#kurodrabble

sweet smiles adorn faces as the phone captures the image of pepero boxes as minhyuk explains the game they are about to play. yet another one of those live broadcasts that helps them reach out to more fans. vaguely scripted, formulated in a way that fans would enjoy. except today was pepero day and one can only imagine the possible contents. wonho banks on something similar to what was presented in the amen music video, something simple to make hearts flutter and smiles brighten but minhyuk waves the packet in front of their faces and it dawns on him that this is fanservice of another sort.

wonho’s hand winds around changkyun’s wrist, almost instinctively as he flashes minhyuk a smile, determining the partnership for himself. it causes a domino effect across the room, but wonho barely notices the rest as he smiles, trying to laugh it off in his own way when a bag of pepero and a ruler are presented. he draws one out of the bag, thankful that it is chocolate before holding the cracker end between his teeth. hurry he beckons changkyun, asking the younger one to eat towards him like what he has witnessed in running man. the calorie intake isn’t that bad but he’d rather be safe than sorry.

one hand on the maknae’s shoulder as he watches the distance decrease — bite by bite, centimeter by centimeter — then there is slight hesitance as changkyun’s lips widen, baring his teeth as he nibbles, seemingly wondering if he should continue. wonho takes initiative then. he’s scheduled for exercise shortly after this anyways, he justifies before taking a bite — too large to not be purposeful as his lips brushes against changkyun’s. then he exclaims, points a finger and covers his mouth, as he tries to confirm whether or not changkyun’s ears have gone red (like his own). all he gets is a nearly bashful look as wonho continues to harp on how this is revenge for deokspatch x and how changkyun was playing dirty that time in almost accidentally kissing him. there’s grossed out faces across the room, faking discomfort, and erupting laughter to diminish the awkwardness, something similar to gunhee after his encounter with minhyuk. after a while, they move on to the next “couple” like they always do.

“What is your ideal type?”

Such an innocent question. Wonwoo glances at the spread of magazines on the bed, some covers rendering himself shy. So he looks away, looking at Seungcheol instead, wondering if he should brave honesty, speculating the outcomes. Between eternal questioning and the possibility of being laughed at, Wonwoo decides to choose the lesser of two evils.

“You.”

There’s a moment of silence before Seungcheol laughs. It sounds forced but that might just be Wonwoo’s desperation speaking. “Don’t make fun of me.”

Wonwoo chooses not to read into it. Instead, he laughs along, keeping his gestures relaxed and expression unguarded. “I don’t have one.” A half-truth or a white lie depends upon the perspective.

And this was the end of that.

---

Rooftop lunch sessions become both a hide out and a sanctuary when homeroom is no longer shared. A wave of a hand, a curl of lips, a pat of concrete signalling for the other to join. Then there’s the hand through hair, the knees gently pressed against each other, and the rustle of convenient store bought bread. Somewhere in between, a conversation or a nap fits in.

“Did you accept?” Seungcheol asks.

Confused, Wonwoo’s brows furrow. “Accept what?”

“The confession. At least I assumed so. I saw you during practice, near the storage room and there was a girl...”

Wonwoo takes a bite out of the red bean bread and nods. Seungcheol follows suit.

“She’s pretty,” he adds, unsure as to why it sounds like words intended for comfort (and if so, is it to comfort himself or Wonwoo?)

“She has your smile.”

---

She looks at him, expectant before closing her eyes. Wonwoo leans forward before realizing all the ways in which this doesn’t feel right. “I’m sorry,” slips from lips, like it should have all those weeks ago. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again because no human should be treated as a tool to test yourself against.

---

It’s been weeks since they last walked home together — Wonwoo no longer able to accommodate to Seungcheol’s schedule. He waits by the locker of shoes, idle as he kicks dust, only for him to grin too widely when his friend arrives.

The walk is always so short. Wonwoo watches as the bus pulls up a few meters away; five more minutes and the neighborhood in which they reside could be seen.

You’ll tell him, Wonwoo promises himself, if the light turns red. If an opportunity drops from heaven like a cue.

It does.

Wonwoo takes a glance at his friend, noticing the parts that feel natural to him. The lack of a significant height difference for one, the lack of a need to scour the brain for a decent conversation topic for another. Eyes fall to lips and Wonwoo forces himself to turn away.

“What do you think about kissing?” 

Probably should have given an explanation or some sort of transition but this has been shoved to a corner of the brain since a convenience store run one evening, meeting him on the streets while turning a corner, streetlight illumination setting off a heart to beat at a rapid pace. Dragging feet along to extend time until Seungcheol turns around mid sentence to check upon Wonwoo and his mouth goes dry. He’s toeing the crosswalk, salvaged by the don’t walk sign in the form of a stationary red human, highlighting Seungcheol’s lashes and

“What?”

“I broke up with her a few days ago,” it comes out all wrong especially when Seungcheol throws an arm over Wonwoo’s shoulder and expresses You should have told me sooner. Wonwoo doesn’t want consolation.

“I gave it a shot and it didn’t work out.” The bus in the distance begins to move on. The end of the jacket sleeve is tucked into his fist to prevent himself from reaching out to grab Seungcheol’s arm. “She has your smile,” he says under his breath instead and hates how desperate it sounds, sentences long lacking logic to evoke some form of coherency. 

The light turns green in the periphery but there’s a firm hand around Wonwoo’s wrist that keeps him in place. Then there’s a bump of noses as a result of hastiness and inexperience and laughter spills from lips. Wonwoo fights the heat creeping onto his cheeks, threatening to give him away, the erratic pounding of his heart audible in his ears. But then there’s a readjustment of the hand on his wrist, followed by the tilt of a head and the soft press of lips against his. 

There are those who protect and those who needs protection, Wonho has never been of the latter category (except for some nights that he disregards as exceptions). At the end of the day, Wonho is made of brains and brawn with extra emphasis on the brawn, in contrast to Hyungwon who exudes this state of perpetual drowsiness like a child who had just been awoken from his nap. So it is only natural that protection comes hand in hand.

Yet all things must be carefully balanced on a precipice; Wonho's heart is one of these things.

They say, you wear your heart on your sleeve where it is plain for the world to see and it has always been that way concluded by a laugh where his only option is to join in. It is true. Masking through facial expression is nearly impossible, all other forms seem contrived and unnatural, affection displayed too readily until realization is too late and what's done has already been done. If they can detect immediately that he's been placed on the blue team, what's to say about the nature of his heart?

Options are always present in any given situation. Here, they are simple. Wonho can choose to take the dive, plunge with all he's got, with the awareness that harmony might be disrupted and awkwardness might ensue or

-

It's a split second decision made from accumulating curiosity. There's an unspoken rule about segregation that Seokjin's neatly pressed uniform doesn't belong in the shadows of the back of the school.

But he's here and he might as well follow through.

There's the whirring sound of cicadas in the distance and a tie only traps the summer heat. He loosens it before approaching — leather shoes against pavement announces his arrival.

They look up.

They don't say a word — not an invitation nor do they turn him away. Most return to their own activity. Seokjin is under scrutiny by one man and since he doesn't seem to be leaving soon, the stranger asks, "you want one?" A pack of cigarettes, only a little more than half left, Seokjin draws one out.

"Here," the other offers, lighter already lit. Seokjin has witnessed the act a hundred times — in a different setting with chandeliers and never to himself — that he leans forward, hand cupped to shield the flame, and sets his gift on fire.

Inhale. Exhale. How hard can it be?

But here he is with sets of eyes trained on him as he tears up and attempts to hack out his lungs. There's a smile on the boy's face as if he had foreseen it since Seokjin joined them. Good boys should go home; give up playing a role they aren't accustomed to he seems to say and Seokjin desperately wants to prove him wrong.

He takes another draw and gloats in the way the boy's brow arches in surprise.

-

"I didn't know you—" Taehyung gestures at the mouthfuls of smoke that dissipates into air.

"You don't know a lot about me." It's not his fault. No one does after all and he offers his signature smile in apology — the one self-coached in front of mirrors, the one he lowers his head for because after years of training his eyes are still too honest. Fingers tap and ashes fall and he wonders what is happening inside.

The young boy seems to follow his train of thought, glancing back at the gathering, illuminated by chandlers as the orchestra tries to reinstall order. "We should do it again," he comments, boyish smile a dead give away of his age despite the moon's glow in attempt to add an air of maturity. "Did you see their faces?"

A chuckle skips from Seokjin's lips. "Imagine the headlines tomorrow: the heir of Kim industries and the illegitimate son of—"

Taehyung cuts him off with "I wonder how much my parents would pay to shut it down. Keep lips sealed." And Seokjin wonders how livid his brother is and if this would sour the partnership between Kim industries and his brother's company.

"I wonder if anyone had captured our kiss," the boy continues to muse, eyes dance with excitement. "I could show it to ward off potential arranged dates — if you don't mind that is." He quickly amends and Seokjin shakes his head.

He's gotten what he's wanted after all.

-

"You're hopeless," the other interjects after Seokjin fumbles with the lighter and has failed for the past five minutes. His fingers are growing numb from the cold and the other's cheeks are tinged red from the wind.

That much he knows but Yoongi is only referring to one thing so Seokjin forfeits the little box upon the other's offer to help: "here." They settle back to silence as they so often do, just basking in each other's company and second hand smoke.

"Why?" Yoongi breaks the silence first because the role set up for Seokjin never included back alleys and missing classes. He looks like the type likely to run for student council president and play the piano.

Seokjin only smiles as he breathes in fire and exhales smoke.

His entire life has been a series of acts starting the day fingers swiped across his cheek and the screams of "why were you born? to remind me that I'm not good enough—" continued to echo through the halls, harmonizing with his mother's broken sobs because she never asked for a life of torment. She may be dressed as a doll but is it worth a life of pointing fingers, snide comments, and being unable to shield your only child from scathing remarks?

So you smile and lay low and insist you couldn't want it any other way: no matter what they say, you'll be thankful to have been born.