His throat feels dry as disdainful eyes stare him down, the pretty features of the person in front of him screaming displeasure at his mere presence.

“Good morning, Hakyeon-hyung,” he attempts to says, and honestly, it sounded a lot better than he expected. He manages a small smile, but makes his posture as guilty as he can. Dealing with Hakyeon is something he’s still learning how to do, and a lot harder than he initially thought, given that the older boy has a reputation of being easy-going and gentle.

Yeah, nope.

He kinda expected it, yet it isn’t any better for his ego when Hakyeon simply goes back to walk, passing through him with no change in his expression. Wonshik instinctively reaches out for him, grabbing the thin wrist.

Blazing eyes turn to glare at him and his grasp, and Hakyeon pushes his wrist, trying to release the grip; he won’t let him go, not until they talk. “Do not, touch me,” the dancer growls in between teeth angrily.

“Only if you agree to talk to me.”

“I have nothing to talk to you,” Hakyeon snorts, pushing harder his arm. At this pace, he’ll end up hurting himself. “You made your priorities very clear.”

The bite on his voice makes Wonshik’s lips stretch into a smirk unintentionally, amused. This is something that fires him up, the challenge the dancer imposes; despite wanting to win this bet as fast as he can, he’s learning to appreciate the chase just as much as the prospect of winning. “Are you jealous, Hakyeon?”

Said boy splutters and – hell yes, this is a great sign – blushes a little. “D-Don’t be ridiculous! Me, jealous? Preposterous.”

“Then there is no reason for you to be mad at me,” Wonshik makes the smirk turn into a smile, and releases Hakyeon’s wrist only to push him by the waist. He knows he’s drawing attention, the buzz of chatter reaching his ears, and a quick glance around confirms it; a few small groups are all looking at him and the dancer, whispering to themselves, most likely shocked that Cha Hakyeon, 1/3 of the untouchable B1 Trio, is in the arms of someone they don’t know.

Hakyeon seems to notice this too, and so starts to punch him on the chest; he’s a lot more strong than his lithe figure suggests. “You damned larva, I’ll castrate you if you don’t release me right-ing-now!”

“Talk to me,” Wonshik repeats, pressing closer. The other’s body is warm and all defined, slim muscle, felt even through his light jacket and black shirt. He wonders if he’ll be able to touch this same body in the future, not to contain Hakyeon, but just for the pleasure of a touch. He hopes it’s something that will eventually happen; no one can win a bet involving seduction without touching.

Hakyeon glares at him, still refusing. The blush on his face darkens, and it delights Wonshik to no end.

“Give me ten minutes, hyung; we can get out of here, I’ll buy you some banana milk and we’ll talk without so many eyes on us.”

They spend a minute in silence, staring at each other; Hakyeon’s clear, chocolate brown eyes burning holes on his skin, his own challenging him to try. His blood thrums with excitement, and he can’t help holding the smaller body closer to him, caressing the other’s waist absentmindedly, one eyebrow raised in silent question.

He sees Hakyeon’s angry expression cracking slowly, losing the immediate heated glare and the tightening of lips to give place to a patronizing look, still fiery, but kept in check, under the surface, ready to strike at the wrong move.

It’s been a long time since Wonshik properly attempted to seduce someone; he’s that one-night-stand type of guy, never having time to invest on a serious relationship, not the interest to do so. The girls and boys he normally goes for are those already interested in him, and those who play coy while wanting him. He’s no Hongbin in terms of appearance – honestly, no one is quite that handsome – but he’s sufficiently good-looking to have no problems getting the girl or the boy for the night. He knows his voice does things to people, and he worked hard for the body he has.

Hakyeon’s resistance, his narcissism, is both infuriating and… hot.

“Take a picture, it will last longer,” the sass takes Wonshik’s attention back to the dancer.

“Maybe later,” he smiles cheekily.

“… You have ten minutes.”

“Aye,” he singsongs, loosening up a bit of his grip on Hakyeon’s waist; he keeps his hand there, and under the scrutiny of a dozen or two of people, guides the most desired body of the B1 away.

.

.

“I don’t like it,” Sanghyuk says for the tenth time in less than half an hour, much to Jaehwan displeasure.

He drops his hold on the pen, it making an empty thud on the graphic tablet on his lap. The screen in front of them shows one of his creations, a girl with sad blue eyes and wavy brown hair, blown away from her pale face by an invisible wind as she prepares herself to run, a dark, trembling dark figure disappearing far from her.

Jaehwan sighs, starting to become frustrated with the director. “Yah, how about you decide what you want before demanding I draw it? Y’know, my poor fingers are cramping,” he whines, adding some sarcasm to it.

The brat – more childish than himself, he thinks with no little amount of hidden annoyance – frowns, his nose scrunching up and his mouth tightens on a straight line; Sanghyuk looks more annoyed than he, and as the minutes pass, he regrets more and more accepting to work with someone that is obviously incapable of working with others when it means working together, not glaring people until they bend to his wishes.

Wonshik’s voice echoes in his mind, reminding him that he has to supposedly woo this pest; he controls the urge to sigh.

He’s good with people, no doubt about that, yet he is no Jesus Christ to go around making miracles; this Sanghyuk kid is not his type, and he feels zero attraction to the younger, and the feeling is very much mutual. Sanghyuk looks most of the time ready punch his cute face – oh, he can try – or bolt out of the room. Probably the boy regrets as much as him the formation of this duo; cocky brat certainly didn’t expect him to have an opinion. As part of the B1 himself, Jaehwan had seen more times than he can count juniors and seniors following Sanghyuk, bowing to his every demand, for the boy was a hypothetical genius.

Till the moment, Jaehwan hasn’t seen any genius-ness coming from the younger; he’s all indecision and a whole lot of grumbling and frowning. They’ve been cooped up in the library for an hour now, and they hadn’t reached anywhere.

For what is not the first, and won’t be the last time, he curses the colorful drinks he’s so fond of recently for putting him in this situation. Hongbin, normally the voice of reason, was just as wasted as him back then, and he should have stepped up as the hyung in the occasion; he hadn’t, coerced by promises of brushes and paint. He’s so easy.

“I visualized things darker,” Sanghyuk finally admits after a long time, voice softer than Jaehwan had ever heard from him. He sounded... not quite a kid, but someone his age. Someone with actual manners and social abilities. “This is a story of an unreachable love, of melancholy; of not being enough to the person you love despite trying your best. I need something that shows that soulmate is a concept that doesn’t mean anything if only one side believes in it, and that destiny can’t force love upon two people, set on stone or not.”

Oh, that was… surprising.

“So you actually have a heart,” Jaehwan finds himself saying, cocking his head to the side in speculation. It feels like it’s the first time he sees Sanghyuk, “a very depressing, pessimistic heart for such a young body, but a heart. The youth nowadays, so discouraging.”

The younger seems caught off guard, eyeing him owlishly, before the unexpected happens; Sanghyuk doubles over, giggling of all things, forehead on the table and arms around his middle.

Jaehwan blinks once, then twice; he rubs his eyes to be sure he’s not hallucinating, and when the image in front of him remains the same, he holds the impulse to take a picture – film it – and sell it online. Han Sanghyuk, The Director, 1/3 of the B1 Trio is indeed giggling at god knows what. Discreetly, Jaehwan pinches his arm, a guarantee of his state of consciousness. Hurts like hell. Yep, definitely awake.

Still, it’s so otherworldly, so absurd to be observing the way the boy’s eyes curve into half-moons and crinkle at the corners, his entire expression free of irritation creases, cute little teeth exposed in a smile that curled ever so slightly at the ends, the relatively large – a bit like his, really – nose wrinkling that he can’t be blamed for thinking his lunch was spoiled and this is a figment of his – very, very, very colorful – imagination. Weirdly, he feels a small amount of fondness for Sanghyuk, some of his annoyance disappearing; pride too, for making the I-scare-ghost Han Sanghyuk giggle at something he did or said, despite not having a single idea what this something was.

“*giggle* Yamamoto *giggle* Genryuusai,” the unexpected name in between giggles lights a light bulb in Jaehwan’s head. An image of an old man, badass but constantly complaining about the younger generations appears on his mind.

He immediately gets it. “Are you calling me old?!”

“I totally am,” a smirk pushes Sanghyuk’s lips upwards, and his eyes shine with water, tears collecting on it from laughing so much. “‘Youngsters these days’, ‘in my times things were different’, you speak like an old man.”

“Kid…”

“Better than an old man.”

“… You’re a pest.”

 “And you an ahjumma.”

Jaehwan huffs, pouting at the dissonant posture Sanghyuk now presents. He turns to look at his drawing, picking the pen he dropped, twisting it on his fingers, itching to add a detail or ten. “Crazy brat– Don’t know if I prefer you acting like you having something up your , or as a nerd comparing me to a Bleach character of all things. Didn’t you have a better comparison? Like Chopper? He’s cute like me.”

Sanghyuk immediately closes his face, his smirking lips curving downwards; his brown returns to its’ customary frown-y position, but the humor in his eyes remains untouched. He supports his head with a hand, elbow on the desk. It’s a juvenile pose, with his platinum hair half-falling from its place.

“Chopper? Please, you couldn’t be half as cute as him even if you tried. Starting by changing these horrendous clothes,” the director teases, expression still serious, eyes still mischievous.

He dared..! “There’s nothing wrong with my clothes!”

“Oh no?! They’re the tackiest, ugliest thing I’ve ever seen! Who wears an orange shirt with coconuts on it?!”

“It’s cute,” Jaehwan protests, pushing the shirt down to reveal said coconuts more clearly for the world. He won’t admit it, but this banter is fun, on the verge of friendly. “See? At least I don’t look like a delinquent!”

Sanghyuk runs a hand through his dyed platinum-blonde hair self-conscientiously, scowling at him. “I’ll take the delinquent any day– It’s more dignified than looking like a neon pole!”

“Oh, you’re in for it!”

The smile on Sanghyuk’s face is predatory, mirroring his own. “Give your best shot, ahjumma, and careful not to hurt your back.”

So he can see himself making a bit more of effort on this bet, uh. Han Sanghyuk isn’t that bad, if he can keep up with him. He even looks endearing right now, with mischievousness consuming his face, making it young and free of the creases usually associated with him, all framed by his dyed hair, shining white with the lights.

.

.

People are whispering.

At least, they try to.

As Taekwoon walks the hallways of the B5, looking for the room Hongbin took him last time to see the – adorable, cute, fluffy little – kittens and puppies, he feels the looks of people burning into his skin, and their whispers a soundtrack to every one of his steps. It’s not pleasant to be observed like a wild animal out of its cage, and it’s one of the several reasons why he hates leaving his usual place behind the staircases at the B1. He doesn’t understand people’s interests on him – and Hakyeon and Sanghyuk – but he knows that he doesn’t appreciate it.

He only needs Hakyeon and Sanghyuk. They’re the only ones to matter besides his family, and his family is far from there, living calmly on a small city, free from the pressures of college and building a life from scratch. He supposes it’s his fault for choosing to stay behind when they moved, but then, he couldn’t abandon Hakyeon and a recovering Sanghyuk.

“It’s Jung Taekwoon from the B1! What he’s doing here?”

“I heard it’s the second time he comes here– Last time, the vet’s pretty boy, what’s his name… Hong-something–”

“Lee Hongbin, from fourth year?”

“This one! Well, he approached the Composer and took him somewhere.”

“I wouldn’t have the courage to get close to him.”

“Neither would I. He seems so cold.”

Taekwoon lightly rolls his eyes at the group’s attempts to be quiet while following him, not succeeding at all; they are loud and gossipy. Had Sanghyuk been with him, the younger would almost definitely turn a glare so full of wrath towards them, they would go running to their c=mother, crying in fear. Had it been Hakyeon, the older would turn to them with a saccharine smile and politely ask to them not to follow him anymore.

He’s not with either of them – an ugly, nasty feeling curls on his insides, taunting at him that they’re somewhere else, maybe together; unquestionably without him – and he’s not one to deal with conflict directly. His lack of reaction is what keeps most of it away.

Hongbin understood that, that night on the club; he, who had nothing to do with the situation, took upon himself to help Taekwoon, noticing how bad he is with people, naturally aiding – he won’t go as far as saying he was protected, for it would be a lie; he’s no damsel in distress – him despite them not knowing each other. Despite the fact Taekwoon didn’t treat him exactly well. He, with his dimpled – deep, cute – cheeks and sassy remarks, simply helped. Taekwoon couldn’t – can’t – understand why and how the boy perceived so much about him; it makes his neck and ears slightly hot, and he closes his hands into fists, to stop thinking about those things.

He stops walking and looks around; the hallway is big and full of doors, each and every one of them looking exactly the same to his eyes, students passing through him, some unabashedly staring at him, others too busy to bother, thank god. It wasn’t a good idea to go wander by himself in a building he had never before stepped into, in the four years and a half he’s been in college. He should have waited for Hongbin to appear on the outside of the building, maybe ask – not likely – for the younger boy.

Taekwoon then resumes his walking, searching for a place to settle; he returns to the ground floor and finds a small, cramped stand of coffee, deciding to stay there; if he’s lucky, someone will warn Hongbin of his presence, or at least gossip enough for the boy hear them out and go looking for him, like last time. He also could do with a latte. Judging the climate outside – windy, but sunny and bright – he’ll have an iced one, no syrup, the largest they sell.

The boy behind the counter stares at him for a full minute before making a squealing noise that supposedly is he asking what Taekwoon would want; his whispered ‘iced latte’ and the negative shake of his head when asked about the syrup both seem to shock the boy into another minute of blankness.

Taekwoon only blinks, paying for his drink. He scans the place, looking for a place to sit, finding none; a girl who is sitting by herself notices his actions, and blushing all the way, from her neck to hairline, picks up her things to sit in another table, cramped and loud. He takes the action as an invitation, and promptly sits on the vacated seat. He adjusts the headphones on his ears and turns on his music. A simple, soft piano melody floats his ears, and he closes his eyes, crossing his arms in front of his body to relax.

Hopefully, Hongbin won’t take too long.

.

.

He crosses his arms in front of his body, tense; he feels the creases on his forehead, marring otherwise a perfect tan skin.

“Ten minutes,” Hakyeon hisses, trying to glare a hole into Wonshik’s horrible – handsome – face.

The boy seated at his front rests his elbows on the table, one hand supporting his face; an apologetic smile twists his expression, some of the bad-boy vibe – leather jacket, ripped jeans, low-collared shirt revealing a little of ink on his collarbone – disappearing to show a soft-looking boy, with warm eyes and fluffy black hair.

These kinds of contrasts are what drive Hakyeon insane. He doesn’t get Wonshik, and this is maddening for him, who has an admirable ability to read people, know what they’re thinking about. Wonshik is both shy and bold, soft and rough; he can fix dark, lustful brown eyes on you in one moment, just as much as these same eyes can resemble melted chocolate, sweet and warm. Like now.

He sips his hot chocolate, in cue with this thought; sweet, like Wonshik’s eyes. “I’m sorry for what happened that night in the club, hyung,” the younger starts.

Hakyeon snorts into his mug resentfully. He should be sorry.

“A friend of mine drank his weight in alcohol that night, and I was the one responsible for taking him home,” Wonshik continues, running his free hand through his hair; some of it stayed up in a weirdly adorable way. “He was in a really bad shape, so I had to go.”

He understands, truly does; he remembers a time in which he had to sneakily leave his house during the night, to bandage Sanghyuk up, to dry Taekwoon’s tears, to go to them when being by himself was too much.

But that doesn’t mean he will forgive Wonshik; this boy right here left him like he was nothing. After dancing with him, kissing him neck, sensually running his hands all over his body, had left because of a drunkard. It’s absurd, it’s unacceptable.

“Is that it?” his voice drips contempt, and Hakyeon catches the way Wonshik’s eyes drop a little, as if unnerved.

“Well, yes,” the other admits. “It wasn’t something I wanted to do– believe me, I was enjoying our time together,” he wiggles his eyebrows, and Hakyeon hates how his cheeks heat up at the sight, “a lot.”

“You regret it?” Wonshik doesn’t hesitate, and his answer only annoys him further.

“No, I don’t. Jaehwan-hyung needed me, and he’s my friend, like I said that day.”

This larva brat. What’s the point on following – he ignores the tightening on his chest that is pleased with the fact – him if he’s not on his knees begging for forgiveness? Makes no sense.

He starts to get up, decided on not spending any minute more on this stupid boy that just has the knack to rile him up; he would have done that if Wonshik hadn’t held his hand in the last instant, intertwining their fingers together. His hands are calloused, fingers stockier than Taekwoon’s, rougher than Sanghyuk’s but still… they are nice, hot against his own heated skin. “What?!” he spits, head swimming with too many sensations. Should he go? Should he stay? Ten minutes haven’t passed yet.

“Please hy– Hakyeon,” the use of his name by that hoarse voice sends an involuntary shiver down his spine, and he looks up – his eyes had diverged to stare at the slight contrast both their hands make, the two tanned – to fix his gaze into Wonshik’s pleading eyes. “Please. Give me another chance. If it were you, you would have done the same, wouldn’t you? If the director or the compositor were drunk and needing your help?”

Of course he would; there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for them. “Yes, I would,” he begrudgingly agrees.

“Without even explaining me the reason why you were leaving, right?” again, he nods, not feeling more anger than exasperation and a slight, small, almost imperceptible amount of embarrassment. Wonshik squeezes his hands reassuringly of all things, and his smile becomes cheeky. “See?”

That… that… Argh!

“You went sassy on me,” he half-asses one excuse to remain angry, and sees how it the younger isn’t fazed by it. “I hate sassiness directed at me.”

“Do what I say, don’t do what I do?” Wonshik smirks, thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand. It’s distracting. He slaps him for being insolent. “Auch, hyung!”

A giggle escapes his mouth before he can hold it, and at the hopeful look on Wonshik’s face, plus the warm weight of his hand on his, in a one in a million occasions, causes him to give in.

“I want to eat galbi tomorrow.”

Wonshik whole face lights up – so charmingly innocent, with closed eyes and a wide grin, hair half falling on his forehead – and he bends down to kiss Hakyeon’s hand.

His heart starts to best a little faster, and he turns his face away, self-conscious like he never is.

“Thank you hyung! I promise I won’t mess up again!”

Hakyeon permits a small smile to push his lips up. “I’m counting on it.”

.

.

That was it for this chapter! 

I HAD to put more Hyuken interactions 'cause they were totally missing in the last few chapters. I feel like they can go on really well if they want to, and neither really wants to so... Yeah, we've seen the results.

Hakyeon, darling, is that a crush on Wonshik I'm seeing? And how about you, Mr. Taekwoon? I'm having all kinds of fuzzy, fluffy, confused vibes coming from both of you~ Oh, I enjoyed writing this, despite the fact I'm rusty~

Oh, chapter title based on Maroon 5 One More Night (more like the cover by Alex Goot & a bunch of people)

I know I complain about college every single chapter, but that's the way it is: College is my life and my nemesis. Especially now that I'm a second year.

So, all mistakes are mine; I don't have a beta, so sorry.

Thank you everyone who reviewed, subscribed and continues to accompany this even though I'm so unorganized and inconstant with my updates. I love every single one of you! 

ps: Yamamoto Genryuusai is a character from the anime Bleach. He's an old man who's always complains when he has to fight with younger - everyone then, basically - people. Chopper (or Tony Tony Chopper) is a cute reeinder from the anime One Piece, Jaehwan's favorite character and Sanghyuk's favorite anime (I think)