In the corner of an apartment that clearly belongs to someone young, male, and unkempt, a subwoofer quietly thrums out the bass of a hiphop playlist.  It’s just background noise, the kind that is rarely turned off except to put on a new album or to allow the owner of that apartment to load music onto the attached iPod.  The table that holds the stereo is a certifiable mess, piled with sharpie-labelled CDs in blank jewel cases and a tangle of various audio cables.  A blue cap sits on top of one speaker and a gray sweater hangs off the right edge of the table, threatening to fall to the dusty ground.  

Much of the rest of the small space of the living room resembles this mess.  A desk sits against one wall, covered in sheet music, pencils, and too many empty pop cans to count.  A few decorations are half buried in the mess, including a special edition vinyl print of NWA’s Straight Outta Compton and a Plato bobblehead.  

The decor in the apartment seems thrown together, and yet it manages to work, and it certainly shows the personality of its lone occupant.  The frames on the walls contain a mixture of concert promos, almost pretentious modern art, and inspirational and philosophical quotes on black and white landscapes.  The black bookshelves - four of them - are too filled with books to spare any room for staging, the volumes include textbooks, the great works of philosophers modern and ancient, biographies, and historical accounts.  Of course, there are also two rows of the manga that his friends got him hooked on.

There’s a lone fern by the patio door, the kind of plant that’s almost impossible to kill, but it’s the third that has occupied this space in the span of eighteen months.  The man who lives here refuses to give up on his efforts to keep the plant alive, claiming some philosophical purpose behind it.  His friends know that he just wants to prove that he’s responsible enough to take care of something, since he frequently fails to keep himself fed and watered as it is.

Aside a couple of questionable barstools against the kitchen counter, there’s really only one space to entertain guests.  A worn, gray loveseat sits at an angle to the television, and a young man is sprawled across it.  His long legs are thick with muscle, but not so defined that the denim of his jeans clings them.  His right leg is hitched over the back of the seat while his left dangles over one arm.  His head is propped up on the opposite arm, and he is staring intently at a Wii U master controller.  His face is concentrated, but deep dimples pierce the fair skin of his cheeks, and his lips are curved into a determined smirk.  A wave of bright red hair has been swept out of his face, but it rests precariously at one edge of his forehead, threatening to fall into his line of vision at any moment.  

A black pleather couch faces the television directly, separated from the loveseat by a few feet.  Two more young men are perched upon it, their gazes set intently on the television before them.  Their posture is identical - legs spread wide, forearms just beneath the elbow pressed into their knees, controllers held tight as their bodies swerve with the movement of their on-screen vehicles.

While their posture matches, that is where the similarities end.  The man on the right is shorter, stockier, all muscle and sharp angles in a smaller frame.  His hair is bleached to a white-blonde, and his fringe falls to perfectly frame his meticulously maintained dark eyebrows.  Beneath them, his eyes are round and bright, even in their narrowed focus.  The brown of his iris is like dark chocolate, deep and silky and all too easy to get lost in. His face is undeniably beautiful, with cheekbones that seem to be destined for the peak of Mount Everest, a powerful jaw, and a strong, square chin.  

His deltoids and biceps ripple where they are exposed by the black tank top he has stripped down to.  A pink tongue sticks out between a row of white teeth and his bottom lip, as if it somehow helps his concentration.  His strength flows throughout his body, even apparent in his wrists and fingers, which grip the sides of a Wii Wheel and turn it sharply to the left.

The man next to him is perhaps the polar opposite, but no less beautiful in his own right.  He is long and lean, and his legs stick out a little further while the long, straight line of his back stretches beyond his friend’s shoulders.  His tawny skin is rich and warm, a very different sort of golden than the light bronzing that dusts his cohort’s fairer features.  His slender arms show a faint hint of their tone beneath the green, long-sleeved shirt, but it isn’t a fitted cut to begin with.

Like his friend, his frame flows from head to toe - long neck, trim waist, and while his legs aren’t exactly spindly, they are certainly more slender than those of the other men in the room.  His hands are long and graceful and his thumbs move with practiced ease over the buttons on his classic Nintendo controller.  His own dimples are more subtle than those of his friend on the couch, and they are all but hidden at the moment as his brow furrows in concentration.  His hair is a soft chestnut brown, unstyled and laying flat against his head.  

Aside from the music coming from the stereo that is meshing - not well - with the game songs and sounds, it is relatively silent in the room.  There’s an occasional grunt or whine or muttered curse, but all three are too focused on the game to talk.  That is until the tall brunette shouts in a deep, gravelly tone, “Jackson, watch out!”

On screen, a shell shoots out and hits Wario, while Bowser Jr. whizzes past just before they reach the finish line.  “YES!”  The shout comes from the loveseat, the occupant of which jumps up and tosses the controller onto the cushions as he begins a victory dance.  “That’s right, s, time to pay up!  No one defeats the aegyo king!”  His face is scrunched up, his hands up in the air and balled into loose fists as his body wiggles.  His eyes have shrunk into tiny crescents and his dimples seem to have been pressed in by invisible fingers, making him the dictionary definition of ‘cute.’

The blonde groans and tosses the wheel to his right before slumping bodily across his seatmate.  His arms find their way easily around those slim shoulders, and his head falls dramatically against the man’s chest as he pushes them both back against the back of the couch.  “Namjoooon, it’s not faiiiiir!” he whines as he buries his face in the warmth of that chest.

Namjoon chuckles and brings up a hand to pat his friend’s back.  “I swear you cheat, Jooheon.  How do you win literally every time?”  His head is turned toward the loveseat, eyebrow quirked.  He’s not a terribly sore loser, and his lips are turned up in a smile despite his disbelief.  

“You seriously underestimate the amount of time I spend playing this game,” Jooheon replies as he sticks his tongue out.  “No matter, you owe me lunch,” he points to Namjoon, “and you , Jackson…” his voice trails off.

Jackson perks up, his head shooting off of Namjoon’s chest as he snaps it toward Jooheon.  There’s a vague look of horror on his face and his adam’s apple bobs up and down with a nervous swallow.  “Uh, yup, me, I know.  I’ll do the thing,” he nods, but it’s impossible to miss the hint of fear or hesitation or… something in his shaky voice.

Namjoon’s head turns back toward Jackson, and his arm tightens a bit around the small of his back.  “You okay?  What did he bet you for?  Is he making you go on that roller coaster again next month?”  He remembers the last time they dragged Jackson on a thrill ride, and the shrill screams that left him with more of a headache than the rickety nature of the ride.  The very thought makes Namjoon shudder as he turns an accusing eye toward their friend.

Jackson is torn between leaning into the touch and stiffening in Namjoon’s arms, and the result is a statue like flop onto his shoulder.  “N.. no no!”  His stammer is accompanied by a nervous laugh and Namjoon’s attention returns to him.  “I..it’s nothing like that.”  The smile on Jackson’s face is wide and bright enough to light the whole room as his wide eyes scrunch up happily.  “Just a… deal we made a few days ago.  Nothing to worry about!”  

The smile on Namjoon’s face fades into a confused half-frown, but when Jackson pops up off of the couch and takes their empty glasses to the kitchen, he can do little more than shrug and stretch his arms up over his head.  “Mmmkay, whatever you say,” he mutters as he turns his eyes back to Jooheon.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jooheon smiles as he sits on the arm of the loveseat.  His legs are wide and his hands rest on his knees, and he looks from Namjoon to Jackson and back again.  “What you SHOULD worry about is feeding me.  I’m hungry!”  There’s no room for any question in his voice, which has dropped from its higher, conversational lilt to a deep, commanding tone.

Warm laughter comes from Namjoon, who stands and raises his hands in a form of surrender as he shakes his head.  “Alright, alright, time to feed Honey, I got it,” he mutters, but there is amusement in his tone.  “I’m just gonna go to bathroom before we head out, alright?”  He’s still quietly laughing and shaking his head as he turns to go down the hall.  Seriously, how did he end up with these two characters for best friends?

It takes exactly three-quarters of a second after Namjoon closes the door for Jooheon to cross his arms over his chest and direct a pointed and expectant stare at Jackson.  The blonde groans and his shoulders slump as he lugs himself back into the living room, where he falls to his knees.  He wraps his arms around Jooheon’s legs and looks up with his eyes wide and his plump lips formed into a quivering pout.  “Please have mercy!  I can’t do it now, Honeybear!”  He’s whining and desperate, and Jooheon rolls his eyes, but his resolve does not otherwise falter.

“Oh no, I don’t think so,” Jooheon shakes his leg until Jackson lets him go, and then drags the boy up onto the loveseat.  “A deal’s a deal, Jackson, and I’m tired of listening to you moon over him and pine over everything that you don’t have when you won’t even try to tell him how you feel.”  His words are stern, but there’s a comforting arm wrapped around Jackson’s shoulder, allowing him to nestle into those last few moments of comfort.

The deal has been a long time coming, if Jackson’s being honest with himself, but that doesn’t make him any more eager to face the coming storm.  He can’t remember when it started now, but Jooheon has been more than patient with him.  The three of them have been best friends since their high school years, where they all went through exams, projects, and graduation side by side.  It was natural for them to go on to university together, especially since they were all studying music, but that was where it started to change.

If he thinks hard enough, though, Jackson knows things didn’t change so much as he came to realize the truth.  That is to say, puberty, a decent haircut, and a sudden interest in fashion helped him to see that his feelings for Namjoon were much more than friendly.

Namjoon was his best friend, though.  Namjoon was the person that Jackson could turn to at his worst moments, the person who could offer a few words of philosophical wisdom, the one whose hand felt the most comforting in Jackson’s, the one who knew all of his deepest, darkest secrets.  So instead of telling Namjoon, he’d done what was logical - and told Jooheon.

For the first six months, Jooheon had been understanding.  He’d allowed Jackson to fret over his crush on their best friend and reassured him that it was certainly not the end of the world.  Time had gone on, though, and it became clear that this was so much more than just a little innocent pining over a good looking friend.

For what is probably the millionth time and then some, Jackson wiggles in Jooheon’s arms and clings to his shirt as he pouts, “You know it’s not that simple.”  He can still remember when they had that discussion, the one that made it clear that sleeping around with as many co-eds as possible was not going to fill the Namjoon-shaped hole in his heart.  

“It’s more than the clothes and the new haircut, isn’t it?”  Jooheon doesn’t really seem to be asking, but Jackson is confused all the same as he turns to face his friend on the couch.  “Namjoon,” Jooheon says, as if that clears everything up.  “This… this isn’t just a crush,” he resolves.

Jackson frowns as Jooheon grabs his hand to make sure he has his attention.  “Remember that thing you said to me last night, after Joonie hurt his wrist?”  The frown deepens, but Jooheon’s eyes open wider and his head tilts slightly as he waits for the answer.

Of course Jackson remembers what he said, but now he’s wishing he’d been granted the gift of silence.  He wasn’t, though, so he opens his mouth and blabbers about his feelings to the first person who will listen.  He also kind of wishes he hadn’t picked Jooheon to be said confidant.  “Ugh, yeah,” he groans as he sits up and tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling.  

“Okay, but can you blame me!?”  He faces Jooheon again with a defensive spark in his eyes.  “You saw him!  I mean he was all helpless and cute and couldn’t hold his pen in lecture to take notes.  How am I supposed to resist a pout like that?”  The anger turns to desperation somewhere in the middle of his words, and Jooheon grumbles.

“Yes, great, and what about after we dropped him off?”

Jackson swallows and his gaze falls to his thumbs, which are busy spinning in dizzy circles around each other.  “Um.  That.  That I was glad I was there. That I… I like that I’m the one he turns to for help; that it feels - .”

There’s clear relief in Jooheon’s sigh, and he grips Jackson’s shoulder with a fair bit of sympathy.  “Yeah man.  I think the crush phase is long gone on this one.  Hate to break it to you, but you’re in love with your best friend.”

Two, maybe three years have passed, and absolutely nothing has changed about the situation.  Well, except for the fact that Jackson only falls more in love with Namjoon every day, with every sparkle in his eyes when he smiles that stupid, sweet smile that puts the dimples in action and every furrow of his brow when someone sets him off on some philosophical tangent.  The harder he falls, the more he complains, and the more Jooheon has had to put up with his whining.

That morning had been the last straw for Jooheon, though, and before they had arrived at Namjoon’s apartment the bet had been placed.  If Jooheon won the race, Jackson would have to confess his feelings, no matter what he feared the cost might be.  He’d been putting off the inevitable for too long, but that didn’t change his lack of interest in accepting that bet.  Jooheon never lost at Mario Kart.