Hongseok is hungry.

It’s four in the morning though, and… Kino? Their youngest, who’s name Hongseok still can’t remember, has just finished showering. Hongseok’s nearly the oldest one in the dorm so no one will probably say anything if he decides to get up and use the microwave, but first impressions are important. If he doesn’t know their names yet, they probably can’t remember his, and going down as ‘that who woke us up because he wanted food at four in the morning’ doesn’t bode well.

Maybe he’s starving.

There’s these steamed dumplings that he picked up on the way back from the post office that he was going to eat for breakfast, but it’s almost breakfast time as is so he gets up and tip toes to grab them out of the fridge. He’s determined to make as little noise as possible though, so he doesn’t turn on the lights, stove, or microwave.

The first bite is terrible.

Steamed dumplings weren’t made to be eaten cold; there’s a tangible frigid taste mixed in with the ground pork and chives. The skin is supposed to feel light and fluffy, an airy compliment to the moist pork, but instead it’s dry and sticks uncomfortably to the roof of his mouth. He ends up chiseling at his palate for a good five minutes with his tongue to get rid of the tacky dough.

This won’t do.

There’s three extra desk lamps in their living room, that they’re going to rearrange when they film some room decorating tour the next day, and Hongseok ends up switching them all on and making some ritualistic triangle of downward facing light in hopes the dumplings will be lukewarm with the artificial light. It’s ridiculous when he takes a step back to examine his work, but photons are infinitely more soundless than the whirling space age contraceptions that humans call microwaves, so he opens his phone to scroll through Instagram while they cook. It’s been a while since he’s talked to a friend.

He doesn’t see the body on the couch.

“Hello?” Someone whispers, small chickadee head emerging from his hoodie-blanket nest, innocently rubbing his eyes as Hongseok chokes on a scream and nearly trips even as he’s sat down.

God, he’s going to go down as the guy who tried to cook dumplings with a desk lamp. What the is he doing, he should be sleeping, what kind of first impression. Worse, this kid’s going to think this is some strange satanic ancestor worship with some food offering Hongseok needs to get his life together he’s already twenty three twenty four doesn’t matter he can’t be

“Are those from the place by the post office?” Couch man whispers.

“Hello. Um. Yes. Yeah, the post office.”

“Who is that? Oh, you’re the other new guy.” Couch man continues, squinting as his eyes adjust to the lighting duality. “Ho… H-Hongbin?”

“Hongseok. Yang Hongseok.” Hongseok replies, praying to god that Couch man introduces himself.

“Jo Jinho.” God replies, in flesh and bone, with a strangely charming eye crinkles. “You’re from YG, right?”

“Yup.” Hongseok nods, wondering if he should start interval fasting. These dumplings may be worth a lost hour of sleep and some strange looks, but are definitely not worth suffering through another retelling of his Mix and Match days.

“I’m old new guy. Or SM guy, whatever’s going around.” God, no Jinho, says instead. Goddam, two miracles? These dumplings are going to pay for themselves at this rate.

Jo Jinho, Jinho hyung, is one year older and entered the company not quite a month ago. His training laps Hongseok’s the way trains move faster than trees, but he’s kind. Really, really nice. Not in a pseudo condescending way all the other people Hongseok’s age have been, competitive and hostile, trying to keep their chin up because none of them know where they’ll be in two weeks, two months, two years. Jinho’s seen Hongseok audition tape, on one of the nights the other trainees were adjusting to his presence by ignoring him, and he seems genuinely excited about the potential in Hongseok’s lower register.

The skeptic in Hongseok’s brain thinks Jinho could still be a jackass. Maybe he’s fake, acting, tired, humbled by the face he used to be the newest one. Then Jinho mentions how he’s in the other dorm, but stayed over late to talk with Hwitaek, and didn’t want to wake anyone up by coming home late.

Hongseok sprawls.

He sits comfortably within these four walls, for the first time since he moved in. Arms extend behind him, legs straight and knees at rest, spine snapping out of its high strung rigor and slumping as doting, sympathetic chatter rolls over them both. He forgets about how his hair looks, how his tone sounds, what his hands are doing—for the first time since he moved in.

“I knew these were the ones from the post office.” Jinho stakes his claim with a stray finger, raises an eyebrow, and takes the bun with Hongseok nods. “The way they wrap their buns is different. Most people put the part of the dumpling they twist closed on the top, but they have it on the bottom.”

“These are my favourite.” Hongseok replies, wondering if he should continue. “There’s actually a place in Mapo that folds their dumplings like this too. South side.”

“Oh, right, the YG building’s by Hongik.” Jinho nods, excited instead of defensive. “Are they any good?”

“During the holidays they sometimes make special edition buns; my favourite is the banana custard filling from last Christmas.”

“Oh! I love the sweet ones too.” Jinho all but squeals, laughing and smacking his own leg, and then Hongseok’s when he realises how loud he’s being.

That’s the first time Hongseok can picture himself debuting with these people-singing, dancing, living, together.

___

During the filming for their fifth music video Jinho is either trying to melt into or eat Hongseok’s shoulder, overcome by some fit of lethargic, sleep deprived madness.

“You’re going to make me ramen when we’re done.” Jinho, five muscle twitches away from drooling all over Hongseok’s blazer.

“That sounds good.” Hongseok perks up when he sees a camera approaching, sitting up and nudging Jinho so they both look a little more upright, if not awake. “I’ll feed your unconscious body ramen, you’ll choke, and then I’ll get to sing all your lines.”

“With a stove, not a lamp.” Jinho continues, like he always does, too tired to hear words. “That would take too long.”

“Please forgive him, he’s drunk.” Hongseok forces one last chuckle out, hopes the editor is feeling gracious and gives them both some CG, and blacks out as soon as he leans back onto Jinho’s head and shuts his eyes.