 

Too embarrassed to say anything, you just put your hands into your hair, ready to tug at it in frustration as you swing your body back and let yourself lay on the ground of the costume room, grunting.

“You know what? I can’t do this. I don’t care if Seungkwan chases me down a street with a chainsaw because the whole thing looked too awkward to his critical eyes, I am just not doing this anymore!”

Letting your best friend monitor your fake kiss with the boy you used to have a crush on (while unknowingly feeling just the same around him as when you were just twelve) truly wasn’t the best idea after all.

“Everyone, to your places! I don’t want anyone still on the toilet while they’re supposed to be on stage! Ready, set, action!” Seungkwan announces in panic. It’s the last day before the premiere happens– which means it’s time for a costume rehearsal. You’re going to do the whole play, with all stage decorations, lighting and costumes, in the same exact order as the script; just like you would on the actual premiere, just this time, there is no audience.

You only had two months to prepare this time, but you don’t doubt that everyone’s ready. Soonyoung, the main lead, is a professional, after all. Minjeong is a born talent, Chan is a natural– cunning and charming; Ryujin and Ning have enough experience for the roles they were given, Mingyu, although a little messy at times, is perfect for his role of the priest, and you… you are almost 99.9% sure you’ve got down everything except from the cursed kiss scene.

Couldn’t Seungkwan just scratch it from the original script? Wouldn’t it be better if there was no kiss at all? Is it really necessary?

No matter how hard you tried, no matter how many times you and Chan met up in the back rooms with Mingyu, trying to make the kiss look natural; no matter how many times you and Chan hanged out together in the McDonald’s right after, getting food and getting closer, there is still something that’s keeping you from doing it perfectly.

You almost stumble over your words after, or you don’t lean in too close– afraid of falling hard for the boy if you did– or you simply just freeze in your spot, looking stern and awkward. Your only luck is that Seungkwan hasn’t wanted to rehearse the scene since the last time, so he still hasn’t seen the devastating state your acting is in every time you try this specific part out.

You’re 100% sure you’d be kicked out of the play if he saw it. You don’t really know who else he’d cast, since the theatre extracurricular is not the most popular one, but you’re sure he’d find a way. He might as well do that, you know– you’ll save yourself the torture.

Standing in the back, hidden behind the red curtain, Mingyu approaches you and watches the scene. Soonyoung and Minjeong are currently playing their roles of Jack and Gwendolen, the main characters, as they meet for the first time. They look natural, making you notice that this is exactly how you imagined it when you read the script, their acting hitting all the right points you wanted to experience when seeing the play come to life. 

“You know, Y/N, in my whole life, I’ve never seen you swoon over a man this much,” Mingyu whispers into your ear, making you furrow your brows at him in confusion.

“What? I’m not into Soonyoung,” you mumble, quiet enough to not be heard by Seungkwan in the audience, or anyone else waiting in the back for their time to shine in the last rehearsal.

“I don’t know if you’re really that dumb or if it’s all just acting,” Mingyu mutters under his breath, his offensive remarks not even making you bat an eye anymore, since gentle bullying is one of your main ways of showing affection to each other.

“I mean, I’m a pretty good actor…” you snicker, making Mingyu roll his eyes at you, smirking.

“Yeah,” he nods, “but you’re doing pretty badly in The importance of being Lee Chan, your latest play,” he teases you. Now is your time to roll your eyes at him and act innocent, maybe even a bit oblivious to his remark. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whisper silently, a matter-of-fact tone in your voice, not meeting eyes with your best friend.

Clicking his tongue, Mingyu only shakes his head at you. “Even the blind can see how you’re head over heels for him again,” he notes, “are you going to ask him out this time around?”

“No, Mingyu,” you huff, “I’m not.”

“Why? You can finally come full circle and fulfil your Chan obsession from middle school-”

“Seriously, Mingyu,” you start, voice full of irony, “I need you to shut the fuck up.”

Snickering at your reply– presumably because he’s right about his assumptions– Mingyu doesn’t speak any further about the topic. You would be stupid to think that he wouldn’t notice. You’ve known each other for so long now that it would be pretty much impossible for him to not notice– he knows you like the palm of his hand. It’s only comfortable to act stupid and like you don’t know what he’s talking about. 

It’s your turn in no time, after Soonyoung and Minjeong are done with their replicas with no issue, with a few appearances of Ryujin and Ning in the side roles. When it’s your time to shine, everything goes smoothly.

You act your scenes as Cecily with no problem. The replicas are engraved into your brain, the gestures and expressions rehearsed to the point of no coming back, your interactions with Chan on stage looking natural and smooth. It’s easier to concentrate on the script when he’s not so close to you, but even with the growing proximity of your bodies, you manage to keep your cool.

All up until the kiss scene arises, of course.

As soon as you hear the words: “What a perfect angel you are, Cecily,” uttered out of Lee Chan’s perfectly-shaped lips, your heart speeds up and you’re suddenly weak in your knees again, feeling like a hopeless teenager. 

Maybe you should just quit right here and now. 

But it’s too late to pull out of your role now, a day before the premiere. So, instead, you continue with the script, just like rehearsed. “You dear, romantic boy,” you say, already noticing Chan getting closer to you as he crouches on the ground next to you.

It’s time for the kiss; his figure leans into you, his head only a little to the right, noses almost touching as your breath hitches in your throat. The kiss is supposed to be short and sweet, and after a few seconds, it’s your turn to pull away and continue on, fully immersed in your role of Cecily. Pulling your fingers through his hair, just like you were told to do in the script, you smile at him as you stand up and speak to him again.

“I hope your hair curls naturally, does it?” you ask.

“Yes, darling,” Chan– Algernon replies, nodding, “with a little help from others.”

Relaxing your shoulders, glad the torture is finally over and the kiss scene is behind you, you’re surprised to be able to continue with no loud comments from the director himself, cursing you for acting so strangely and unrealistically. It almost hits you with a wave of uncontrollable euphoria, thinking you finally did it; but when you glance into the audience and meet eyes with Boo Seungkwan, his expression looks like he was just forced to drink a full jar of pickle juice.

You don’t need him to scream at you in agony again. You know you did badly even without his comments.

Doing your makeup in the back room, illuminated by the ugly yellow lights stacked around the mirror of the stationary, much like in Hollywood movies, your heart is beating loudly against your ribcage. Smearing lip gloss over your lips, you catch notice of Ning sitting next to you on one of the small folding chairs, visibly hyperventilating.

“So many people came!” she yelps out. “I saw a glimpse when I was passing to the back rooms and I think the whole theatre is full! This has never happened before!”

“I’m pretty sure Soonyoung told all his other mates to come, since it’s his last play,” Mingyu mumbles from the sofa situated in the very middle of the room, already in his costume and ready for the premiere.

“That means Choi Seungcheol is here?” Ryujin gasps, turning around on the little stool in front of the second stationary, drawing wrinkles onto her face. 

“Most likely,” Mingyu nods, “I saw Yoon Jeonghan in the back row, he’s probably somewhere there with him.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Ryujin cries, throwing the little makeup brush onto the table. “Choi Seungcheol is here and I have to look like a fucking grandma!”

Snickering from beside her, Minjeong adds more blush to her cheeks– courtesy of the main role– earning herself a nudge to her ribs from her frowning friend. “You’re only laughing ‘cause you’re hot as fuck! Imagine how I feel!”

Rolling your eyes at the girls, you screw the applicator of the lip gloss back on, done with your makeup. Your blush is a little more dramatic than usual, but it’s important to over-exaggerate both your makeup and your expressions when you’re on stage, so they’re seen even by the audience sitting in the very back row. Standing up from the folding chair, you take your designated place next to Mingyu on the dusty, old sofa and fold your arms on your chest, careful not to crease your costume– a light orange dress with ruffled sleeves that goes up to your knees; a modest look for the dearest Cecily.

The door opens, and in walks the other main star of the whole evening. Lee Chan bashfully closes the door behind him as he feels the eyes of everyone on him– presumably because of the mess that’s going on at the top of his head.

“Why does your hair look like Shin ramen?” Ning asks, grinning to herself as the boy slungs himself across the dressing room, sighing.

“Look, I was told to sleep with hair curlers in, because, quoting, ‘Algernon is supposed to have luscious, curly hair’, but then I took them out and now I look like an idiot,” he mutters, scowling as he passes by his own reflection in one of the mirrors, making the whole room burst out in laughter.

“Come here, you dummy,” you snicker, watching as he walks over to you. Holding out your hand, you notice him leaning down so you can do something about it as you run your fingers through the tight curls, making them more loose and presentable in front of the audience.

As soon as you’re done and Chan is happy with the way he looks in the mirror, he looks at you as if you were a magician, mouth agape in surprise. 

“You have to brush them out a little, you know,” you explain, making the boy’s eyes light up like lightbulbs as he nods in understatement.

“Oh so that’s how it works!” he gasps.

Looking at the boy in front of you, you almost squeak out in adoration. He looks extra adorable with his hair in loose waves, and the simple outfit– a tan, linen button-down tucked into simple black pants makes his figure look insanely attractive. His lips are a little glossy and there’s a glint of excitement in his eyes– presumably from the adrenaline from the incoming play. There’s just something about him that makes your heart and soul scream his name.

You’ve never felt this way about anyone else. That’s the importance of Lee Chan in your life, I guess.

“Everyone!” Seungkwan claps his hands together as he enters the dressing room, followed by Soonyoung already dressed in his costume, stage-ready. “We’re starting in 5 minutes! 5 minutes, I repeat. Hope you’re all ready, get to your places!” 

His voice resonates through the small space, his body already turning around to escape the room, before he quite literally turns on his heel and looks at everyone again. “Break a leg, everyone! I know you’ll do great. Don’t be nervous and have fun!” This is one of the rare times when Seungkwan’s caring and enthusiastic side comes out– you think he’s just sappy because the end of an era is coming to an end. You almost pout and run to hug him, when he snaps into his usual state and turns around to look at everyone once again, for the last time. “But don’t you dare anyone fuck it up. I’ll kill you if you do.”

The whole room goes into a frantic furry. Even the calmest ones get more and more nervous, the adrenaline finally kicking in everyone’s blood system. Pacing around, gathering the last props, checking themselves out in the mirror for the last time, the dressing room empties itself out as the lights go out on the stage, signalling the beginning of the play. Standing around backstage, hidden by the curtains, a couple of nervous bodies swing from side to side in a nervous manner, awaiting their moment to step on the stage and act.

Glancing out of the curtain, you notice the theatre full– just like Ning mentioned. It’s a surprise, because usually, there’s a few rows empty, and some places in between the seats are vacant. You guess Soonyoung really bribed his friends and classmates to come. Something about the full audience makes you desire to do well. 

It’s like you have to prove yourself in front of everyone. All attention will be on you, over a hundred hungry eyes watching your every move on the stage. You can’t fuck it up– you’d be too embarrassed to go on with your life if you did.

Suddenly, there’s a light shining down in the middle of the stage, Chan and Renjun– the boy they casted to play Lane at the last minute– walk out and begin the first act.

Only a few moments pass before Soonyoung enters in his role of Jack, as the two of them converse and start the main plot line. Watching the scene unfold in front of your eyes, as if you haven’t read the script a thousand times before and haven’t seen the rehearsals for two months straight, you enjoy every second of one of the most famous plays by Oscar Wilde in your extracurricular’s take.

The scenes unfold right in front of your very eyes, the characters on the stage switch around, letting you enter and act out your own replicas, accompanied by Ning in the role of Miss Prism. You can’t say you feel as if you were one with your character, but you definitely had fun with acting it. It’s not every day you get such a peculiar vocabulary and such a dainty character to play, after all.

Escaping the stage for a moment, feeling out of breath, you find yourself standing backstage with Chan by your side, the mortal scene coming to you both. Looking over at him, seeing the curve of his nose and the edge of his jaw, noticing the way his hair falls into his face and the gentle hint of a smile playing with his lips, your mind operates on autopilot as you are reminded with Seungkwan’s warning in the dressing room– you must not fuck this up.

“Chan?” 

“Hm?” 

“Kiss me for real this time,” you say, seeing the boy snap his head towards you, confusion written all over his face.

“What?”

“In the next scene. Kiss me for real,” you mumble, listening to the last replica uttered out of Soonyoung’s mouth, making you and Chan hurriedly enter the stage, not leaving him any time to ask you any further questions about your sudden request.

Maybe you were being selfish. Maybe you just wanted to look good on stage, maybe you just really wanted to do well. Or maybe…. Maybe you just selfishly wanted a reason to kiss him for real this time. The endless temptation and tension you felt when your faces were so close was slowly driving you insane, and this was your last opportunity to do something about it before you and Chan lose contact again after the premiere. 

You wanted to kiss him at least once.

The second act is long before the actual kiss happens, and you’re able to kick it out of your mind for the time being. Flowing through the replicas with ease and some good old-fashioned theatrical dramaticness, you enjoy yourself before the moment finally comes again. 

This time, you’ll make it believable. Boo Seungkwan can count on that.

“What a perfect angel you are, Cecily.”

The cue was told. It makes your heart speed up again, much like every single time, the nerves pooling in the palms of your hands.

“You dear, romantic boy,” you reply. Chan gets closer to you, leaning in. You can see him hesitate, you almost hear your own words resonating through his head over and over again, so loud that everyone in the whole room can hear, before he looks at your lips for a mere second, copying his previous act.

Just as you two rehearsed, his head leans a bit to the right, his palm holds the apple of your cheek, his nose nudges yours, before he takes the next step and solidifies the realisticness of the scene with a real kiss, pressing his lips against yours, your lipgloss mixing with the lipbalm you saw him put on in the dressing room before you left.

The kiss is short, just like the script said it should be, but it’s long enough for you to take in every single detail. The way his lips moved against yours with gentleness, almost a tender-like moment making you forget about your surroundings for a minute. You closed your eyes again this time; yet, he didn’t make fun of you like he did when Mingyu was around. He tasted of minty toothpaste and the green tea candy you keep in a bowl in the dressing room. Your knees go weak again– but now, it happened rightfully.

When he pulls away and his hand slowly regresses from your cheek, you find it in you to push through the scene, running your fingers through his hair much like you did a few minutes ago in the back.

“I hope your hair curls naturally, does it?” you ask.

“Yes, darling,” he replies, an undeniable hue of pink reaching the tips of his ears in a noticable, yet subtle blush, “with a little help from others.”

The rest of the play comes by like a flash, the script written in a way where there is no time for you to get bored while watching the actors do their job. Before you notice it, the very last part of the whole play happens, and you’re all standing on the stage, presenting the ending of your Oscar Wilde adaptation.

“Lætitia!” Mingyu yells out, embracing Ning- Miss Prism in a hug.

“Frederick! At last!” she enthusiastically replies, beaming in the reflectors.

“Cecily!” Now is Chan’s turn to embrace you, his arms around you holding you closer than before, his grip stronger than in the last rehearsal. You feel the ending of the play right in front of you, happy to be over with everything so you can take off your makeup and run with everyone to McDonald’s to celebrate.

“Gwendolen! At last!” Soonyoung cheers, embracing Minjeong in the perfect role of Gwendolen.

“My nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality,” Ryujin talks to Soonyoung- Jack, as the whole play comes full circle and finishes off with the name of the play.

“On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I’ve now realised for the first time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest.”

And as the curtain falls and the audience starts cheering, it’s your time to run out, beaming in the brightest light of the reflectors that blind you, bowing until there’s no one else clapping in the whole theatre. Turning to all sides, noticing Chan and Minjeong both clasping your hands with theirs as you bow, the adrenaline doesn’t seem to wear off. The grin on your face is starting to hurt a little when Soonyoung’s friends cheer the loudest in the whole theatre, making you shake your head in disbelief at the precious friendship they have.

Running backstage after the ruckus is over, someone gets a hold of your hand again, making you turn around to see Lee Chan basking in full glory, smiling at you with a nervous smile.

“This is for you,” he says, offering you a bouquet of flowers, “I’m not really sure who it was for, but someone threw it on the stage so I… stole it…” he mumbles, nervously scratching the back of his neck, making you grin.

“Thank you,” you say, smelling the tall mix of magnolia flowers, admiring the vibrancy of the colours complementing in the bouquet. 

“And I was thinking if you… if you wanted to go out with me?” he suggests. 

His proposition almost makes you choke on your own spit, heat rising to your cheeks again, a nervous smile mirroring your lips as you mutter out an almost incoherent response. “We’re… we’re going to McDonald’s now with everyone, so.. I don’t…”

“I meant like… after. Some other day,” he explains, making you mentally facepalm at the way you replied, embarrassing yourself in the process. 

“Oh,” you nod, “well… Yeah. Sure. I’d like that.”

“Okay, sweet!” he grins, giving you a quick side-hug with one arm, before he runs further backstage, presumably to get his makeup off and change so the whole group can go to a make-shift afterparty at the nearest McDonald’s. 

Standing there, still, shocked by the way things turned out, you meet eyes with Mingyu that suggestively wiggles his eyebrows at you as he passes you by, seemingly to say that he saw the kiss from where he was standing and that you two will talk about it as soon as you’re able to. Smiling to yourself, feeling a little pathetic from how giddy you are on the inside, you wonder if the boy himself realises the importance of Lee Chan in your life.

You won’t admit it to him just yet, but you did just give him your first kiss, after all.