#* th

It’s the hundredth time he deleted the last taken picture to click another one, but Bin is never pleased. His chin looks weird, his stance looks funny, his eyelashes are not under the right light. A rosary of justifications to make Haneul erase the picture, walk away a little further and try again. 

He wants to break the cell phone into a million pieces, but he wouldn’t. You know, somewhere in the future Moon Bin might be his gateway to fame, and Haneul is good at cultivating prospectives, even if the near future looks galaxies away as he snaps another picture. 

Where does all this food go? No one knows. Maybe because Haneul’s metabolism is always on overdrive he can eat whatever he wants and still sport that tall, muscular on the right places, elegant physique. Gladly, it wasn’t a competition, he’d never be as tall as Yongha. Or cook as well as he does. 

It’s become a way to start off his week not feeling so tired - he counts the days to eat Yongha’s food again because it tastes so good. Today Haneul is feeling especially hungry (he might also have a fever and there’s this piercing pain in the nape of his neck, but he is just gonna ignore those) and he’s just going to town on his plate, ignoring how shitty it is to eat with braces on. 

"Here, Jinwoo sunbaenim.” Haneul lies the uniforms on the bed. Three suits with pressed lapels and touched up buttons, three pairs of pants with crispy sewing lines and freshened colors. He's spent the last three hours down the laundry room making sure everything was perfect.

Every Sunday feels like hell to Haneul. According to the school nurse, it’s best to medicate him that day, so the side effects decrease in the course of the week and he can be more productive. To that, Haneul says bullshit, but complies. He’s been getting those shots ever since he was six years old, and it’s always been hell. 

As luck would have it, Uisoo sunbaenim guaranteed to help him study on Sunday because they have more free time. Haneul’s fingers are sore from the Archery practice that morning but he’s still holding down to his pen for dear life, fingertips turning white.  He can already feel the aftershocks starting on his left thigh and washing over his whole body. Cold sweats making him fiddle with his shirt every ten seconds, not to mention he’s been reading the same paragraph for the 90th time and can’t understand a single thing. He is so hot he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand just to make sure he’s visibly drenched - that would be awkward. 

Reaching for his water bottle in the center of the table, he tries to play it cool. No bro, it’s fine, just keeping hydrated. He’s totally not feeling like he is catching on fire and dying inside. Not at all. He breathes in, feeling that familiar gut-wrenching heat forming in his stomach and that is never a good thing.