Chanyeol stops him by the front entrance an hour later, Yifan’s hand on the door to his shoe locker.  “Where are you off to?”

 

Yifan points down the hill.  “Maejeom.  Forgot my lunch today.”  Chanyeol rolls his eyes and leans forward to catch Yifan by the wrist, leaning back on his heels to tug him towards the hall. 

 

“Just eat in the cafeteria with everybody!  I promise the food isn’t bad.”  Yifan raises his eyebrows in challenge but lets Chanyeol pull him forward a few steps into the hall. 

 

“‘Not that bad’?  Sounds so appetizing.” 

 

“It’s edible, anyway,” Chanyeol amends with a side smile. 

 

“What if I don’t want to eat with everybody?”  The kids are ing loud, especially in a contained space.  Yifan can hear them all the way on the other wing during lunch hour. 

 

“Just eat with me?”  Chanyeol drops Yifan’s arm but turns to face him with a runny sort of smile, his lips dripping supple promises that make Yifan’s gaze flicker for a moment.  Chanyeol’s tongue flicks across his lips.  That… sounds okay.

 

“Sure.”  Yifan steps forward to jostle their shoulders together.  The flicker of tension behind Chanyeol’s eyes melts into something smooth, a fragment of robin’s blue eggshell or the sepal of an unopened bud, and then he’s yanking Yifan towards the noise of the lunch room, three fingers twisted in his fraying cuff. 

 

It’s still kind of early, the preschoolers just finishing up while the kindergarten and first grade classes come through the line.  Chanyeol leads him to a window on the far side of the lunch counter.  A lady in a plastic hair net and maroon apron hands them each a tray of food and a metal bowl filled with hot soup.  They’re having tonkatsu and some kind of spicy meat today, probably beef but it’s hard to tell through the steaming red sauce.  Chanyeol thanks her, shouting to be heard over the scrape of steel chopsticks on aluminum trays and the shrieks and giggles of the students. 

 

“Ok, let’s find somewhere to sit,” Chanyeol says, balancing his soup bowl on the corner of his tray.  Yifan nods hello to Song Qian as they pass her table.  Chanyeol tries to wave but nearly dumps his tray in Donghae’s lap when he slips on a splatter of spilled soup.  Yifan takes caution with every footstep after that.  They find a spot at the end of the next table by the open window, Chanyeol across from Yifan.  Chanyeol props his chopsticks together, shoves his ed cuffs up to his biceps, and digs in. 

 

Yifan watches him inhale the first mouthful, broad shoulders tipped forward over his tray and strings of bean sprouts dangling from his mouth as he chews.  Of course Chanyeol would eat just as enthusiastically as he paints.  Even when he’s tired, the purple tinged bruises lurking under his eyes so dark enough the shadow of his glasses can’t quite hide them, he’s still bursting with energy.  Yifan hadn’t realized how lethargic he’s gotten til the comparison is literally shoved in his face. 

 

“What?” Chanyeol mumbles around a hunk of over-fried tonkatsu, his face only inches away from Yifan’s when they’re both hunched over their trays.   

 

“You look tired.”  Yifan shrugs and dips his head forward for a spoonful of soup. 

 

“Oh, yeah, that.”  Chanyeol waves his hand, droplets of clear broth flashing from the blunt ends of his chopsticks.  “You know when you get an idea and it just won’t leave you alone?  Like you’re trying to sleep, and it screams at you, ‘No!  Sleep is for the weak!  Paint me now!’” Chanyeol voices in a high pitched squawk, gesturing with his spoon. 

 

“Uh, not exactly, no.” 

 

“Like it invades your bloodstream and you just have to create or go crazy with the internal pressure.”  Chanyeol shoves a spoonful of rice in his mouth and then a long strip of soggy beef. 

 

“That sounds intense.”  It’s been a long time since Yifan’s felt a buzz like that, like the energy Chanyeol’s always thrumming with.

 

“Forget karma,” Chanyeol says, pausing to wipe the corner of his lips with the side of his thumb, “inspiration’s a complete and utter bitc--”

 

“Mr. Fan!”  Jongdae scoots down the bench seat on his , grunting as he drags his juice carton over.  “Help me!  Please open?” 

 

“Hi,” Yifan says as he takes the drink, examining the corners before pressing his thumb to the cardboard seam.  He hasn’t had to open a paper carton like that in year.  He always buys juice and milk in plastic bottles when he buys it at all.  It takes him a few tries, but the stiff paper peels back easily enough once he gets the right angle, the sharp tang of orange concentrate hitting the back of his nostrils.  “Here you go!”

 

Jongdae accepts the juice back with a squeak of thanks before hopping off the bench.  He runs over to join Baekhyun at the end of the table, pausing to lap at his shirt when he spills a wet dribble down his front. 

 

“Oh god!” Chanyeol gasps as he chokes on a bean sprout. 

 

“What?”

 

Chanyeol is laughing again, and Yifan hopes it’s not because of his fail juice box opening skills. 

 

“Mr. Fan!” he snorts, shifting in his seat as he laughs harder.  The heaping mound of vegetables he just neatly arranged with his chopsticks slides off his spoon and into his soup. 

 

“Chinese is hard,” Yifan says, and shoves some spinach in his mouth. 

 

“Agh!  Don’t remind me,” Chanyeol moans, cradling his forehead in his palm.  He has paint under his fingernails, blue and a little purple.  “Zitao’s been trying to teach me a few random phrases, and I think my quiz is coming up here.”
 

“Quiz?” 

 

Chanyeol nods, lips wrapped around a spoonful of soup saturated rice.  “We’re going out tonight, for dinner, if you wanna join.”

 

“Zitao as in the guy from the CU.” 

 

“I guess I could join.”  Yifan takes a bite of beef, his teeth squeaking on a bit of raw onion.  Dinner with Chanyeol sounds okay, too. 

 

“Sweet!  Just meet us at store, deal?”  Chanyeol raises his fist and Yifan trades hands with his chopsticks to bump knuckles. 

 

“Deal.”  Song Qian smiles at them from the end of the end of the next table, and Yifan grins back despite his blush.   

 

 

******

 

“Hyung!”  Zitao waves at them from the nearest park bench, then staggers to his feet as the puppy on the leash wrapped around his wrist jumps and pulls, straining at his collar. 

 

“Princess!”  Chanyeol jogs the last few steps and slides to his knees on the leaf lined path.  “Hello baby!  Did you miss me?”  The fluffy white dog springs into his arms and knocks its head against his shoulder.  Chanyeol tips over but catches himself on his hands with a laugh as the puppy laps at his nose.

 

“Princess,” Zitao chides, tugging gently on the leash.  Yifan wonders how strong the nylon rope is.   

 

“Yifan, come say hi to the puppy!” Chanyeol yells, turning his head to avoid a full on puppy kiss. 

“Is that...a poodle?”  Yifan takes a quick step backwards as the dog takes notices at the sound of his voice and tumbles off of Chanyeol’s lap.  Yifan stumbles, almost tripping on a pine cone. 

 

“He’s a maltese,” Zitao says with a slow glare.  “Have you ever even seen a poodle before?”

 

“It’s a he, and you named him Princess?”  Yifan grimaces as the dog at the rubber toe of his converse before snuffling around his ankles. 

 

“My roommate named him,” Zitao sniffs, “and yes.  It fits him.”  Princess jumps in an excited circle, getting his feet all wound up in the lead until he can’t move anymore.  He sits down on a small tumble of dead leaves and whines at Zitao. 

 

“You dumb dog!” Chanyeol says affectionately, scooping Princess up in his arms and stepping closer to Zitao so he can untangle the loops.  Chanyeol keeps cooing in a warm voice and Princess calms down, panting softly as he cuddles against Chanyeol’s chest. 

 

“Come on, Fan!”  Chanyeol’s arms are full but he hooks an ankle around Yifan’s leg, drawing him in.  Yifan trips forward, heart beat fast against the curve of Chanyeol’s arm.  The puppy sneezes, his black nose dampening the green canvas of Chanyeol’s jacket, and blinks imploringly.  Yifan raises his hand.  He slowly unbends his elbow, giving Princess time to assess his every move.  That’s how you’re supposed to approach animals, right?  So you don’t startle them.  

 

Princess whines as Yifan’s fingers graze soft fur and rough nylon.  His collar is still new, stiff and the dye unfaded.  Yifan sinks his palm against the contours of the puppy’s head and Chanyeol laughs aloud at the puppy’s ed groan.  “See?  He likes you!” 

 

“Naw,” Zitao drawls, rocking on the heels of his canvas slip-ons.  “He only bites the people he likes.”  Yifan snatches his hand away so fast he almost smacks Zitao in the jaw.

 

“Haha, oh god!”  Chanyeol pitches forward with the force of his laugh, knocking his head against Zitao’s shoulder.  “Yifan, your face!”  Princess squirms, wriggling to the ground, and Chanyeol carefully sets him on the sidewalk, still gasping for breath.

 

“Let’s go eat, hyung.”  Zitao’s red hair is a dark burgundy in the fading light.  It’s about time for the streetlights to turn on. 

 

 

 

 

They end up at a meat restaurant a few blocks away.  Zitao claims a round plastic table on the sidewalk out front, tethering Princess’ lead to the sturdy post of the sun umbrella while Chanyeol goes in to order.    

 

Zitao’s texting on his phone, a hint of pink tongue peeking through the pout of his lips.  Yifan pulls out his phone too, hooking his heels around the legs of his chair to keep out of Princess’ way.  He’s sniffing around under the table, nosing an empty beer can.  Yifan kicks it out of his reach so he won’t hurt himself on any sharp edges. 

 

Yifan has one new message, a text from Yixing.  He scans it and lays his phone on the table face down with a sigh.  It’ll be warmer once the portable grill is lit on the table and they’ve opened the first bottles of drinks.  He rubs his palms together, pressing into the friction.  Chanyeol’s taking forever inside. 

 

“Something wrong?”  Yifan’s gaze catches on Zitao’s lazy blink and it takes him a second to respond.

 

“No, just the boss--I mean, principal--asking me to come in on Friday night.”

 

“Aww.”  Of all the reactions, Yifan was not expecting a sympathetic whine from Zitao, his sideswept bangs slipping further into his eyes. 

 

“Why are we ?”  Chanyeol pulls his plastic lawn chair back with a scrape and plunks a tall bottle of Cass down on the table. 

 

“Nothing.”  Yifan’s eyes track the roll of a large bead of condensation down the neck of the bottle.  It catches on the edge of the silver label, wrinkling the stiff paper as it soaks in.  Chanyeol’s eyebrows are still raised in Yifan’s direction as he works the cap off with a spoon.  “Just, some parent volunteer luncheon at school I need to set up for.  Yixing texted.”

 

“Ah.”  Chanyeol grabs a glass off a stack near the center of the table.  The amber liquid foams to the rim and he slides it across to Zitao.  Yifan steals the bottle to pour for Chanyeol and they put some water in the plastic lid of Zitao’s empty lunch box for the dog.  Chanyeol’s loud “kambei!” rings against the glass window next to them.    

 

Zitao drains half his glass in one gulp and slumps against his plastic chair.  His shoulders look even narrower without a baggy vinyl vest over his chest.  “You have plans during Chuseok?”  He’s staring at Yifan through dark lashes as Chanyeol layers thin slices of raw beef onto the grill. 

 

“Not really.”

 

Chanyeol’s steel tongs flash in the light from the doorway as a group of students head inside.

 

“I guess I could visit a few friends in Seoul, but I might just catch up on sleep.”  Sleep is always a good option.  No traffic, no time commitments, no one to stand him up at the last minute.  “You?”

 

“Taking a trip all by my lonesome so I can get some sketching done.  Gonna hit up the beach one last time before it’s too cold.”  Zitao’s chopsticks slice through the haphazard pile of cabbage leaves in the shallow kimchi dish next to the napkins.

 

“It’s already too cold.”  Yifan should unpack the box of hoodies shoved to the back of his closet.  He thinks he put his down comforter in there, folded in the bottom. 

 

“I’m going home on Sunday!”  Chanyeol shoves a fat bundle of meat wrapped in a sesame leaf at Zitao’s face.  Zitao wrinkles his nose but snaps up the bite.  

 

“Do you have far to go?”  Yifan takes another sip of beer, the burn dull in his throat as he swallows. 

 

“Nope.  Just Gyeonggido.  But traffic’s gonna anyway.”  Yifan nods.  He knows.  Last year he spent four days with Jessica’s family, trying not to sweat in his dress shirt while Jess and her sister grilled jeon on the living room floor in front of the TV.  “Most of the kids are traveling, too.  Tae’s really excited about his trip to Busan.”

 

“That must be exhausting for a little kid.”  Yifan hated long hours trapped in a car or train when he was little.  China is too big.  So is Canada. 

 

“Taemin actually really loves road trips with his dad.  They go almost every weekend.”  Chanyeol scrapes aside the meat that’s finished cooking and drops several pieces on Yifan’s plate. 

 

“But Minseok gets carsick just from the parking lot to the bus stop,” Yifan says.  Zitao shoves a wet leaf of lettuce into his hand.  Yifan folds it around the meat hanging from his chopsticks and blows away the steam. 

 

“Not all kids work the same.”  Chanyeol sets the tongs down on the empty side of the meat tray and rests his elbow on the table.  “You can’t lump all kindergartners together and assume they’ll react one way.” 

 

“Yeah,” Zitao pipes in, “Lu Han and Minseok have matching baby animal stationery but they always buy opposite flavors of drinks at the store.” 

 

“Oh yeah!” Chanyeol laughs, waving his spoon.  “Lu Hannie loves that flavored milk stuff, but Minseok will only drink the plain kind!”  And Baekhyun likes chocolate milk.  Chanyeol chuckles, slipping a bit of fat below the table for Princess to from his fingers.  “Which beach are you going to, again?” 

 

Zitao moans in displeasure as Chanyeol pokes his cheek with the clean end of his spoon.   

 

“Chuam.  In Donghae.”  Zitao steals the rest of Chanyeol’s drink with a smirk, his lips leaving a greasy print on the glass.  Chanyeol gives a wounded whimper, but Yifan turns over the last clean glass and fills it for him. 

 

“Ah, Donghae,” Chanyeol sighs, smearing a red streak of ssamjang from his mouth.  “The water really is more beautiful there.”  Yifan’s attention strays back to his phone as Chanyeol starts a rambling string of stories about a class trip to Jinhae when he was fifteen.  It’s only just past 7:00, but Yifan can already feel numb exhaustion tingle up his spine.  He got to school at 5:00 this morning to carry a truckload of scrap wood out to the dumpster for Key.  The sixth graders already started set construction for the Christmas play. 

 

The beer in his glass is warm by the time the meat finishes cooking.  Yifan’s gut is squeamish just looking at the thin cuts of beef saturated in the cooling grease and Zitao declares himself full, Princess cuddled between his crossed legs on the wide seat of his chair.  Chanyeol finishes the last batch of meat, draining the grease onto a wilted leaf of lettuce before dipping each bite in his dish of salted sesame oil. 

 

“Anyone up for ice cream?” Zitao suggests before Chanyeol has even swallowed his last bite. 

 

“I thought you were full!”  Chanyeol shoves his shoulder with the heel of his hand and Princess growls at the disturbance to his comfy nest in Zitao’s lap.

 

“Not anymore.”  Zitao yawns.  His teeth are sharp in the dim light.  “I’m still growing, Hyung.  You want ice cream?”  He bats his eyelashes hopefully at Yifan. 

 

“I think my bus is coming soon,” Yifan says.  He checks his phone and pushes back from the table. 

 

“Ok,” Chanyeol sighs, snatching the check from the table before Yifan can beat him to it.  “We’ve all got an early morning tomorrow.”  The hood of Chanyeol’s jacket is bunched around his neck like a scarf and scrunches in accordion folds as he tips his head back with a yawn.     

 

“Not me!”  Zitao flashes a peace sign, curling his fingers like bunny ears.  “No class tomorrow.”

 

“Idiot.”  Chanyeol pulls a lock of Zitao’s red hair as he stands.  “You better show up to studio tomorrow.  You said you have a lot to get done on your sculpture before break.”  Zitao hisses through his teeth, using his phone screen as a mirror to fix his hair.   

 

They walk Yifan to his bus stop at the end of the road.  They don’t have to wait long.  The bus lumbers to the corner  before Chanyeol can finish another story about camping out at the beach.  

 

“Thanks, guys,” Yifan says, sliding his finger into his wallet to lift out his pass as the bus roars to a stop. 

 

“Bye!” Chanyeol yells over the squeak of the door folding open, and even Princess gets up on his hind legs to wave goodbye.

 

 

******

 

 

Yifan jumps as little arms twine around his knee and a runny nose squishes into his thigh. 

 

“Mr. Fan,” Baekhyun whimpers, holding out his hand.  “Look what he did!” 

 

“Wow, what happened there?”  Baekhyun’s finger is encased in a thick wad of gauze secured with enough tape to waterproof the entire bandage.

 

“He bit me!”  Baekhyun’s tear streaked face screws up like he’s about to start bawling all over again and Yifan bites his lip in relief when Jongdae appears around the corner to punch Baekhyun into cracking a wobbly grin. 

 

“He bit me!”  Baekhyun’s tear streaked face screws up like he’s about to start bawling all over again.  Yifan bites his lip in relief when Jongdae appears around the corner to punch Baekhyun into cracking a wobbly grin. 

 

“No!  Custard did!”  Baekhyun shrugs, hitching the stretched out neckline of his T-shirt back onto his shoulder. 

 

“Custard?”  Yifan props the mop against the bucket at an angle so it won’t slide to floor and bends his knee so Baekhyun isn’t cutting off his circulation. 

 

“Custard likes to live in my pocket.”

 

“No he doesn’t!  He hates your pocket,” Jongdae says, pointing at Baekhyun’s finger.  “He bit you!”  Both boys burst out laughing like this is the punchline to a hilarious joke.  Or maybe it is one and Yifan just isn’t getting it, since they’re speaking quickly in Korean right now. 

 

“Custy loves it there because my pocket smells good,” Baekhyun sneers, leaning into Jongdae’s space to contradict him. 

 

“No way!  It smells like monkey brains and dirt balls!” 

 

“It does not smell like monkey brains!  Mr. Fan!” Baekhyun yanks on Yifan’s belt and the pager digs into his waist.  “Tell Jongdae it doesn’t!”

 

“Uh, I don’t know what monkey brains smell like.”  Yifan tries to readjust the pager, but now it’s just uncomfortable no matter how he places it.  “Who is Custard?” 

 

“You didn’t met Custard?”  Jongdae turns to him with wide eyes.  “Mr. Fan!” 

 

“What?”  The only thing more annoying than getting scolded by drunk Henry for something he has no idea about is getting scolded by a six-year-old for something he has no idea about.

 

“Custard is our mascot,” Baekhyun says.  “He’s a rat.” 

 

“Oh!  The black one?”  Yifan vaguely remembers seeing some kind of rodent in a glass tank in the back of the kindergarten 2 classroom.  Fortunately, caring for the various class pets at school does not fall under his jurisdiction. 

 

“Yup.”  Baekhyun scratches his cheek.  He has a faded bruise on the underside of his jaw.  “Whole name is Blackie Custard Boy.” 

 

“Blackie Custard Boy,” Yifan repeats, slipping a hand into his back pocket.  Ok, that just sounds wrong.  Yifan doesn’t even want to analyze why.  “I think I’ll just call him Custy.” 

 

“Okie ducky!”  Baekhyun flashes a peace sign.  His gauze embedded finger won’t straighten all the way. 

 

“I get to take care of Custard during vacation!” Jongdae announces, sliding his left arm out of his sweater sleeve so he can flap it like an elephant trunk. 

 

“Oh yeah?”  Yifan sets the dish soap down and wipes his hands on his thighs.  “You’re not traveling for the holiday?”

 

“Nah, my mom’s too lazy,” Jongdae whispers, dropping his sleeve to cup his palm around his mouth.  “Grandma visits us instead.”

 

“Gotcha,” Yifan nods, although personally he thinks hosting company is always more stressful than travel.  His mother spends the week before guests arrive cleaning between the tiles with a toothpick and worrying whether there will be enough fresh fruit at the market to feed everybody.  “What about you, Baekhyun?”  

 

“Mmph?” Baekhyun yips, breaking off mid hum when he realizes Yifan’s question was directed at him. 

 

“Are you traveling this weekend?” 

 

“Dunno.”  Baekhyun yanks on the empty sleeve of Jongdae’s cardigan.

 

“Are you gonna hang out with your dad at home?” Yifan asks, trying to keep a straight face as Jongdae trumpets loudly. 

 

“Dunno,” Baekhyun says again, leaning his forehead into Jongdae’s shoulder.   

 

“Boys!”  Yifan winces as Song Qian’s voice echoes in the hallway.  She’s almost louder than Baekhyun sometimes. 

 

“Oops,” Baekhyun mutters, elbowing Jongdae.  “Coming, Teacher!” he squints and tips back his whole head to yell back.

 

“Bye, Mr. Fan!”  Jongdae bends to pull up his knee sock that slipped down around his left ankle.  The charcoal gray color matches his sweater set exactly.  Minus the denim shorts, he looks like a school boy illustration off a vintage spelling primer. 

 

“Bye!”  Yifan bites his lip, watching Jongdae careen around the corner as he races to catch up to Baekhyun, one sleeve still dangling.  “Be safe!”  Their indoor shoes scuffle on the clean tile.  He hopes Baekhyun’s finger is all better after break.  

 

 

******

 

 

The sixth graders have soccer practice until 9:30 on Friday, and Donghae keeps the team a few minutes late to hand out high fives and handmade ssuk ddeok, so Yifan can’t get into the gym to set up before then. 

 

After setting up the round tables and covering them in thick plastic dropcloths, he still has to position the centerpieces--fresh cut chrysanthemums and cosmos Yixing arranged himself with opalescent fern fronds as fillers--and hang the congratulatory banner over the podium at the foot of the stage.  It’s nearing midnight by the time he tweaks the last twisted streamer into place and aligns the final rose scented tea light on the windowsill. 

 

Yifan takes a moment to survey his works before hitting the lights with a satisfied smile.  He doesn’t mind projects like this, especially when he has a few solid hours of uninterrupted time to bring an artistic vision to detailed fruition.  He’s not sure exactly what Yixing had in mind when he asked for “a buoyant layer of calm, with thick gratitude to welcome our honored guests” as the decorating theme, but Yifan thinks it looks presentable. 

 

He nods to himself in approval and takes a quick trip down to the other wing to stash his tape and scissors.  The step ladder he used to hang the banner should go back in the storage room, but he’ll return it next week when the building’s not so quiet.    

 

The empty hallways are eerie in the dark, the crumpled paper sculptures depicting the lunar phases Amber put on the bulletin board outside the office casting wrinkled shadows.  The light in the art room is still on, Yifan notices with a frown as he snaps shut the padlock on his office door.  Someone must have left it on.  Most of the teachers left in a hurry today with boxes of fruit or rice cakes to mail or relatives to pick up from the station.   

 

He tests the door handle to check if it’s locked before he goes digging for his keys, but the latch isn’t connected.  It pushes open at his touch.    

 

“Yifan?”  Chanyeol squints at him from the counter where he’s hunched on a stool, long fingers cramped into the hand holds of a pair of purple safety scissors.  “Why are you still here?”  His voice is scratchy, like he’s been breathing the dry air circulating from the heater in through his mouth. 

 

“Setting up for tomorrow.”  Yifan slides his palm up the polished wood laminate of the doorframe and takes a step inside.  “Why are you here?”

 

“Same.”  Chanyeol’s glasses slip down his nose as he focuses on snipping a perfect dart out of the center of a tiny pink heart.  There are fine slivers and fat edges of paper waste dusting the length of the red laminate countertop like grated parmesan cheese.  “These are take-home craft packages for the kids.”

 

"That… looks like torture," Yifan says, biting the inside of his cheek at dozens of cutouts heaped on the counter next to the stack of xeroxed pattern sheets waiting to be trimmed.  Chanyeol grimaces like he's about to sneeze and drops the finished heart on the mound to his left.  None of his expressions actually look grumpy, but as cute as Chanyeol’s facial acrobatics are, Yifan can see his fatigue in the tightness around his eyes and the chapped corners of his mouth.

 

"In school they told us to have students do the prep work whenever possible, that they're totally capable of a little cutting and pasting for efficiency's sake."  Chanyeol sticks out his tongue at the scissors and wrinkles his nose. 

 

Yifan nods.  “That does make sense.” 

 

Chanyeol snorts, his cuff brushing a flurry of paper snips to the floor.  "Like I'm letting Byun Baekhyun loose in class with a pair of scissors, safety blades or no!"  He drops the scissors to flex his fingers, cupping his right wrist with the other hand.   

 

"Ah," Yifan sighs.  That… also makes sense. 

 

“So were you looking for extra tape, or...?” Chanyeol trails off, motioning to the open supply cabinet behind him.  There are reams of colored paper on shelves, organized into an elegant grid by shade and weight.  Metallic sheets are on the bottom row, magenta, copper, teal, dark bronze.

 

“Oh no, I finished actually, and saw the light on.  I thought you had…”  Yifan finishes with a half smile, embarrassed to tell Chanyeol he thought him irresponsible enough to leave the light on all weekend.  “I didn’t know anyone else was still here after Donghae cleared out.”

 

“Yeah, me neither.  Too bad.”  Chanyeol hops down from his stool and drags a mug down the length of the counter to a yellow and white speckled kettle that’s plugged into the wall.  “If I had known, I would have joined you.” 

 

“Misery likes company,” Yifan mutters, stepping up to the counter.   

 

“What?”  Chanyeol’s voice sounds distracted as he pours a steaming stream of dark liquid into his mug.  The familiar aroma curls through the dry air and crawls down the back of Yifan’s throat. 

 

“So that’s actually for coffee?”  Yifan jerks his chin towards the perker.  “I thought it was a secret cauldron for mixing oil paints, or witch’s brew, or something.”

 

“Haha, no!”  Chanyeol shakes his head, grabbing another mug from the end of the counter.  It looks handmade, an uneven brown glaze coating the fluted lip.  The swirls on the handle remind Yifan of whipped cream stirred into the top of hot cocoa.  “Are you sure you actually know stuff about art?”  He peeks over his shoulder to shoot Yifan a smug glare, hissing when he misses the cup and some of the hot liquid dribbles onto his thumb.  “I’m ok!” he says before Yifan has a chance to ask, the injured knuckle into his mouth.

 

“It was a joke,” Yifan says, curving his spine as he crosses his arms to tug his jacket closer to his body.  It’s getting warm in the classroom though, he should probably just take it off.

 

“Have a seat!” Chanyeol mumbles, lips still attached to his sore thumb.  He plunks the brown mug down next to his green one.  “I make my own coffee because no one around here appreciates the good stuff.”

 

“Not even Zhou Mi?”  Yifan slides onto the stool next to Chanyeol’s, tugging at the legs of his jeans as he tucks his knees under the ledge of the counter. 

 

“He’s too obsessed with tea.”  Chanyeol wipes his hand on his khakis and climbs back onto his seat, his right knee bumping Yifan’s as he settles.  “And Amber’s a Starbucks sellout.”  He shakes his head again, more like an irritated twitch, as he shears a row of hearts off a new sheet of outlines. 

 

“And our resident organic farmer, the principal?” 

 

“Let me just say that the mac pack was Yixing’s brainchild over coffee at McDonald’s, thus the name.  We have staff meetings there sometimes.”

 

“Wait, really?”  Yifan laughs, picturing Yixing in grass stained chinos calling a meeting to order with a mango smoothie in one hand and a chicken nugget in the other.  Chanyeol nods, the tired creases under his eyes not dimming the brightness of his smile. 

 

“How is school life going?  You’ve been here almost a month now, right?”

 

“Wow, yeah, I guess.”  Yifan hasn’t cared enough to keep track of time for awhile now, no anniversary reminders to clutter his calendar or exams dates circled in red.  His rent is automatically deducted from his bank account on the fifteenth of every month.

 

“Any shocking realizations?  Adorable anecdotes?” 

 

“Is this automatically a staff meeting since we’re drinking coffee?” Yifan snarks and Chanyeol actually laughs, sniggering through his nose like he’s enjoying the company and Yifan’s not just an interruption in a long night of prep work.  

 

“No pressure.”  Chanyeol’s glasses fog up as he takes a hesitant sip.  “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”  Yifan glides his fingers over the smooth nubs of hardened glaze dripping down the sides of his mug. 

 

“Kids can’t hide their distress very well.”

 

“Haha.  Nope.”  Chanyeol looks a little surprised, his eyebrows jumping.  “That’s your first impression of school?”

 

“Well, I expected them to be loud.”  Yifan’s right slipper slides off his foot to the floor and he lets the left one follow.  “But all the crying… I don’t know, man.”

 

“You don’t know what?”

 

“What are you supposed to tell a kid who’s crying? Crying on you?”  Yifan shivers, remembering the slick smear of snot Baekhyun’s runny nose left on his pant leg the other day.

 

“I don’t know that there’s one right answer.”  Chanyeol of a drop of wet from his lips.  “Smiling generally helps, though.  It’s reassuring.”

 

“But they’re not babies anymore,” Yifan protests, finally putting into words the feeling that’s been bothering him, tickling at his nostrils with disdain.  “They’re supposed to grow up at school, figure out that it’s not productive to just cry about every...thing,” he finishes lamely.

 

“Who said kids cry ‘cause it’s productive?”  Chanyeol’s challenge isn’t argumentative, it’s just a question, his lips parted as he glances up from his cutting.   

 

“Then why do they cry?”  Yifan picks at a bit of paper that falls from Chanyeol’s scissors.  “If it’s from pain, okay, understandable, but Baekhyun…”  Yifan would not be surprised if the kid cries from joy when he finds 100 Won on the sidewalk. 

 

“To express themselves,” Chanyeol says.  He slices neatly through the last heart on his strip, looking up as he grabs the next.  “Do you remember what it feels like to be six and see your own blood spurting out of your arm?  Or like the unfairness of the entire world is crashing down on your shoulders and no one big enough to do anything about it understands?” 

 

“Yeah, but my mom would just say that life isn’t fair and tell me not to ruin my complexion with tears.”  Skin care is something of a legacy in the family.  One day Henry will understand.   

 

“It’s ok to cry.”  Chanyeol blows on his coffee, not breaking their gaze.

 

“I thought Amber was the licensed counselor, not you.”

 

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know things.”  Chanyeol smiles and starts cutting again.  Yifan swirls the dark liquid in his mug with a flick of his wrist.  “Or have opinions, anyway.”

 

“How can you talk about this kind of stuff so easily?”  Like it’s not big and overwhelming and terrifying?  Yifan’s never sure whether he should give into his instinct and trust people who open like that, open like Chanyeol is with smiles and friendship and, apparently, tears.  

 

“I wouldn’t call it easy, but I talk about things ‘cause I think it’s important.”  Chanyeol waves a half finished heart, the wing shaped curves at the top neatly rounded but the sharp point at the bottom only a traced line on the paper.  “To talk about new light up sneakers and favorite ice cream flavors and whether green M & M’s taste better than the blue ones.”

 

“And crying and .”  The next sip of coffee burns the edges of Yifan’s tongue but slips down his throat like a comforting blanket of heat. 

 

“That too, if it’s relevant.”  Chanyeol sighs, dropping his scissors again to sweep his trash to the side.  “I agree that school is a place for kids to grow up, but I think it should also be a safe space for them, to deal with things on their own terms at their own pace.”  Yifan nods, thinking of the carefully tended flower beds bordering the parking lot that Yixing sings to during lunch, of the cushy rubber matting on the playground that skinned Jongdae’s knee when he fell but ensures no one breaks their arm. 

 

“Like school is their world, and you’re some sort of guardian.”

 

Chanyeol laughs at the comparison, startled.  Yifan might call it a yelp if his voice wasn’t so deep. 

 

“I’m just a person who loves sharing art.  Sharing it with kids.”  He pats the pile of paper hearts in front of him.  “But yeah, school kind of is their world.  So if they want to cry it’s not a bad place to do it.”

 

“Hmm,” Yifan grunts, and takes a larger mouthful of coffee this time.  It’s cooled down enough for him to taste the warm roasted flavors under the bitter heat.  He’s not used to drinking coffee black. 

 

“You’re not talking,” Chanyeol says, bumping Yifan’s elbow gently enough he won’t spill his drink.  “Is it ‘cause you’re tired, or ‘cause you’re shy?” 

 

“I’m not that shy,” Yifan says.  “People think that, but I don’t mind tell them things as long as they know what to ask.”  And when to ask, where to ask.  Jess knew his rules fairly well although sometimes she broke them.  But with Chanyeol--so far, Yifan feels comfortable around him pretty much everywhere. 

 

“I already asked you stuff.”  Chanyeol lowers his eyelids behind his glasses in a lazy pout.  “Ask me stuff.  It’s your turn.”

 

“Ok.”  Yifan blinks to his left, catching Chanyeol’s waiting expression out of the corner of his eye.  Now’s as good a time as any. 

 

“Why do you bother talking to me?”  The question that’s been aching in his teeth since August, every time Chanyeol smiles in his direction.  The other teachers are friendly of course, especially the ones who can speak Chinese like Zhou Mi and Amber, but no one gives him the same warm attention as Chanyeol.      

 

“Because you’re you and you’re here and you like tuna sandwiches and tea eggs.”  Chanyeol’s starting on the last strip of hearts now.  There’s a deep red mark across his thumb where the scissor handle presses.  “And because everybody needs a friend.”

 

“Well, thanks.  I guess I am pretty needy in that respect.”  Yifan rubs a bruise on his own thumb, from the broken handle on the mop bucket. 

 

“No, no I meant…”  Chanyeol huffs, pushing his glasses up his nose with the back of his hand.  “I meant everybody including me.  I need friends too.  So like, thanks for talking to me?”

 

“Excuse me?”  Yifan sets his empty mug down a little harder than he meant to.  He can’t tell if Chanyeol’s trying to backpedal for damage control or if he’s actually serious about--

 

“Why does it surprise you when people want to be your friend?”  Chanyeol lets out a little laugh, his gaze focused on his fingers.  Only three cutouts left.  “Tao really likes you too, you know.”

 

“He seems like a good kid.”  Polite.  Hard working.  Yifan can tell he takes care of his skin.

 

“You want some more coffee?”  Chanyeol’s already out of his seat, leaning towards the coffee pot. 

 

“It’s good stuff, but I better not.”  Yifan squints at the clock above the door.  It’s almost 1:00 and he still has a cab ride home.  If he drinks any more he’ll be falling asleep at sunrise. 

 

“Oh, ok.”  Chanyeol empties the rest into his own mug and yanks out the plug.  “Hey, how are you getting home?  You take the bus, right?”

 

“Yeah, so I guess I’ll call a taxi.”  The buses stop before 11:00, sometimes earlier depending on the route.  Yifan pulls out his phone and wipes the oily smudges on the screen against his pant leg. 

 

“I’m almost done here,” Chanyeol says, gesturing between the dirty percolator and the last piece of paper waiting on the counter.  “If you want a ride, I’ll only be a few more minutes.”

 

“No, no, that’s ok.  Really.”  Yifan’s apartment is not close to school, or to any of the residential neighborhoods in town.  He wouldn’t call it a ghetto, but it’s not the kind of place Chanyeol would want to drive through at 1 AM.  Chanyeol has a nice car, sleek silver paint finish, a black and silver tail fin.  Real leather seats too, according to Amber. 

 

“Are you sure?”  Chanyeol carries the mugs to the sink and rinses them thoroughly under the spray, first the brown one and then the green one.

 

“Yeah, it’s late.”  Yifan pulls up the cab number in his contacts but darkens the screen and tucks his phone back in his pocket.  He’ll call from the curb at the bottom of the hill. 

 

“Ok, yeah.”  Chanyeol’s movements slow with a thick coating of lethargy as he retraces his steps to the counter and picks up his scissors.  “Be safe.  And have a good holiday.”

 

“You too.  Thanks again for the coffee.”  Yifan waves from the hall before closing the door, leaving the latch just slightly open the way he found it. 

 

 

******

 

Yifan yawns and turns the page of a wrinkled Chinese language newspaper he rescued from the recycling earlier.  You’d think on a rainy day there’d be more to do, muddy footprints to mop up, leaky roof tiles to shore up.  The most exciting thing he’s done all morning is pull out extra trash cans from the storage closet and strategically place them under leaks in Yixing’s office ceiling.  (Yixing refused to have them repaired because he prefers a “natural environment that reflects the external world”--either he really believes that or he’s just too cheap to pay the repair guy, but there’s nothing wrong with cheap in Yifan’s book when you’ve got extra trash cans to make do with). 

 

Yifan recrosses his legs for the thirteenth time since he turned the page, pausing to reread the last half paragraph that he skimmed but failed to comprehend.  He really doesn’t want to be at school today.  Even the pine boughs are restless outside his window, nodding in supple waves with the slow breeze. 

 

It’s not that he wishes they were still on break.  He doesn’t want to be at home either.  He lay around his apartment for four days and listened to the rain, on over steamed songpyeon from the convenience store while he slogged through the news in English and Mandarin, moving from his bed to the growing pile of blankets on his floor when he needed a change. 

 

He sort of wants to take a walk outside, but even if he didn’t mind soaking his sneakers in the cold fall rain, he doubts his ability to force himself out of his seat and through the door.  Hell, even reaching for his cocoa can is too much effort right now.  The half full drink sits sweating on the corner of the orange crate, taunting his thick tongue.  He grits his teeth as he swallows and underlines another character in the text he should know the Korean translation for but can’t seem to dredge up.  He gives up after a few blinks and flips to the arts and culture columns in the back.  

 

 

The steady hush of soft rain on fallen leaves subsides about the time Yifan’s eyelids start to droop.  He sits up with a start to find Donghae leaning over him, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his cargo pants and an impish grin on his face.  The copier is hissing as it cranks out conditioning worksheets behind him. 

 

“Hey!” Donghae says with a wave, even though he’s standing close enough Yifan can feel his breath on his collarbones, “sorry to wake you, gramps, but you might wanna get that.”  Yifan blinks his eyes into focus and follows Donghae’s pointed finger to where the mac pack is flashing and vibrating, half enveloped in the pile of water stained newspapers.  Oops.  No wonder he didn’t hear the buzzing. 

 

Yifan jerks forward to grab it, banging his shin on the orange crate.  Donghae flips his dark hair out of his eyes and passes him the pager as Yifan clutches his leg with a strangled curse. 

 

“Thanks,” he groans, still rubbing his leg.  Donghae mock salutes and scoots to the printer as it beeps at him to change out originals.  Yifan hits the talk button and hold it down with his thumb.  “Hello?”

 

“Dude, it’s Amber.  You might wanna go check on things in the art room.  Bring towels.”

 

“What kind of--”

 

“Gotta run!  Peace.”  The pager flashes red once more before the light fades to a steady green. 

 

“Ok.”  Yifan sighs, mostly to himself, and hooks the pager onto his belt.  Towels.  Does that mean they’re painting today and ran out of paper towels, or that large quantities of bodily fluids are graphically spattered across every surface?  Yifan grabs the canister of vomit absorbent and a stack of freshly laundered rags and throws them on the top tier of his cart.  Only one way to find out. 

 

“Good luck!” Donghae offers with a wave, one elbow propped on the lid of the copier like he’s waiting for someone to mix him a cocktail and instead of for a stack of xeroxed homework pages. 

 

Yifan doesn’t run, but he heads down the hall at a faster than usual clip, still careful to watch his footing on the potentially hazardous tile.  The bell’s about to ring, so he wants to get down to the other wing before he has a stampede of munchkins to try to roll his cart through.  It’s harder than you’d think, trying not to squish anyone when the moving targets are literally knee high and seemingly ricochet off the walls like rubber squash balls. 

 

The art room door is cracked open and Yifan can hear Baekhyun’s high pitched squeals wavering above Soojung and Kyungsoo’s strident voices, Chanyeol’s booming laugh a steady base line at the lowest frequency in the cadence. 

 

Yifan pushes the open the door, leaving the cart in the hall until he knows what supplies he needs.  Maybe he should have brought the first aid kit, too.  Chanyeol has his back to the door, Jongdae balanced on a step stool next to him in front of the sink.  Jongdae is plastered up to his elbows in something that looks like oatmeal, or maybe ricotta cheese, and Chanyeol is stripping the goop from his hands under the stream from the faucet.  Sehun is doubled over in the space under the step stool and he curls his fingers at Yifan in lazy wave before scratching at a lump of white stuff caked in his hair. 

 

“Baekhyun!  Stop!” 

 

Soojung’s screech redirects Yifan’s attention to the front of the room, where Baekhyun has both his fists sunk in an aluminum tray of the white paste.  Taemin is kneeling on the table,  balancing the tray on the edge as they tip the contents into the front of Baekhyun’s baggy T-shirt.  Jongin and Lu Han are under the table, stretching the hem of Baekhyun’s shirt into a pouch the way Yifan’s grandma uses the skirt of her apron to carry potatoes up to the kitchen.  Yifan twists around to grab the roll of paper towels as Soojung screams again,

 

“Stop!  Too fast!” 

 

“Tae, stop!” Yifan says, the volume of his own voice surprising him as trips towards the table.  Baekhyun’s shirt is nearly full of the white stuff, the load dipping lower as it rolls out of the tray in gloopy plops. 

 

Chanyeol turns with a smile at the sound of Yifan’s voice but he croaks in horror as Yifan catches his eye with a silent plea for help.  Yifan dives for the tray as it topples out of Taemin’s hands.  Lu Han’s loses his hold on the shirt as the aluminum pan bangs over his head with a hollow ring and Baekhyun tips face first into Taemin’s lap, the contents of his shirt pouring onto Jongin.  Yifan catches the tray as his knees hit the floor, the side of it crumpling in his hand as the paper towel roll hits Jongin in the chest. 

 

The room falls silent for a beat, the sink water steadily splashing into the basin as Jongin’s voice rises like a siren, slow and feeble, then gaining volume and conviction as his cries pitch higher.  Yifan shoves the pan under the table and scoots forward on his knees, wiping the white mess from Jongin’s face as gently as he can, starting with his eyes.  It smells strongly of glue, though the texture is more like shredded wheat that got soggy soaking in milk too long.   

 

“Jongdae, stay out of the mess,” Chanyeol calls, rounding the table to kneel beside Yifan.  Yifan scoots back so Chanyeol can take over, carefully cleaning Jongin’s forehead with a flannel cloth dampened in the sink.  Yifan stands, remembering the stack of cloths on his cart, and he takes them to soak in the sink.  Sehun is still under the step stool, and he waves again, hollowing out his cheeks to make a fish face at Yifan. 

 

“Hi, Sehunnie,” Yifan says, wringing the cloths dry with one tight twist.  “Minseok!” he groans as he turns around, biting down on lip because his hands are too full to face palm, “don’t eat that!”  He still has no idea what the mysterious mixture is, but it doesn’t smell edible.  Minseok is perched on a chair next to another tray of the stuff on the other table.  He dips his tongue into his handful of paste once more before grinning innocently at Yifan.  Yifan tugs Lu Han out from under the table next to Jongin and hands him a rag.  He can start wiping his own face while Yifan deals with Taemin and Baekhyun.    

 

“Kyungsoo,” Chanyeol calls, turning Jongin around so he can scoop out the paste that’s collected in the collar of his polo.  “Can you grab the sponge by the sink and give it to Baekhyun?”

 

“No.”  Kyungsoo doesn’t raise his voice, but the tight throated venom in his tone makes Taemin turn his head and stare.  Yifan almost wipes a lump of paste into his small ear. 

 

“Come on, Soo,” Chanyeol urges.  “Hurry.  Ms. Victoria will be back soon, and you guys have music next.”  Yifan glances up at the clock, giving Taemin’s neck one last swipe with the towel.  They have three minutes til the bell rings, if they’re lucky.

 

“Hi.”  Baekhyun gives a careful smile as Yifan starts to wipe down his hands, as if he’s not sure what reaction to expect. 

 

“Hi,” Yifan says, and smiles despite the slick squelch between his fingers.

 

“No way,” Kyungsoo repeats, standing motionless in the center of the room.  “He wiped mashy on my pants and I hate him.” 

 

“Kyungsoo.”  Chanyeol raises his head to fix him with a warning look across the table.  “Bring the sponge.  Do it for me.”

 

“Agh!”  Kyungsoo pivots with a stamp that rattles the chair legs.  “Baekhyun always ruins everything!”  He kicks at Sehun’s shoe as he steps up the ladder to search for the sponge.  Baekhyun watches Yifan with careful eyes as he reaches for another cloth to clean Baekhyun’s face.  Baekhyun’s not smiling anymore but he doesn’t react visibly to Kyungsoo’s accusation, fidgeting patiently with the hem of his shirt while Yifan dabs at his nose.

 

“Here.”  Kyungsoo stops at the end of the table and hurls the sponge.  It lands with a wet splat on Yifan’s knee.

 

“Thank you, Kyungsoo, here’s a towel for your pants.”  Chanyeol points to the dwindling stack of clean rags.         

 

“Teacher, me too!” Soojung demands, reaching over Kyungsoo for a towel.  “Chan Teacher I told you!  I told you Baekhyun made a mess and you didn’t listen to me!” 

 

“I’m sorry, Soojung,” Chanyeol sighs, giving Jongin a little pat on the shoulder as he turns to help Lu Han.  “I was busy helping Jongdae.”  Jongdae’s standing next to Kyungsoo now, staring around at the commotion with his hands shoved in the side pockets of his camo shorts.   

 

 

“This is your fault!”  Soojung holds up her skirt of her red taffeta dress to Jongdae, pointing at the wet smear down the front of the sleek folds.

 

“I didn’t do anything!” Jongdae yells back.  He’s the only clean kid in the room, if you ignore the grape juice staining the corners of his lips. 

 

“I hafta pee,” Lu Han says loudly, squirming in Chanyeol’s grip as he tries to scrape the largest clumps of paste out of his thick hair. 

 

“Wait til Ms. Victoria--”

 

“Good gravy what happened in here, Chanyeol?” Song Qian gasps as she steps into the room, tugging Joonmyun inside before crossing swiftly to the huddle of sticky students.  “I take Joonmyunnie to the bathroom for five minutes and--”

 

“Ms. Victoria!”  Soojung isn’t even yelling at her teacher, she’s facing the ceiling like she’s appealing to some high power.  “Jongdae ruined my dress!  Now we have to get drive cleaning!”  

 

“It’ll be fine, Soojungie.”  Song Qian snatches the sponge from Yifan and starts wiping at the thick layer caked to Baekhyun’s shirt like wet stucco. 

 

“Teacher I hafta pee,” Lu Han says again, stretching onto tiptoe to wave at Song Qian.

 

“Drive cleaning is really expensive!” Soojung whines, kicking the seat of the nearest chair.  Kyungsoo cuts her a glare. 

 

“Stop yelling or I’ll drive clean your hair,” he stutters.  Soojung gasps, her face flushing as she blinks rapidly at Kyungsoo. 

 

“Stop fighting,” Song Qian says in an even tone, dropping the sponge on the table as the bell rings, the first phrase of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” banged out on a synth.  “Ok, guys, let’s go to music now.  Mr. Jinki is waiting for us!” 

 

Yifan gathers up the sodden rags and paper towels, piling them onto the table as Chanyeol herds Minseok and Sehun towards the door.

 

“Hey, guys!” Sunny says, poking her head in the door.  “You ready for music?  Wow, looks like you had a lot of fun in here!” 

 

“No kidding,” Song Qian sighs.  She straightens the chunky clay beads of her yellow necklace on the yoke of her black silk blouse.  “Can you take Lu Han to the--”
 

“I hafta pee!” Lu Han yells, pushing to the front of the line.

 

“Ok, buddy!”  Sunny grabs his hand, flicking a chunk of white stuff out of his hair.  “Let’s go right now!” 

 

Chanyeol sags against the door for a moment as soon as it closes behind Sehun, rubbing at his neck with the back of his hand.  “Thanks, Yifan.  I can take it from here, though.” 

 

“Are you serious?”  There’s still a mess smeared over the table, several of the chairs, and the floor, not to mention the sink and counter.  “Let me help you.”  Chanyeol nods slowly, pulling off his glasses with a vague giggle. 

 

“This… just wow.”  Yifan laughs too, picking at the white stuff that’s starting to dry on his skin in an itchy layer.

 

“What is this stuff, anyway?” 

 

“Papier mache.”  Chanyeol walks back to the concentration of the mess by the table and starts scooping handfuls of the spill back into the dented tray.  “We’re making pinatas this week.”  He points to the back of the classroom where a row of balloons spackled with drying paste are taped to a dowel by their knotted ends. 

 

“But what is this?”  Yifan pokes at the grayish white mess vaguely reminiscent of vomit in texture if not color.    

 

“Shredded newsprint and flour and glue and...stuff.” 

 

“So nothing toxic we need to have Minseok’s stomach pumped for?” Yifan asks, scraping up a double handful of the paste.  He’s just glad there’s not carpeting in the art room, because that would not be fun to clean glue out of. 

 

“Oh god, did Minseokkie really eat this stuff?”  Chanyeol slings another handful into the tray and it splashes up into Yifan’s face, bits of soggy paper clinging to his nose.

 

“Sorry!”  Chanyeol reaches up to clean Yifan’s face with his thumb, but his hand is so coated in the papier mache that he just smears more down the side of Yifan’s jaw.  “Um, haha oops!” 

 

“You did that on purpose,” Yifan says slowly, the paste in his hand slipping back through his fingers to the floor.  Chanyeol laughs louder, and Yifan smears his messy palm across Chanyeol’s pink cheek in a deliberate administration of justice.

 

“Ohhhh,” Chanyeol hums, leaning back as his face flushes darker, his breath coming in little pants through his lips.  “You’re gonna get it!”  Yifan knocks over a chair in his haste to escape.  He crawls on his hands and knees to the other table and dips his hand into the mostly full pan MInseok had been taste testing. 

 

“Are you sure we--”

 

“Bring it!” Chanyeol hollers, ducking behind a purple plastic chair as Yifan hurls his missile.  It hits the wall behind him, but a good percentage of it splatters onto the back of Chanyeol’s jersey. 

 

“Yes!” Yifan hisses, ducking as Chanyeol starts slinging back.  In the twenty seconds it takes him to slide his arsenal of paste off the table and  barricade himself with chairs, Chanyeol throws more misses than hits but still manages to plaster Yifan’s pant legs in mush. 
 

Once they’re both hiding behind thickets of table and chair legs, the initial throwing spree is over.  Yifan has to mentally calculate the angle of each shot, but the precision of his aim increases.  He gets Chanyeol in the arm and the side of his neck.  Chanyeol retaliates with a wicked throw, catching him off guard with a hit to his foot that slides into his shoe.  Yifan gags at the ooze of paste under the tongue of his sneaker and decides with a growl that it’s now or never. 

 

He gathers a handful of the slimiest paste from the sides of the pan and leaps out from his fort with a hoarse cry, tackling Chanyeol to floor.  Chanyeol’s raucous laughter slides into a gurgling moan as Yifan smears his hand down the his chest in a broad stripe.  Chanyeol seizes his tray and up ends in over Yifan’s head.  Yifan splutters as the dregs of the mixture drip through his fringe into his eyebrows and onto his upper lip.

 

Chanyeol stares at him, open mouthed and panting like he’s waiting for Yifan to say something.  Yifan just smiles, letting his lips stretch as wide as they want to, and Chanyeol grins, coughing slightly into his hand.

 

“Ugh, this tastes awful.  Why did Minseok--!”  He breaks off with a sharp laugh, wriggling out from under Yifan. 

 

“That was fun,” Yifan whispers, trying to catch his breath, but that keeps slipping through his lungs too. 

 

“Oh god, you’re a mess!  And lunch starts in twenty minutes.”  Chanyeol giggles, brushing the worst of the residue off his shoulders.

 

“We’d better hurry then.”  Yifan scans the floor for the paper towels.  The roll is tipped over on its side in a puddle of water by the sink. 

 

“Nah, don’t worry about this,” Chanyeol waves at the mess on the floor.  “I don’t have any afternoon classes in here today.  But--your hair!”  Chanyeol cracks up again, first his shoulders jerking, then his elbows flapping as he grabs onto one of the tot sized chairs for support.  Yifan drags his left hand through his bangs, grimacing at the chunks of paper he pulls away. 

 

“Here, let me!”  Chanyeol pulls out a chair for Yifan, still breathing through his nose in snorts as he tries to calm down.     

 

“Oh no, it’s fine.  Really.  I’ll get it out in the shower when I go home.”  Yifan tries to brush Chanyeol’s hand off his arm, but Chanyeol tugs on his cuff, like Baekhyun trying to wheedle an extra serving of ace crackers at snack time. 

 

“No, seriously, if we don’t do it now it’ll be a huge pain once it dries.”  Yifan sighs loudly but drops into the seat so Chanyeol can get at his hair.  “I think I still have that…”  Chanyeol pulls out the utensil drawer at the end of the counter and checks through a  couple of empty tea tins before he finds what he’s looking for.  “Ah hah!”  The triumph in his eyes radiates through his smile, magnified by the lenses of his crooked glasses.  He holds up a pink plastic comb, the handle a sculpted rose fixed at the top, and wets it in the sink. 

 

Even though he knows it’s coming, Yifan tenses at the first of fingertips against his scalp, followed by the cold scrape of the wet tines.  It’s been ages since someone else ran fingers through his hair like this, other than the hairdresser.  Sica was never really into the hair pulling.   

 

Yifan sighs again, a controlled release of breath as he tries to relax into the touch.  The last time someone combed through his hair this thoroughly was probably in fifth grade, after Henry challenged him to a tree climbing competition.  Which Yifan won, by the way, but he emerged from the boughs covered in patches of syrupy evergreen sap.  His mom had to douse his head in rubbing alcohol to get the stickiness out of his hair. Yifan shudders at the memory of the caustic smell and the cold sting as Chanyeol’s comb drips water down the back of his neck. 

 

“Sssorry!” Chanyeol mumbles as the spill soaks into Yifan’s collar.  

 

“Are you almost finished,” Yifan gripes.  Chanyeol’s taking his time, working through his hair in even , and Yifan’s still feeling antsy.  It’s really hard to sit still with Chanyeol’s hands running over his neck and scalp.  They’re surprisingly gentle, but it makes sense that an artist would have sensitive fingers.  “Hurry up.” 

 

“I’m trying, but this is such a mess,” Chanyeol groans, clicking his tongue in disapproval as if he isn’t the one who made it in the first place. 

 

“Hey is Yifan--oh hey,” Amber waves an unopened roll of toilet paper from the doorway.  “Just to let you know, I’m stealing from your cart.  The ladies’ room is out of paper.”

 

“Oh, sorry.  I’ll…”  Yifan clears the tension from his throat with a hard swallow, scooting his chair closer to the table.  

 

“Playing beauty parlor, are we?” Amber drawls, hanging on the door handle.  “Please tell me you didn’t ruin any of the kids’ hair.”  Chanyeol’s laugh wobbles at the end and Amber sighs, knocking the back of her head against the doorpost.  “See you at lunch, neanderthals.” 

 

Yifan waits for the door to slam before rising from his seat.  “Sorry, but I had better...go refill the bathroom tissue now, I guess.”  He studies Chanyeol’s face, checking for any hint of the unease curling in his own stomach. 

 

“Ok,” Chanyeol smiles.  “I’ll finish up in here, see you tomorrow if we don’t…” he trails off with a tight laugh, flapping his arms for lack of words.

 

“Yeah,” Yifan swallows, looking away from the fresh pink flush of his cheeks and thinking of the sandwich waiting for him in his lunch sack on the orange crate.  “See you.”

 

 

******

 

 

“Sir.” 

 

“Kyungsoo?”  Yifan sits up in surprise.  It’s been a few days since he’s seen Kyungsoo, since he’s been eating lunch in his office all week.  “Why are you still here?  You’ll miss your bus if you don’t hurry!”  Yifan stands up to scan the hall for one of the homeroom teachers. 

 

“I know.”  Kyungsoo pushes a small hand through his fluffy hair and peeks back over his shoulder.  “Come on.”

 

A quiet whimper comes from around the corner and Kyungsoo huffs before stomping out into the corridor.  He returns a moment later tugging Baekhyun behind him by the shirtsleeve.  Baekhyun turns turns to face the wall and wipes his messy face on the hem of his faded T-shirt.  Yifan kneels on the cracking tile floor to face him. 

 

“Hey, what’s wrong?”  Baekhyun looks up with a wet blink. 

 

“Bus card,” he mumbles, kicking at the fruit crate with his dirty sneakers.  The kids must have made it out to the parking lot before realizing it was missing.

 

“He thinks he lost it in art,” Kyungsoo translates Baekhyun’s whimpers.  “Maybe mixed with some papers and it got trashed after lunch.”

 

“Oh.”  .  Yifan’s already tied and bagged and tied the trash and lugged it to the back room.  “Well…” he checks his watch.  Maybe if they hurry...  “Let’s go check.  Kyungsoo, do you need to leave now?”

 

“School bus already left,” Kyungsoo says, his fingers still curled around Baekhyun’s wrist.  “Let’s go look.”

 

Yifan grabs his flashlight for the back corridor.  The panel lighting burned out and they’re still waiting on the replacement order.  Baekhyun grabs a fistful of Yifan’s pant leg and follows, still sniffling. 

 

“Hey, it’s ok,” Yifan says.  “We’ll find it.”  The bus card could be anywhere, sandwiched between layers of scrap paper soaked in spilled soda pop, stuck to an ice cream wrapper, or tossed in ribbons of mushy ramen noodles and caught between empty bottles of hand sanitizer.

 

Even with the industrial strength flashlight the darkness of the back corridor is unnerving, the bright beam of light just accentuating the depth of the shadows.  They turn the corner down the short hall that leads to the storage room and now Kyungsoo’s hanging on to Yifan’s pants too.  It was just as dark this morning when he came back here with the trash, but somehow presence of his young charges make the atmosphere more daunting and oppressive, as if being aware of their unease is making him newly realize his own.  Yifan officially never wants to get locked in here overnight.    

 

He pauses outside the backroom with his key ring balanced on his finger.  The light glares off the polished metal. 

 

“Ok, I have an important job for you guys.  Are you up for it?”

 

“Mm hm,” Baekhyun whimpers, bucking his chin in a defiant nod. 

 

“Great, I need you to help me hold the light while I look, and don’t touch any of the trash, ok?  It’s yucky.”  Kyungsoo nods solemnly and holds out his hands.  Yifan lowers the torch into his outstretched palms with a nod of thanks.  Baekhyun steps closer and wraps both his fists around the long handle to help Kyungsoo steady it.  “Ok,” Yifan inserts the smallest brass key and turns the lock.  “Here we go.”

 

He snaps on a clean pair of latex gloves and braces one foot against the wall to slide open the heavy door.  The rusty bearings in the outer hinges groan as it opens.  They need to be oiled again.  Yifan takes a step forward  to stare at the identical black bags of trash as he counts backwards. 

 

“You said it might be in the art room trash?”

 

Baekhyun nods quickly.  Fortunately for today, Yifan always lines up the bags in the order he moves them so he easily locates the art room trash, the sixth one back from the west wing.  The plastic is thin and stretched taut from protruding coat hanger wire left from the pinata frames Chanyeol made last week. 

 

Yifan takes a deep breath and starts picking apart the meticulous knots he tied just a few hours earlier.  He always double bags the art room trash in case there’s anything liquid in there, but he’s still extra careful not to overbalance the weight as he goes. 

 

The knot finally eases loose, the filmy plastic sticking to the fingertips of his left glove.  Yifan looks over to make sure the boys are doing okay.  Baekhyun waves and Kyungsoo scratches his nose.  Yifan holds his breath and pulls back the second layer of plastic.  He combined the art room and kitchen trash today, so it’s a complete mess inside the bag.  A dirty, adhesiveless bandaid flopped over the rim of a crumpled paper cup filled with bits of broken chalk is pillowed on a mass of oozing kleenex at the top.  Yifan shoves it aside and digs deeper, looking for a stack of papers.

 

Under a mess of sticky eggshells Yifan finds a wad of paper, several sheets sloppily folded into quarters.  He holds it up to the light and tries to ruffle through the folds to check for anything hiding between them.  The edges are damp with watery paint and cling together when he tries to separate them.  He can’t believe the word has entered his vocabulary now, but this is really yucky. 

 

“Not yet?” Kyungsoo asks, and Yifan has to shake his head.  The papers were a dead end and nothing in sight looks very promising.

 

“Give me a minute, ok?”

 

“Ok,” Baekhyun whispers through a shaky sigh.  Yifan can’t make out his eyes in the shadows, just the flash of his teeth.  “Thanks, Mr. Fan.  For trying.”  Yifan gulps and digs deeper, past a stack of styrofoam plates a la palettes.  The pungent chemical burn of wet paint plus the stale odor of congealed instant ramen makes him gag.  He parts the jumble of empty cardboard trays and boxes and watches for any smaller objects to fall to the bottom.  Beneath the food trash is another sheaf of discarded crayon sketches, wedged between a fractured tupperware carton  and a mostly empty glue stick missing it’s cap.  Jackpot.

 

“I think I found something.”

 

“Good,” Kyungsoo says, tapping his sneaker against the tile.  The beam of the flashlight bounces in tandem. 

 

“Thanks for holding the light guys, you’re doing perfect!”  Yifan pauses just long enough to shoot a reassuring smile in their direction before picking up his speed.  These pages aren’t wet, but his hands are starting to sweat inside his gloves and he doesn’t want to skip any layers in his search.

 

“Please, please find it,” Baekhyun says.  His soft voice echoes in the cavernous room.  “If I lose it, Auntie will yell at me.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand.  It was just an accident.”  Yifan finishes checking the first half of the papers and peels them off before continuing. 

 

“I hate yelling,” Baekhyun whispers.  Yifan’s thumb slips on a coil of oxidized apple peel.

 

“Not yet?” Kyungsoo asks again, and Yifan shakes his head, counting the margins of paper as he flicks through them.  He’s nearing the end of the stack and the gush of adrenaline in his gut is swelling against the tight circuit of his belt at the growing possibility of the bus card simply not being there. 

 

“I want to go home,” Baekhyun says.  Yifan’s thumbnail grazes something stiff and he almost loses his balance at the slick rush of victory through his veins.  He eases his sticky gloved fingers between the crumpled inner layers and pulls out a plastic rectangle. 

 

“This it?”

 

“Oh you found it!  Found it, thank you!.”  Baekhyun drops the flashlight on Kyungsoo’s foot and throws his weight against Yifan’s back.  “Mr. Fan!  Mr. Fan!”  His arms squeeze tight around Yifan’s neck, his milky breath panting against his jaw.  Yifan raises the card out of reach before Baekhyun can snatch it. 

 

“Hold on, we need to sanitize this first.”

 

“Huh?”  Baekhyun‘s heel knocks into Yifan’s hip as he adjusts his hold.     

 

“It’s dirty,” Kyungsoo explains in Korean with a sigh.  His half lidded gaze is unnerving in the washed out spotlight of the flashlight he’s still holding.  “Wash it first.”

 

“Come on.”  Yifan rolls his shoulders until Baekhyun loosens his grip enough that they can both stand up without collapsing in the mess strewn over the floor.  .  He’ll have to mop back here again before he heads home. 

 

They stop at the janitor’s sink in the hallway to wash up.  Yifan hands Baekhyun the card and a paper towel once he’s satisfied it’s clean and strips off the gloves to wash his hands.  He checks his watch and it’s almost 4:00, getting late. 

 

“Where is Ms. Victoria?  She still here?”  Kyungsoo shrugs and Baekhyun is too busy clutching his bus pass and running a fingertip over the nicks and grooves in the shiny plastic.  “Alright.”  Yifan shakes the water from his hands, the droplets echoing against the wide basin.  “Let’s go find Amber.”

 

Yifan has to hunch his shoulders and shuffle forward with bent knees in order to hang onto both of the boys’ hands.  How does Chanyeol make it look so easy?  Despite the forced posture, their tiny hands pressed into his palms feel comfortable, as do Baekhyun’s absent humming and the little sighs Kyungsoo lets out whenever Baekhyun trips over his own feet.  Yifan will consider himself lucky if they make it to the front office without any new bruises.   

 

“Boys!  Where on earth have you been!”  Song Qian is jogging up the stairs from the side entrance.  The slit of her pencil skirt is shifted almost to the front and her curls are escaping from their rhinestone barrettes.

 

“Teacher!”  Baekhyun drops Yifan’s hand and scurries around the corner towards her.  She drops to her knees to catch him as he trips and hurtles forward, burying his face in the sweat stained silk of her blouse.  

 

“What happened!  Are you hurt?”  She pushes him away just enough to examine his tear streaked face.  Baekhyun shakes his head, a hiccup escaping his throat in a harsh gasp. 

 

“‘M ok, Teacher.”

 

“The idiot lost his bus card,” Kyungsoo says, dropping Yifan’s hand to retract his arms into his baggy sweater sleeves.  The shoulders of the cardigan are too broad for him and the cuffs swallow half his hands. 

 

“But we found it in one of the trash bags,” Yifan explains, gesturing with the flashlight.  Song Qian hobbles to her feet, one arm still curled protectively around Baekhyun’s shoulders as she glares up at Yifan.

 

“I hope you had enough sense not to let two kindergartners go digging through toxic waste bare handed,” she says, one eyebrow raised in question. 

 

“He used gloves, we watched.”  Kyungsoo brings up a sweater clutching fist to pat at his yawning mouth.  “Can we go home now.”

 

“Of course, sweetie.  Let’s go call your mother, I just hope Yixing hasn’t alerted half the national police force yet!”  Song Qian hurries to gather Kyungsoo, a gentle palm on the nape of his neck urging him down the hall.

 

“You can come too?” Baekhyun asks, clinging to Yifan’s damp cuff.  Yifan snaps off the flashlight. 

 

“Ok.” 

 

“Carry me?”

 

Yifan has definitely not tried this before, and he’s especially careful to make sure his hold is secure but not too tight.  He laces his fingers together behind Baekhyun’s back, Baekhyun’s legs slotted over his left hip and his nose buried in Yifan’s armpit.  Both his bony arms curl around Yifan’s neck. 

 

Baekhyun goes from a clingy lemur on a tree trunk to a dead weight while they wait in Amber’s office.  Song Qian phones Kyungsoo’s mother and she and Yixing wait out front at the circle drive to bow and apologize to her while Amber tries to contact Baekhyun’s family.

 

“No one’s picking up,” Amber sighs, chewing on a string of dried squid as she hangs up the line and redials.  Yifan rests his head against the empty bulletin board he’s leaned up against.  Baekhyun is fast asleep on his shoulder, his jaw slack with fatigue though his brow is tight and furrowed.  Every so often he lets out a slight mewl or shifts against Yifan’s chest. 

 

Amber offers to unlock Liyin’s office so he can sleep on the bed in the infirmary but Yifan declines, explaining he’s afraid Baekhyun will start crying again if he sets him down.  What he doesn’t add is that he might also want to cry if he sets Baekhyun down and has to watch him toss and whimper alone on the empty cot.  Amber nods and sets down the phone, shuffling through Baekhyun’s file for another number to try. 

 

Yixing comes back into the office with a deep frown creasing his brow.  His wavy hair is wind blown and finger mussed and he has potting soil all down the front of his pants. 

 

“It’s ok, Amber,” he says, slumping against the frame of the open doorway.  “I’ve just spoken to Baekhyun’s aunt.  She’s on her way.” 

 

“‘Kay.”  Amber shuffles the papers strewn over her desk into a folder.  She threads the brads through the hole punches at the top of the pages before slotting the dossier back into place.  The file drawer closes with a muffled clang. 

 

Song Qian into the office and stops in front of the large mirror opposite the window, letting out a soft mewl of dismay.  Her hair is as wild as Yixing’s, one barrette completely missing now and her blouse untucked from her twisted waistband.  She pulls out the remaining hair clip and wedges it between her teeth as she finger combs through the tangles.

 

“Aw, did Baek fall asleep?” she asks softly, turning a fragile smile in Yifan’s direction as her fingers the snarls from her hair. 

 

“He was so worried.  I think he exhausted himself,” Yifan says.  Song Qian nods, popping open the barrette to position it. 

 

“Oh, here she is.”  Yixing stands and pulls out his buzzing phone, answering in polite Korean as he strides towards the front, motioning Yifan and Song Qian to follow.  

 

“Hey, Baek, baby, you have to wake up now, your auntie’s here.”  Song Qian soothes a warm hand across Baekhyun’s shoulders and he jerks awake, banging his forehead against Yifan’s shoulder before sitting up with a groggy moan.  Yifan loosens his hold on as Baekhyun slithers down his legs to the ground.  Both he and Song Qian steady his shaky steps with a hand on either arm as Baekhyun yawns and fists his bleary eyes. 

 

“Hey, rise and shine!” Song Qian says, her smile wide.  “Time to go home.” 

 

Baekhyun shakes his head and hangs back, skulking between their legs as they walk him down the front steps.  A dark blue Hyundai with a long scratch around the passenger door is idling at the curb.  Yixing is bowed in front of the driver’s side, where half the front bumper is missing, talking to someone through the rolled down window.  It’s a woman, maybe middle aged.  Her graying hair is scraped back into a messy bun, wayward strands escaping into the collar of a wrinkled uniform shirt.  Calloused hands grip the steering wheel.

 

 

Yifan jumps at the honk of the horn, and Baekhyun dashes forward to open the back door.

 

“Yah!” the woman inside the car yells as he clambers onto the seat, his little legs scrambling for purchase on the faded blue upholstery.  Yifan and Song Qian stop at the curb at a subtle nod from Yixing.  “Why are you always causing trouble?” 

 

“Imo!” Baekhyun whines, his voice shrill and raw from hours of stress and tears.  “Imo I’m hungry!”

 

“There isn’t time for dinner now, because you’re late,” she snaps.  Her voice doesn’t sound angry though, mostly tired.  Yifan can’t get a good look at her face through the open car door, but he has a clear view of the way Baekhyun’s shoulders quiver and melt forward in a shiver of distress as he nods with a hoarse murmur.  “Apologize to your teachers.”

 

“I’m sorry for causing trouble,” Baekhyun says, bowing towards Yixing.  His voice cracks on the last syllable when he repeats the apology to Song Qian and Yifan, and Yifan curls his fingers tight into his palm until he can feel the edges of his blunt nails clean against his callouses. 

 

Baekhyun pulls the car door shut as his aunt and Yixing bow and make one last apology to each other for the inconvenience.  Yifan turns away to find Amber watching at the window, her fingers hooked between the slats of the blinds to hold them apart.  She shrugs one shoulder at him in question but he just shakes his head and hurries up the steps, turning off at the first hallway to clean up the back room. 

 

 

 

Yifan doesn’t usually stop at the CU on the way home, only in the mornings, so both Chanyeol and Zitao look up in surprise when he pushes through the door an hour later. 

 

“You better not be eating junk food now, Yifan,” Chanyeol grins.  He pops a Dorito in his mouth from the open bag on the counter.  “You’ll spoil your dinner!”

 

“Just refilling my bus card,” Yifan says, resting his pass on the recharging monitor and pulling  10,000 Won from his wallet. 

 

“Hi,” Zitao says, taking the bill and popping open the register. 

 

“You do know that most people put 100,000 Won on at a time, right?”  Chanyeol taps the monitor as it blinks confirmation.  “Or at least, like, 50,000.”

 

“Yeah,” Yifan says, avoiding Chanyeol’s face to make awkward eye-love to the display of Snickers bars he shouldn’t eat.  “But I’m not most people.”  He keeps his wallet open while he waits for the receipt to print.   

 

“Oh god, I’m sorry!”

 

Zitao recoils as Chanyeol sprays chip crumbs across the counter.  “I wasn’t trying to imply you’re…”

 

“Poor?” Yifan finishes, finally looking up.  Chanyeol looks stricken, his mouth gaping as he backs up and elbows an entire box of My-Chew off the shelf.  Zitao vaults over the counter and lunges to cradle it to his chest before it can crash to the floor.  Chanyeol backs towards the drink case, shoulders hunching with an apologetic bow.

 

“Hyung, please don’t break my store.”  Zitao replaces the box of candy on the shelf, straightening the packs of chews with quick fingers.    

 

“Sorry!”  Chanyeol gives the cardboard box a careful pat before sagging against the counter.  His loose orange and teal knit sweater pools on the hard surface.  “Today’s been a long day.  Yifan, really, I was just trying to be helpful, I didn’t know if you knew that you could...”
 

“Well, I am poor.”  Yifan shrugs and decides that it, today was a long day, he might as well buy the Snickers.  “But the main reason I only put 10,000 on there at a time is ‘cause I...lose things?  Quite often.  Like this morning I lost a bottle of window cleaner in my office and couldn’t find it back for three hours.”

 

“Ahaha!  Three hours?  Seriously?”  Yifan is startled by Chanyeol’s loud laugh, but he smiles as he reaches for a candy bar and hands Zitao his change. 

 

“Yixing and I have more in common than you’d think.”

 

Zitao scans the chocolate and Yifan tucks both receipts into the back pocket of his wallet, making his sure his bus pass is in front for easy access.   

 

“Hey, it’s pretty late,” Chanyeol says.  The plastic crinkles as he folds down the top of the chip bag.  “Do you want a ride home?  I was just about to leave.”  Yifan glances from the register, where Zitao has his side turned to them, chin tucked into his collarbone as he scrolls slowly on his phone. 

 

“Ok.”  Yifan’s probably missed his transfer by now.  “I mean, if it’s not out of your way, I’d appreciate a lift to the terminal,” he says quickly, folding his wallet into his pocket. 

 

 

“No problem!  That’s right on my way home.”  Chanyeol tucks his Doritos under his arm and gestures towards the door.  “After you, my good man.”

 

“Later, hyung,” Zitao waves, not looking up from his phone.

 

“Bye, Tao!” 

 

The wind gusts through the door as soon as Yifan opens it.  He ducks his chin into the collar of his jacket and tries to remember where he put his scarves when he unpacked in August, scratching at the wristband of his watch in frustration when his mind blanks on him.  He’s not always this forgetful, just sometimes, when the stress gets to him. 

 

“I’m parked over here!”  Chanyeol yells, jogging ahead up the hill.  “Just wait there, I’ll be just a sec.” 

 

Yifan shuffles in place, one hand holding his hair back from his face as the wind whips through the empty tree branches overhead.  The tip of his nose feels raw by the time he crawls into the front seat of Chanyeol’s car.  The black leather seat back is chill under his fingers. 

 

“Don’t forget your seatbelt,” Chanyeol sings as he brakes at the bottom of the hill.  “Is this where you take the bus?”  He points through the windshield at the blue sign marking the bus stop on the corner. 

 

“Yeah, but on the other side of the street,” Yifan says.  The smooth band of the seatbelt is cold, too.  “This one goes away from the terminal.” 

 

“I’m clueless,” Chanyeol says with a short laugh, leaning forward as he eases into traffic.  “I haven’t rode the bus in years.”  

 

“Do a lot of Korean kids take public transportation alone?”  Yifan’s bus stops at a middle school, but he hasn’t noticed many kids younger than upper elementary boarding alone. 

 

“Is this about Baekhyun?”  Chanyeol meets Yifan’s eyes in the rearview mirror and Yifan turns to stare out the window.  The sun is disappearing between the rows of multistory apartment buildings, the glare harsh on the endless rows of windows.  “Baekhyun is a scholarship student, as you probably know.”  Chanyeol waits for Yifan’s nod before continuing.  “I think he lives kind of far from school.  If his family all have work, I guess he doesn’t have too many options.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“You realize we shouldn’t be discussing students’ personal info,” Chanyeol says, a nervous laugh escaping through his nose as he switches on his turn signal.  “If Amber knew she’d have my head.”

 

“Oh.”  Of course.  Yifan feels his neck heat beneath his wilting collar, a tad flustered he didn’t think of that himself.  There is so much about school and way things work he just doesn’t understand.  Which shouldn’t matter because all he has to do is show up to empty the trash, but here he is having feelings and getting mixed up in the lives of a bunch of noisy, snot nosed brats.  What would Jess say if she could see him now?

 

“Yifan, your problem is you care too much, too much about the things you can’t change.”

 

“I know.”  He never thought, realistically, that he could change anything.

 

“I know.”  He was trying, though, harder than he originally thought was possible, trying every time he managed to get both socks on and force his feet down the front steps. 

 

“Yifan?” 

 

“What?”  Yifan startles at the light touch of Chanyeol’s fingers on his arm. 

 

“Where exactly do you want me to drop you?”  Chanyeol the dryness from his lips, inclining his head as he nods to an internal beat.   

 

“Oh, uh,” Yifan fingers the back of his earring, running through the stops on his route in his head.  “Do you the know the Lotte Mart in Ssangyong?”

 

“By the university?”  Chanyeol beats his thumbs against the steering wheel and Yifan wishes he would turn on the radio.  It’s too quiet in this car with the fancy sound proofing technology. 

 

“Yeah.  Anywhere around there would be great.”  Yifan smiles, makes sure he holds it long enough for Chanyeol to catch sight of it in the mirror. 

 

“No problem,” Chanyeol says, finally reaching to turn on the stereo.  Yifan settles against the seat as mellow acoustic floods the space.  His ears feel wet with the fluid ribbons of pink and yellow synthesized haze.  It’s a recording, not the radio, and it matches the sunset.  “So you live all the way out in Ssangyong?”

 

“No, not really,” Yifan says.  He glances out the window, at the rush of empty tree branches and street lamps, their plastic light bulb covers dark and full with exoskeleton remains.  Despite the rush hour they’re making great time.  Another ten minutes, maybe. 

 

“Going shopping, then?”  Chanyeol’s nodding along to the music with his whole upper body, his thumbs tapping out a syncopated rhythm against the slow spiral of the strummed chords.  Henry would probably enjoy this, start humming an extra layer of harmony under the melody line.  

 

“Mm, yeah.”  Yifan pulls up his shopping list on his phone.  “I haven’t made a grocery run in two weeks.”  His freezer is nearly empty, besides a few bananas on top of his fridge he keeps on hand for smoothies.  He finished the last of the spinach two days ago, but he hadn’t planned on shopping today. 

 

Chanyeol brakes for the light at the next intersection and steals Yifan’s phone out of his hands.  He quickly types in his number before tossing it back.  “There.  Now you can call me when you need to go shopping, or it’s raining, or--”  He breaks off as the light changes and he has to maneuver around a truck to get into the turn lane. 

 

“Thanks.”  Yifan checks his contacts and smirks at the newest.  Chanyeol typed his name in English in all caps: CHANYEPL☆.  Yifan types a smiley face into the text box and hits send, closing the address book and slipping his phone between his legs.  Chanyeol’s phone chimes between their seats, the sound magnified by the cupholder it’s nestled in.  The noise fades into the music, and Yifan lets the wordless sounds from the stereo swallow his ears for the rest of the ride.    

 

“Really, though,” Chanyeol insists again as Yifan climbs out to the curb.  His face looks too thin in the shadows, his chin disappearing into the collar of the blue shirt under his orange sweater.  “You can call me anytime.  You’re always saving my neck at school, so.”

 

“You’re holding up traffic,” Yifan says.  Chanyeol jerks his head around to look out his back windshield.  “Thanks for the ride.”  Yifan slams the passenger door as Chanyeol shifts gears, waving after the silver car as it speeds away.  

 

 

******