He hadn’t studied.

Hoseok always had time to study, but never did because frankly, life had a lot more to it than textbooks and grade reports. So he hadn’t studied.

And that was fine; Namjoon had told him, ‘I’ll be right next to you; just look off my paper and you’ll pass.’ But Namjoon was out sick and Hoseok felt like he’d been stranded at sea.

He’d never understood physics. Something about velocity, something about gravity, something about friction. And he’d guessed his way through twelve questions before Hoseok remembered he didn’t just sit next to Namjoon.

On Hoseok’s right was Min Yoongi. Delinquent Min Yoongi, who failed all his classes and had to clean the dining hall every day as ‘academic reform.’ Delinquent Min Yoongi, who Hoseok had subtly admired the entire semester for his cool and mysterious aura (and maybe because he’s simply attractive). Delinquent Min Yoongi, whose cell phone was currently a soft glow from its space under the desk. He was doing a solid job of cheating, in Hoseok’s opinion: flawless poker face, reclined at just the right angle to glance underneath the desk without the professor catching on.

But if Hoseok didn’t get to cheat, neither did Yoongi. “Hey,” he whispered. Hoseok couldn’t help if his voice carried. Genetics. Min Yoongi didn’t flinch, didn’t react. So Hoseok kept on: “Hey. Yoongi. Don’t cheat, man. Not cool.”

“I’m not cheating.” Yoongi remained stoic, lips barely moving.

Somewhere nearby, a girl turned around and shot them a look. The professor, from the opposite corner of the room, had no idea. “It’s okay, man. No shame, just don’t—”

“Shut up, idiot, you’re gonna get us in trouble.” Dark eyes passed over Hoseok, just for a moment, before latching back onto the phone screen.

Yoongi was cheating. He was totally cheating and Hoseok didn’t want to answer another question without pressing Yoongi’s buttons a little further. “If you’re gonna cheat, at least share.”

“Not cheating.”

“You totally are, though.”

Someone delivered a sharp ‘Shhhhh!’ to their corner, and Yoongi looked ready to pop a vein. He mulled it over for half a minute before poking Hoseok’s leg with the phone and whispering, “Don’t believe me? Fine, here.”

Finally, Hoseok could start answering some questions. Yoongi’s cell phone sat in his lap as he skimmed the page, searching for some numbers or equations, but nothing jumped out. So he just began reading:

—his toned abdomen felt even more delicious under Bongnam’s adept fingers. Hips rutted together, slowly bringing Bongnam to complete hardness. One heated moment later, Changguk’s filthy mouth was locked on Bongnam’s thigh, teasing the taut muscles there. A wave of pleasure hit Bongnam as Changguk finally gave him what he wanted, wrapping those pretty red lips around his—

“Oh, my God.”

The phone flew out of Hoseok’s palm in a jerkish underhanded pass only to land with a click at Min Yoongi’s feet. Delinquent Min Yoongi, who was now snickering with a hand over his mouth. Delinquent Min Yoongi, who evidently thought reading gay during school hours was more of a priority than passing Physics I.

“Mr. Jung? Mr. Min? Is there a problem?” Both heads snapped up at the professor’s voice.

“No problem, sir,” Yoongi’s usually smooth voice was laced with an airy sort of amusement. And he turned back to his test like nothing had happened, the faintest smile at his lips.

Hoseok gave up the idea of concentrating or getting a good grade, because Min Yoongi reading dirty stories was far more interesting than free body diagrams. The ten minutes left of the test passed far too quickly and by the end all Hoseok had in front of him was an improvised pattern of multiple-choice dots and a poor excuse for a written response. And in the last minute, when everyone else in the room was scrambling to finish their answers, Hoseok noticed that Yoongi did not have one mark on his test sheet besides his name written in slim ink at the top.

A moment later they stood at the front table together, Hoseok placing his test down and Yoongi carelessly throwing his own directly on top. When they locked eyes, Yoongi’s gaze was filled with something smug, like a challenge. “You really don’t have any shame, do you?” Hoseok grinned at Yoongi.

“What?”

“Your face,” Hoseok felt something bubbling inside him, an odd mix of intrigue and awe, “When you were reading that, it was like, stone cold.”

“Oh, yeah,” Yoongi gave him this look, one that read, ‘What, you don’t read obscure during testing periods?’ “It doesn’t faze me. You get used to it after a while, I mean. That doesn’t make it any less hot, though. It’s just—it’s from an indie film I’m into. I didn’t have time to finish reading it this morning, so. Yeah. I can just retake the test.” There was an endearing fondness in the way Yoongi spoke of the stories. Something in his eyes. Hoseok, for whatever absurd reason, wanted to see more of that from him.

Hoseok wondered if Yoongi’s report card looked the way it did because he constantly placed slash fiction over education. That realization was met with a newfound respect for Min Yoongi, and also the irrepressible thought of, ‘Holy , that’s actually remarkable.’

The phone found its way into Hoseok’s hands again, and while Hoseok expected to see dirty words spanning the screen, it was opened to Yoongi’s contact list. Far less thrilling. “What—”

“Your number. Put it in.” And then Min Yoongi had the audacity to wink at him (and Hoseok would swear there was a heat in the room at that moment). “I’ll send you a few recommendations sometime.”

Hoseok had no intention of reading anything like that. He wasn’t a saint, but he didn’t have that expressionless façade to really read it. Not like Yoongi. Hoseok was, however, hell-bent on getting this boy’s number. He punched his own in without any hesitation.

The next day, Hoseok was greeted by his test booklet, the number ‘41’ printed large at the top in bright red ink. He shrugged.

At least he’d be seeing Min Yoongi at the retake.