NOW PLAYING: Intro of CD 1 – Teenagers.

Not that Woojin wants to sound like the typical male lead of every high school themed movie ever, but he doesn’t know the first thing why some people have the idea that being a bully in high school would give you extra points. Or maybe that’s just Ha Minho’s (highly flawed) way of thinking, because there’s got to be a reason why Woojin’s seeing this with his own two eyes: the senior slamming someone at least a head taller than him into a locker, and in any other event, the sight could be almost comical, considering the person he’s picking on barely flinches, and his legs stay rooted to the floor—that’s how tall he is. But, the situation isn’t funny at all, considering Woojin can see the bullied’s frown despite being more than a few steps away, and the sneer curling on Minho’s face isn’t a good sign; never has been, and never will be.

“Hey, that’s enough!” Woojin’s voices carries through the hall as he makes his way through the crowd gathering at the scene, students whipping out their cellphones to take videos and pictures of the one-sided fight, maybe even posting it on their Snapchat stories without making a single effort to help the kid; it sickens Woojin, sends a wave of anger and the feeling of injustice that drapes his emotions like solid matter. His generation, apparently, is one that would rather take videos and pictures instead of gathering the guts to help someone in need; then again, is Woojin really surprised? (A solid ‘no’ is the answer to that. He’s stopped having faith in humanity since he found out Jay Z cheated on Beyoncé—why would someone even have the audacity to cheat on Béyonce.)

Ha Minho pauses, his fist freezing in the air, and he glances to his side. Seeing Woojin there, who must’ve forgotten to pat down his bedhead because Minho laughs as soon as his eyes rest at the top of Woojin’s head, he releases his hold on the person he’d been picking on, though it doesn’t make much of a difference to the boy, considering he hadn’t been lifted in the air during that entirety at all. Woojin, who considers himself of purely average height (and he’s come to terms with that, really!), can’t relate to that kind of tall person privilege.

“It’s you.” Minho gives Woojin a once over that Woojin doesn’t necessarily appreciate, his nose sniffing in distaste. “What, do you think you can do something about this?” He gestures at the other boy, previously held at neckpoint (Woojin’s not even sure if that’s a word), now looking between the both of them with wide, panicked eyes; Woojin worries about the possibility that his eyeballs might fall out if he keeps glancing over between him and Minho with that ferocity.

“I do think I can, yeah,” Woojin easily says, and pulls the silent boy with the frenzied eyes behind him, noting how easy it is for him to do so; tall, the boy might be, but he’s skinny—to the point it worries Woojin, because when you’re nearly as tall as the top of the locker, the amount of food you’re supposed to eat grows, too. Even Woojin, whose height reaches only to the third row of the locker, eats with a portion the size of a one man army.

“Do you really want to try me?” Minho drops his voice, as if he’s expecting Woojin to start quivering with fear, but all Woojin can think is how ridiculous the older sounds, attempting to be intimidating. “I’m older than you, you punk.”

“Then doesn’t that mean you should know better?” It’s not as if Woojin intended the words to invoke a sense of quiet amongst the crowd that even makes him nervous, but that’s what happen anyway. Minho’s face turns a dangerous shade of purple, as if he’s trying not to choke on his own breath (which isn’t even possible, but whatever), and no warning comes when he swings his right hook at Woojin’s jaw.

Inwardly thanking all those dance workshops he’d gone to for his reflexes, Woojin jumps out of its way at the precise timing, even if the flashes from the cameras taking pictures invade the corners of his vision. “That’s not fair!” He says, rather lamely, considering Ha Minho’s never had a record for being fair anyway. But his opponent doesn’t address Woojin’s concern, instead aiming a knee at Woojin’s rib, and not wanting to be left completely defenseless, Woojin rams his side into Minho’s build, sending him careening to the dumpster right next to the lockers.

Minho stands up shakily after falling down, clutching tenderly at his tailbone, and stares at Woojin with murderous intent. An animalistic snarl leaps out of his mouth. “Park Woojin, you’re dead.”

NOW PLAYING: Track 1 of CD 1 – My Shot.

Sitting in the principal’s office in the middle of his third period isn’t what Woojin had envisioned, but then again, he hadn’t envisioned getting into a fight with Ha Minho this morning, either; the most that Woojin had planned was to half- his way through his mathematics quiz, maybe get the person in front of him to help him a bit, or maybe he’d crane his neck a little to the left, just to get a sneak of someone else’s answers—though knowing Woojin (and his luck, or lack thereof), it’d most likely be the latter, considering the person who sits in front of him gives him a sneer every time Woojin so far as asks him to have small talk in the middle of class. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” The principal of their school, Miss Kwon, is a lady in her thirties whose visuals doesn’t lose to the celebrities Woojin sees on television. The rumors say she used to be a model before she became a teacher, but nobody’s ever found anything incriminating about the rumor, so eventually, it faded into one of the school’s urban legends. She is, however, as terrifying as she is pretty; so even seeing her lean back on her swiveling chair behind the maple desk that holds her computer and other school related files is enough to drive Woojin’s thoughts into dangerous territory. Or, in other words, he’s already thinking up of his own punishments before Miss Kwon even says anything about it—maybe he’ll even be expelled, which is a worse case scenario, because what else would be worse for him than being expelled? But then again, the most Woojin had done was break Ha Minho’s nose, and does that guarantee expulsion? (Damn it, he should’ve read the school’s rulebook one more time before tossing it to the dumpster!)

“I… did it,” Woojin begins, nearly stumbling over the second word of his sentence. Miss Kwon catches the misstep and sends him a look that would have any man quivering in fear, Woojin not exempted. “Because he.” The punished student halts to a stop in the middle of his sentence, needing the pause to take a moment to breathe, and direct his eyes at the wall behind Miss Kwon instead of the teacher herself. “He was being rude,” Woojin summarizes.

To be fair, it isn’t as if he’s not telling the truth, because Woojin has almost no reason to attack Ha Minho—the both of them have different social circles, Woojin (before today) was never hurt by the delinquent’s antics, either because he was too invisible or he was just too uninteresting. Woojin would like to think it’s because he’s scary enough and can stand up for himself, but he knows the whole scary look he has going for him? Nobody believes that anymore ever since the whole school caught him swatting a fly in the middle of a presentation and, after the fly dropped to the ground, resumed to mourn over the foreign fly’s death—though that event occurred in English class, in a place like high school, word spreads fast.

“Is that your only reason?” Miss Kwon sighs, and rubs at her temples with her thumb and index finger. Woojin shifts in his seat, feeling uncomfortable no matter how padded the seat is. “The witnesses all said the fight started out of nowhere.”

“That’s because they didn’t hear the conversation!” Woojin splutters, nearly getting out of his seat before realizing who exactly it is that he’s speaking with; embarrassingly enough, however, he’d been half-way getting out of his seat before the realization, causing him to sit back down underneath Miss Kwon’s half-judging, half-amused stare. “Miss Kwon, you know that Ha Minho’s reputation at school isn’t even the best—”

“I understand that completely, but neither is yours.” That’s not something Woojin can argue with, so he wisely shuts his mouth, no matter how much he wants to defend himself. While Ha Minho is infamous for being (and Woojin’s paraphrasing) ‘a prickly bastard’, Woojin isn’t infamous for being a bully. Woojin is infamous for the thing that causes the most discord within the student body’s public opinion: pranks. On one hand, some consider it as ‘vandalism’ and ‘hooligan tomfoolery’, but there are a few others who see it oppositely, considering it as something to ‘lighten up the school’s situation’, some even saying that if the pranks aren’t harming anyone, there’s no need to view them so negatively—personally, Woojin just does the pranks because he’s bored, and there’s nothing else he’s supposed to do at school. Spend all the time and effort he puts into his pranks for studying? Who even does that?

“Ha Minho has already received his punishment,” Miss Kwon finally says, resting both her fingers on the surface of the table. With her eyes fixed solely on Woojin, he feels the urge to stand up straight, instead of slouching the way he has been doing for the past few minutes. “And, in accordance to the school’s rules, you will receive yours, too.”

If it were any other teacher, say, the substitute teacher Mr. Im, Woojin would put up a fight; but, considering this is Miss Kwon and she scares Woojin half to death, the student nods numbly, and stares down at his intertwined hands. “I understand,” he mutters, sullen.

“According to this.” Miss Kwon opens the rulebook that Woojin has only skimmed through once in his entire life, and his eyes widen when he realize how thick he is. No wonder some people think the school has a rule for everything, and there was once a case where a student received a designated punishment for chewing gum loudly in class. (A rule for that, imagine.) “For violence in school, first offense, your punishment will be voluntary community service and extra hours in a volunteer program predetermined by the teacher,” she actually starts sounding amused by the end of her sentence, a thoughtful hum that Woojin doesn’t like the sound of coming from her lips.

Voluntary community service is something Woojin figures he could do; there’s nothing difficult about getting in a few extra hours cleaning the pool down the block from his house, or he could ask his parents to ask his uncle to take him in as a volunteer for his animal shelter. Easy peasy, lemon squeasy. “What’s that about the… determined… thing?” Woojin sounds his very coherent, easily understood question.

Miss Kwon snaps her fingers together. “Ah!” Her eyes gleam with something that Woojin can’t place, but the only thing he feels about this is dread, like a sudden cold has doused over his bones, drenching him with the aftertaste of ice. “I have the perfect program in mind. I’ll be assigning you to join the theatre club, just in time for our school’s upcoming musical,” she says, gleeful and thrilled.

Woojin doesn’t share her sentiments. He sits there, completely frozen, eyes gauged so wide one would think they might comically fall out of their sockets any time soon. “Musical?” When he speaks, his voice breaks, and without a doubt, Woojin knows he’s been broken.

“Yes, musical.” If Miss Kwon is aware of Woojin’s suffering, she never lets it show, simply giving him a megawatt smile. “Let’s see… the club has a meeting tomorrow after school, and you can make it, right? Of course you can. It’s the order of the principal after all, isn’t it?”

In his head, Woojin dares to say it sounds like dictatorship, but the real life version of Woojin nods, still dazed. And horrified—not very mildly, either.

“Right…” Though, Woojin doesn’t even realize the words have tumbled (against his own will) out of his lips until Miss Kwon sends him a beam.

“Good. I do hope I won’t be disappointed in you. Now run off to class,” she shoos him off, and Woojin doesn’t even feel his legs as he lifts himself from his seat, and trudges out of the office. The only thing he’s aware of is the word theatre; the extent of Woojin’s ability to perform is to dance, and even that’s more of a hobby than anything. Stupid, you should’ve asked her to get you to be the basketball team’s ball boy or something, he berates himself in his head, so deeply rooted in his thoughts he finds himself bumping into a locker.

The metal is cool and hard against the tender skin of his head, and Woojin’s eyes shut in pain, a grimace curling his lips. A soft groan escapes from his mouth, and his reflex is to rub slightly on the affected area, grimace deepening upon feeling the beginnings of a bruise. “. This just isn’t my day, isn’t it?” He grumbles to himself, and uses the palm of his hand to give a solid hit to the guilty locker. Whose locker it is, exactly, he has no clue.

Though with every passing moment Woojin spends brooding is another moment lost in class, something pulls him to stay where he is, moping like the teenager he is. What does Woojin do in classes, anyway? He sleeps through most of them, and when he isn’t asleep, he finds himself being the center of attention, and not in a good way—the teachers call him out, ask him questions he doesn’t know the answers to even when someone else is literally raising their hand in the front. It makes him wonder why he even stays in—

“U-Uh, excuse me?”

Woojin whirls around, evidently startled with a jump, and the back of his head hits the locker again. The pain registers quickly, and his fingers grasp the back of his head, feeling a lump. This just isn’t his day.

The person who’d caused Woojin his second (or perhaps more, if he counted all the bruises he’d received after his fight with Ha Minho just this morning) head injury is familiar with his thick lips, legs with the length twice of Woojin’s, lanky arms and bony elbows. Gangly would be the perfect word to describe the youth who stands in front of him, holding on to the straps of his backpack closely, shoulders hunching in on himself as he does. Woojin causes himself (even more of) a headache trying to think of his name, but he knows who the other is, having been the reason he’d even gotten into a fight this morning.

“Oh. It’s you,” Woojin acknowledges, though doesn’t make a move; the only move he’s doing is nursing the back of his head, wincing whenever he prods too hard. Unfortunately, that tends to occur, seeing as Woojin might be the least gentle person Woojin himself knows. (He can still remember the time he’d accidentally crumbled a cookie in half when all he’d been doing was a woeful attempt to divide them by half.)

“Thank you,” he says, and Woojin notes the thickness of his voice; as if it’s being obscured by something. An accent, maybe. “Thanks for helping me,” this time, he says it in English, and Woojin retreats his hand from the back of his head to snap his fingers together as the pieces all fall into place.

“Ah!” The other boy actually steps back for a moment, eyes wide, as if he’s afraid Woojin going off about him at any moment. More than funny, it’s a little sad, and even Woojin finds himself feeling a pang of sympathy. “You’re the foreign exchange student?” Though the person he’s conversing with takes a few moments to comprehend Woojin’s words, he perks up at the word ‘foreign exchange student’, so Woojin guesses that’s when he processes the meaning behind Woojin’s words.

“Guanlin,” he introduces himself, and bends his back into a stiff bow. Woojin, a little at loss at the show of formality, awkwardly pats Guanlin’s back twice. Guanlin stiffens, and freezes in his bow. That’s when Woojin withdraws his hand as if it’s on fire, and pushes it deep inside the pocket of his pants.

“You don’t have to do that,” he hastens, and makes a show of raising his palm, signaling Guanlin to stand up. Guanlin gets the hint, but when he stands, his back is so straight it makes Woojin wonder if Guanlin had been disciplined at the military. “Be more relaxed around me,” he requests, quite unsure how to proceed; he isn’t used to having people start conversations with him, much less being respectful towards him. “Don’t you have classes or something?” Woojin ends up asking, although the question isn’t uncalled for, considering the bell signaling lunch break will only ring in half an hour from now.

“I asked to go to the bathroom.” Almost with guilt, Guanlin shows Woojin the bathroom pass he’d been hiding behind his back. Woojin nearly grins. “But I think the teacher will find out if I’ve been gone for this long,” he ends, but sounds more confused than he is ashamed of lying about going to the bathroom.

“Then shouldn’t you be going back?” Guanlin seems to mistake Woojin’s genuine question as him telling Guanlin (in short) to off, judging by the way his eyes fall like a kicked puppy. “I didn’t mean that you have to leave—” Woojin attempts to correct himself as soon as he sees Guanlin’s demeanor shift, from nervous to straight up depressing.

“I think I’ll get in trouble though,” the foreign exchange student ends up saying, dropping his eyes to the floor, arms hanging dejectedly on his sides. “But I just wanted to thank you for earlier. It’s the first time someone stood up for me,” he finishes his sentence in English, and Woojin needs a couple of moments to translate the words in his head, but he gets the gist of it.

“You mean you’ve never had someone defend you before?” Woojin asks, glancing at Guanlin with worry. Though this is the first conversation he’s ever had with Guanlin, judging by first impressions, there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with him; nothing out of place, at least, maybe with the slightest exception of the crooked styling of his tie. But there shouldn’t be anything wrong about that, considering half the student body doesn’t even wear their ties anymore, everyone losing them sometime during the second semester of their first year—Woojin included.

Guanlin shakes his head, eyes still transfixed by the floor. At some point, Woojin even glances down to see if there’s anything interesting down there, but finds his eyes greeted by the sight of a regular floor. “No… I guess I’ve been doing something wrong,” he mumbles, never once lifting his sight. Woojin can feel his heart clench at the sight; to him, nobody deserves to feel that way, especially when (to his knowledge) the most Guanlin has done at school is exist.

“That’s not right,” he declares loudly, voice nearly echoing in the empty hallway. Guanlin startles at the sound of Woojin’s voice, shoulders jumping at the raise of the other’s volume. “I don’t know why people pick on you, but you shouldn’t think that you’re doing something wrong when I’ve never heard any bad rumors about you.” Maybe that isn’t the pick-me-up Guanlin needs, because coming from Woojin, it isn’t as if that statement weighs heavy; he doesn’t have too many friends at school, either, and Woojin’s primary sources of information are the conversations he can’t help but overhear sometimes being discussed by his classmates. But, still; they might talk about Lee Daehwi and Bae Jinyoung, or they might talk about the scandalous relationship between their music teacher and another teacher Woojin can’t remember, for the life of him, the name of—but he’s never heard of them talking about the foreign exchange student, save for the occasional pointed fingers, whenever someone wonders who the student is.

When Guanlin picks up his eyes, Woojin feels panic rise in his throat when he realizes that Guanlin’s eyes are watery. There are a fair deal of things Woojin is prepared for: a zombie apocalypse (there’s a reason why he always survives those scenario games and has a vast collection of zombie-related movies, enough for him to know the tips and tricks of surviving an apocalypse should it ever occur), the disbandment of his favourite bands, and the possibility of his crush since middle school already having a boyfriend. But, what he definitely is not prepared for is to have someone cry on him, and that’s exactly the moment when he finds his palms clamming with sweat caused by his own nerves.

“Please don’t cry,” he pleads, holding both his palms in front of Guanlin in a sad attempt of consolation. “I get that things have been hard on you but if you want to cry could you please not do it now—”

“I’m sorry,” Guanlin says, and though his voice sounds as if he’s choking back on something, he wipes his sleeves over his eyes, and a few moments later, his eyes go back to being dry. Woojin lets out a breath he doesn’t know he’d even been holding. “It’s just that, no one’s ever said that to me,” he adds, in clumsy Korean, but Woojin appreciates his effort. His English skills, after all, are despairingly limited.

“Well, now someone has.” Heart to hearts are far from being Woojin’s expertise, so he just says whatever’s on his mind, no matter how clipped and clumsily glued together the words are. “So don’t… Don’t cry, okay?”

Guanlin nods, looking so serious Woojin has to bite back a laugh. “Okay,” he agrees. “Did you get a punishment because of me?” He resumes to ask, his voice lowering and shifting into guilty tonality.

Maybe someone would lie, but Woojin doesn’t necessarily see the point in lying when Guanlin could easily find out through other people’s words, considering how fast news travels; so, instead of denying and giving a half-assed excuse for his visit to the principal that further resulted to his now lumpy and sensitive head, Woojin nods. “Yeah.” Seeing Guanlin frown once more, Woojin quickly adds, “but it’s nothing bad. Just community service and the theatre club—trust me, things could be worse.”

The other opens his mouth, presumably to say something, but clamps it shut after a second or two of awkwardly gaping at air. “I’m sorry,” he says, at last, and Woojin waves off the apology. “I’m going back to class,” he ends the conversation abruptly, turning on his heel and walking back in the direction of his classroom. From his vision, Woojin notes that Guanlin looks funny when he walks, as if he’s still not used to walking on such tall legs; but then again, it isn’t as if Woojin can relate.

He finds himself back where he’d started: standing alone in an empty hallway, though now his headache isn’t simply caused by the locker, with the addition of Guanlin and his near tears that almost brought Woojin to shambles.

“Park Woojin, is that you? What are you not doing back in class?” Miss Kwon’s voice is heard clearly, even when she’s at the other end of the hall, and Woojin’s dread settles firmly on his stomach. Before he gets caught and has another sentence added to his current predicament, he sprints away, running like the wind even when he hears her resounding shouts of, “Get back here, Park Woojin!”

NOW PLAYING: Track 2 of CD 1 – Take Me or Leave Me.

The highlight of Woojin’s day is coming into the practice room of the dance club and finding, not only one, but three members of the club tutting at him with disapproval upon noting his entrance in their classroom, not necessarily small, but small enough to be considered cramped when you consider this is a room meant for dancing. On most occasions, the other members of the dance club wouldn’t bother to spare him their thoughts; but, considering Woojin has just made a name for himself as the one who dared to get in a fight with the school bully (a new record even for the school’s resident prankster, apparently) and got in trouble twice with the principal—once for said fight and another for skipping class on the very same day—this, apparently, translates to an upgrade for his infamy.

“Look who we have here,” Justin Huang, a student nobody really knows why is enrolled in a public school when he has enough money to buy an entire block of their neighbourhood, drawls. He’s leaned up against one of the tables, dressed up in a black jumpsuit Woojin is certain would cost his entire house. “If it isn’t the Park Woojin.”

Woojin ignores the other, making his way almost dutifully towards his designated spot of the room: at the very corner of it, small and uncomfortable enough that he can smell the sweat coming from the indoor court right next door, where the basketball club holds a meeting at the exact same time as the dance club. He’s gotten used to it though, and doesn’t even mind, even when he’s forced to lean against the wall, where most of the players’ stench rakes through the air. He closes his eyes in a meaningless attempt to tune out the closest thing he has to high school friends, which, now that he considers it, is nowhere short of pathetic.

“Don’t ignore me, man,” Justin repeats himself, and Woojin can hear the shuffling of the shoes in the floor, as well as the telltale footsteps of the younger. When he feels the temperature rising in front of him, he knows Justin is right in front of him even without opening his eyes. Justin’s current spot, after all, is blocking the air conditioner. “Hey.” If Woojin were to guess, he’d assume the other boy had just waved his hands in front of Woojin’s face.

As the smallest seed of annoyance begins to prosper, Woojin cracks an eye open, and true to his previous guess, Justin’s invading his personal space. Woojin would back away, if it weren’t for the fact he was already backed to the furthest spot the wall could offer. Any more and he’d only hurt his head more, and that isn’t what he’s looking to accomplish, considering the wounds he’d suffered from both the fight and his own locker hitting habits. “What do you want, Justin,” he flat out intones, keeping his lips tucked into a straight line.

“I just wanted to congratulate you for amping up your rep,” mutters Justin, almost sulkily. Wait, no. Certainly sulkily, if the pout is anything to go by. “I thought you were going to be stuck forever as the boy who did the pranks and had no friends. Now you’re the boy who does pranks, has no friends, and is the transfer kid’s savior!” Whether Justin is being genuine or sarcastic, Woojin can’t tell; either because Justin Huang is just someone he’d always doubt the sincerity of, or maybe it’s just because Woojin is dense, when it comes to these matters—not his own words, but from his own mother, of all people.

“It’s heroic, what you did,” pipes up one of the other members of the dance club, a freshman named Samuel, who now looks at Woojin with one could only place as stars in his eyes. Frankly, it gives Woojin chills, because if anyone deserves that look, it’s anyone but him. “You were so cool out there! I saw the video on Snapchat, and when I saw it, I went, ‘oh my God!’” He recalls the tale with enthusiasm, making big gestures with both of his hands.

At the very least, it’s nice to have someone hyping him up; at the most, Woojin knows the hero worship is temporary, and will blow over by tomorrow morning. Not that he’s thinking this because he doesn’t want to be hero worshipped—everyone likes a little ego trip sometimes, right?—but because this is always the routine when the students of the school figures out his pranks; eyes following him down the hallway, maybe a few pats on the back, and more than a couple whispers. But by the time morning comes, the hype would have died, and people would’ve moved on to the next grand thing: for example, the scandalous relationship between the school’s orchestra teacher and the theatre club’s drama coach.

“Not to mention, I never would’ve thought the first person to stand up to Ha Minho would’ve been you!” Another member of the club adds, even pausing whatever she’d been doing to look up from her phone to look at Woojin with approval. Oddly touching, considering as the only female member of the dance club, Kim Yerim would rather spend her time in the dance club texting her friends rather than voluntarily converse with the boys. Any other time and she wouldn’t have given Woojin the time of her day. “You’ve always seemed so…” Yerim struggles to find the correct word, pursing her lips together in deep thought, “quiet! That’s the word. Like, we all know you’re the ones behind a prank, but you never seemed to be the type to fight people.”

Glancing between the three who’d taken their times to talk to him (and what precious time it was they’d wasted, Woojin figures), the youth warily smiles. “Thanks, I guess,” he says, almost suspiciously, as if the three would retract their statements all of a sudden and yell out ‘sike!’ in synchronization. Though it’d be the first, Woojin’s always figured if anyone were to pull something like that on him, it’d be the dance club; though none of them were necessarily friends with him, never going out of their way to talk to him or include him in their conversations, they wouldn’t pass up the chance to give him some hell. (For this, Woojin knows the exact reason: he’d taken the lead dancer position this year, although last year the spot was a senior’s, and said senior ruled the club with an iron fist; it was easy to persuade the other kids of the dance club into pulling one on Woojin whenever they had the chance to.)

“You’re thanking me for telling you that you’re the type to fight people?” Yerim laughs, and proceeds to detach herself from the conversation, going back to her phone and her friends; squealing over a picture, probably something from Instagram. Woojin’s Instagram dash is mostly filled with Yerim’s updates, and it wouldn’t be too far off the mark to assume that as the application the female dancer has grown a liking to these days.

Justin doesn’t move an inch from his spot less than thirty centimeters away from Woojin’s face, remaining unaware of the sweat that’s begun to trail down Woojin’s forehead from the proximity; nothing personal, but Woojin doesn’t feel safe whenever someone invades his personal space—right now, Justin’s not exactly doing anything to fix that, although Woojin is certain if the wealthy student had noticed the sweat, he would’ve jumped away by now, maybe swat at Woojin with tissues out of his bag. (Or a handkerchief, considering Justin is loaded, and from what Woojin has seen in the movies, rich people tend to like handkerchiefs. Ones with their names engraved in gold or any other material that costs more than Woojin’s phone.)

“Say, do you think you’ll start doing the beating people up thing more often?” Justin asks, eyes glinting with a calculative edge that, frankly, terrifies Woojin.

“Probably not,” Woojin answers, only honesty gracing his voice. It isn’t as if he hadn’t gained anything from defending Guanlin, but it’s more of the fact that Woojin’s mother would likely have a heart attack the moment she figured out her son was not only a notorious prankster, but a fighter, too; she’d have his head, and that’s something Woojin’s trying to stay away from. Not that he’s all that successful, considering the amount of days of the year he’d been grounded for almost every single prank she found out about. “Fighting’s not my thing, Justin.”

“Huh. Shame,” Justin says, and finally walks back to his previous spot with his gaggle of friends; it’s only then that Woojin notices how quiet the room has become, everyone watching him and Justin’s exchange with shamelessly showcased curiosity. “I could’ve used you in my gang.”

“…You have a gang?—wait, never mind, I don’t even want to know.” All of a sudden, Woojin remembers all the rumors that circulated during the first few months of Justin’s presence at their school, ranging from his father’s connections to the mafia to his father being the godfather of the mafia. Those days were wild, and Woojin spent most of them avoiding the rumored boy as much as possible; maybe that’s the reason why they’re not close, but then again, it isn’t as if Woojin would’ve ever been good friends with Justin. Sometimes, people just don’t click as friends, and that’s the sad case that is Justin and his’ nonexistent friendship.

“I’m building one,” Justin easily corrects, never missing a beat. “It’s going to be great.”

“Cool…?” Woojin trails off, completely lost whether his option is to egg on the possible makings of a crime lord, or stay quiet. Evidently, he tries to do something in between. “Where’s the teacher?” He looks around the room, filled with students, but void of any signs of adult life. Or young adult, if that’s what a college student with connections to their principal constitutes as.

“Dunno,” Yerim says, offhanded as she continues to play with her phone. “I might ditch soon. Want to come with?”

This is another first. Justin elbows Woojin, not very subtly, and Woojin rolls his eyes at the juvenile noises being made by  the prepubescent boys that make up their dance team. “No thanks,” Woojin declines, although the words taste a little strange on his mouth, mostly because he’s never received an offer to hang out with anyone; much less have the chance to reject one.

“Are you sure?” Yerim peeks up from her gadget. Her eyes are a little droopy under the continued strain from exposure  to the screen’s light. “We’re going to watch that new movie in the theater,” she adds up the offer, wriggling her brows suggestively. “It should be fun. Unless horror’s not your thing.”

“I’ll pass,” Woojin asserts, feeling uncomfortable under the stares of the club room. He feels like a circus attraction, and not in a good way—far from it. (See, this is why he, despite his pranks, prefers being just another face in the crowd, rather than ending up as someone to ‘look out for’; the societal pressure is enormous.)

Yerim’s lip curls into a frown, as if she isn’t used to people rejecting her offers, and to be honest, that’s most likely the case. People like prankster, socially awkward Park Woojin are used to getting rejected, but someone bubbly, pretty, and popular like Kim Yerim isn’t. “Suit yourself, then.”

Dodging the eyes of everyone else in the room, Woojin eyes the door, and takes the quickest route there. “I’ll go, I guess,” he says, and pushes the door open with a light kick. It doesn’t protest as it creaks open, and the hallways are empty, classes having long been dismissed and the others either at home or in their individual club rooms, doing club activity the way Woojin’s supposed to be doing, were he more responsible and cared more about his attendance record.

Nobody makes a move to stop him, no matter how much spotlight he’s received underneath his ten minutes of fame. When Woojin skips, then it’s expected people will let him skip; going through the trouble finding him when he doesn’t want to be found is far from worth it, and the last few people have gone on a wild goose chase throughout their city’s establishments, only to return empty handed. (Woojin was actually just in the school’s broom closet, because at least the janitor is on civil terms with him, and oddly enough, nobody thought to look there.)

Though he encounters a few students as he breezes his way through the hallway, no one lifts their eyes to meet his, either busy or not desiring any contact with the renegade. Which is fine, suits Woojin and his solitary nature perfectly, because he doesn’t have any need for friends. He’s gone through the last few years of school without any real ones, and he’ll be fine without them; it’s just a few more years to go until he can graduate, see the world, and surround himself with people who have similar beliefs. High school friends are a gamble. You might need to compromise more than what you’ll gain return, and Woojin knows people who have given up everything just to fit in; he’s seen the shell of themselves they turn out to be, and that’s the last thing he wants for himself.

This is how Woojin sees it: if he has to spend a few years alone in return of not losing the heart of himself, then so be it. Conforming to the high school expectations of ‘fitting in’ and being a part of the ‘in crowd’ has never been a part of Woojin’s agenda, anyway.

His bike is untouched in the parking lot, and Woojin easily dismantles it, and revs up his bicycle; squirming slightly to squish himself comfortably in the small seat (he’s been using the same bike since his last year of elementary school, which is fine, really! It’s a little small, but it’s functional, and Woojin would rather be known as the kid with the small bike than being one of the causes of his family’s bankruptcy) before taking off. The ride home takes him through the streets, although the route he chooses specifically, the one that goes around the school and passes by the local deli instead of choosing the one near the mall, is more on the quiet side; only pedestrians and a few odd cars, but the air is fresher than the heart of the city, and Woojin finds himself putting down his guard as he lets the breeze shift through his head, late afternoon cold slicing his cheeks.

Five Parks is a respectable enough establishment, occupying the lot that once held a motel with ghostly rumors; the rumors are false, though, and this much Woojin knows because he has spent a majority of his life there, and the closest encounter he’s had to an extraterrestrial being is the time he had his cousin Moonbok stay over and in the middle of the night, he caught Moonbok taking some food from the fridge, and in a sleepy haze, Woojin had thought of Moonbok as a ghost; conveniently forgetting his cousin’s then long hair. (Is his hair still long now? Woojin hasn’t caught up with him in a while, but Moonbok looked nice with his long hair. He rocked it, and if he still has it, he probably still rocks it.) The interior is neither modern nor traditional, but it is comfortable, and Woojin parks his bike at the back; the two-storey building boasts both an acclaimed restaurant and a house, and conveniently, both are his. Well, his family’s, but. His too, more or less.

“I’m back early!” Woojin makes his presence known as he enters through the front entrance (the one that leads directly to the sitting area of the restaurant, where he spends most of his time at home in, helping his family with their customers as his way of doing chores), and finds himself greeted by the sight of more or less an empty restaurant, with only three customers seated on different tables. On a regular day, Woojin would categorize a full house when the restaurant is stacked full, but considering a majority of their customers are high school students, during school days, they never get many customers; having most of their demographic busy, and all, case proven by the adults at the restaurant who are most definitely not high school students.

His mother, beauty nonplussed by the weary lines that mar her face, showing her process of aging, raises her hand in acknowledgement, back turned from him; she’s currently settling down a tray in front of a patron, and that’s the closest thing to a ‘welcome home’ that Woojin receives.

“I’ll help out in a bit!” Woojin jogs towards the kitchen, where behind it, stands a door that leads to the living area of the building. He throws his backpack on the floor without hazard, and slams the entrance closed, before snatching a spare apron from the hanger near the staff’s toilet. It’s a loose fit, and he needs to double tie it to ensure the black fabric won’t come undone during the most of what he does, but once he’s all well and ready, he takes a notepad from the cabinet, pockets a pencil, and goes to the main dining area.

Once he’s there, he expects to be thrown at a customer immediately. What he doesn’t expect is for his mother to fix him a killer glare that would bring an actual assassin to shame, and usher him towards one of the empty booths; she takes a seat, primly, and Woojin needs no one to tell him to slide onto the seat right across her. He doesn’t have a good feeling about this.

“What’s this about, mom?” Woojin begins the conversation, and steels himself to meet her eyes; although they might seem calm, Woojin knows her enough to see the underlying fury, and what makes it more terrifying is the fact that she seems so composed.

“I received a call from your principal.” Just from those words, Woojin can tell where the conversation is going. He resists the urge to hide his face in the palm of his hands, because he was raised better than to be a coward, really. No matter how tempting the prospect might seem. (And it is a very tempting one.) “You got into a fight.”

Woojin flinches, but makes no move to confirm, nor deny his mother’s accusation. He’s as good as dead, now, because his mother has succumbed to a tone of hers that he likes to dub, ‘I’m Ten Minutes Away From Doing Serious Damage Unless You Have A Good Explanation.’ The name should be as good of an explanation as any, although Woojin needs a shorter name for it, because ITMAFDSDUYHAGE is really, really difficult to say both out loud, and in his head.

“What were you thinking, Woojin?” The raw disappointment is enough to make Woojin regret his decision, though only for a moment; because no matter how pissed his mom might be, he’d saved someone. He would do it again in a heartbeat. Saying that, however, might not be the wisest course of action, unless he fancies being grounded for life. “Picking fights—that’s not like you. I know about your pranks.” Of course she does, because she’s his mom, and no matter how much Woojin wants to hide it, his mom will always know. “But you’ve never hurt anyone before. Do you know the extent of the boy’s wounds?” she continues, her voice grave.

“… No.”

“Would you like to know?”

“Not really,” he says, almost in shame, but not quite. Ha Minho had it coming, and one way or another, he would’ve received that beating anyway; Woojin just sped up the process.

His mother sighs, but makes no move to go against his wishes. She reaches across the table, and places his palm in hers. Woojin feels like a kid again, especially when she begins to rub her thumb in slow, aimless circles on his open palm. “Woojin,” she begins, although her voice lacks any of the disappointment that’d been there before. Woojin continues to stare at her readily, taking in the curve of her brows, and the soft smile that has replaced its previous cold, hard line. She looks younger like this, the wrinkled lines on her face fading away, in a matter that isn’t unlike the way someone always looks more peaceful when they’re asleep. “I’m proud of you.”

“I’m sorry mom, I—huh? Proud of me?” Woojin stutters, and his jaw goes slack.

“I asked for the full story. Your principal told me about the boy you had a fight with—and he’s a bully, isn’t he?” At Woojin’s nod, her smile grows broader. “Good. You did the right thing. I knew you wouldn’t have fought just about anyone; I drilled at least some manners into you. But, this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. Remember, you still have your obligations to the… whatever club it was that’s become your punishment.”

He returns his mother’s smile, albeit in a shyer, more withdrawn manner than hers. Most parents would enforce a strict punishment onto their children for getting into a fight with one of his schoolmates, and he doesn’t have a flicker of doubt that his mother would’ve done exactly that, had he gotten involved with someone who was more along the lines of Lai Guanlin than Ha Minho. Woojin knows he doesn’t have the gall to do that, though, and hopefully, he never will; there aren’t a lot of things he’s explicitly proud of, but if he had to boast something about himself, it’d be his heart. It’s in the right place, for the most part, and all of that is no small thanks to his upbringing.

“Okay. I’ll do the theatre thing, and, I love you.” Though he’s aware that there might be some who’d feel shy about saying this up front to their parents, Woojin doesn’t hesitate when he utters the three words, meeting his mother’s kind gaze with an earnest one of his own. Woojin would take a bullet for his mother, no matter how much she might terrify him sometimes; but then again, she’s only ever terrifying when he gets out of line, so maybe, he should be grateful about her mode of destruction. It always does the job to snap him out of whatever had pushed him to do something stupid. “And I think that customer might be getting grumpy.” He discreetly points (with the unused napkin hiding his finger) at the direction of a frowning patron, having long finished her food, and his mother follows his line of sight.

“Right,” she breathes, and stands up, smoothing down her skirt. “I have to go get that. I love you too, Woojin.” The woman hugs his head in her arms for a quick moment before getting to her customer, and works with scary efficiency at taking away her dishes, offering a few apologies for the tardiness. Even in the way she moves, she’s graceful, and doesn’t let any movements go to waste; she’s an amazing woman, and Woojin is so, so glad to have her as his mother. He doesn’t know if anyone else would be able to handle him the way she does, because he knows he’s not the easiest child (which still stands true for now); wasn’t easy to raise, what with his honesty that often caught him trouble with the other children, and it’s not like he’s dumb to the fact his mother used to be the laughingstock amongst the other mothers of their neighborhood for having a son who didn’t know how to read until his fifth birthday. But she never gave up on him, not even once, and even fought for the rights to look after him when the divorce came; she didn’t let the loss of monetary support to stop her, either, getting onto her feet almost immediately and starting up the restaurant. She’s the strongest person Woojin knows—among men, among women, among everything and everyone else.

There’s nothing Woojin can do that’ll be able to repay every single thing she’s done for him, but he can at least try to make things easier; that’s why he finds it easier to think about his upcoming days dressed in drapes (or whatever it is that theatre kids seem to wear), because it’s for her. That’s the only reason he needs.

He’s in the middle of rearranging the toothpicks when the doorbell chimes, signaling the arrival of a new customer. Noting that his mother is occupied with her own share of patrons, Woojin makes good use of his worker’s apron, and leaves his table empty; the only sign of his presence left behind the opened box of toothpicks.

“Welcome to Five Parks, are you dining in?” Woojin doesn’t even realize who he’s talking to until all he’s greeted with is silence, and Woojin takes a real look at the customer; good thing he’s got good balance, or else he would’ve tripped over his own feet at the sight of Lai Guanlin standing in front of the restaurant’s entrance, still wearing his school uniform, hands hugging the straps of his backpack. Though a question remains on the tip of Woojin’s tongue, he needs to be professional, so he does what he usually does when someone he knows from school comes to the establishment; he acts like he doesn’t know them, and they’re just another nameless customer he might never see again. “Table for one?”

For a moment, Guanlin just stands still, eyes shifting around as if he’s sizing up the place. It doesn’t really make Woojin feel any less startled, no matter how much time keeps adding up from the initial moment he’d discovered the younger in the restaurant, because he’d expected his interaction with Guanlin earlier to be his first and last. Not a slight against Guanlin, because Woojin’s sure he’s a nice person, even though he nearly made Woojin panic back there with the near onslaught of tears. It’s more along the lines of Guanlin’s sudden retreat earlier that caused Woojin to conclude that his interaction with Lai Guanlin was limited to what happened earlier, and only that. He never expected the transfer student to show up in his restaurant, but Woojin is getting ahead of himself. Guanlin might just be here for the food, completely unawares of Woojin’s ties to the place until now; and, now that Woojin gives that a second thought, it seems like the most plausible option. Why else would Guanlin be here anyway?

“Uh,” Woojin says, because he’s not sure how to put it in polite words, but he’s going to need Guanlin to sit down and order something, or stand up and order something then leave, or get out. Harsh, maybe, but that’s how business works. “Are you going to order anything?” In the end, he decides to go with that, and that’s enough to snap Guanlin back into action.

“Right!” Guanlin nearly shouts, and Woojin cringes. At least none of the customers seem to care; the most reaction he’s getting is a raised brow or two, but nothing else. “I want a table, please. For one.” That’s all it takes to spur Woojin back into waiter mode, and he leads Guanlin to the bar area, where none of the stools are occupied.

“Feel free to choose where to sit. I’ll come back with your menu in a bit.” He leaves Guanlin to it, and takes a menu from the counter. When he gets back, Guanlin is swiveling around his stool, the sight both comical and somehow heartwarming. (Woojin must be getting sentimental.) “Here you go.” As soon as the menu is placed on the table, Guanlin picks it up, and his nose digs into the material as he reads through the listing. “You don’t have to read it that closely.”

Guanlin blushes. “I know, the words are really small, though.” That’s enough to make Woojin keep quiet, remembering Guanlin’s still improving Korean skills. Maybe the small font hadn’t been that necessary, after all. “I think I’ll go with the sandwich.”

“Which sandwich? We’ve got a bunch,” Woojin says, biting down on his lip to keep himself from laughing. Not out of spite, or because he wants to laugh at Guanlin, but it’s just amusing how the younger had specified it as simply ‘sandwich’ when they’ve got an entire submenu dedicated to them.

Soon enough, Guanlin realizes his mistake, and by now, his cheeks are as red as the tomatoes proudly displayed as one of the pictures on the menu. “Sorry,” he stammers, and Woojin shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about it. Here, I’ll help you through it.” Prying the menu from Guanlin’s fingers, Woojin decides to spread it out on the long table, and he points his index finger at the first object of interest. “This one is a classic—a public favourite, I guess.” Truth is, Woojin doesn’t quite know what to call it, but since it’s not a chef recommendation (they don’t really have those, since Woojin’s mother is a firm believer that their restaurant isn’t uptown enough to have chef recommendations at all) yet still garners a warm reception from their regulars, he’s got to dub it as something. “It’s the Five Parks Sandwich. I know, pretty original name.” Guanlin laughs at the quip, and Woojin hides a smile. It’s easier to interact with Guanlin now that he isn’t trying to hold back his tears.

“You don’t have to tell me about the other ones, I’ll try the one you told me about,” Guanlin decides, right then and there, and Woojin jots down his order with a certain ease that only comes from years of experience. “I want to drink sprite.”

“Iced?”

“Does it taste better with ice?” Guanlin asks, sounding genuinely intrigued. This time, Woojin doesn’t bother to hide his smile.

“I don’t know, it’s your tastebuds,” he chides, but makes sure to add, “personally, I enjoy having some ice with it. It tastes more refreshing.”

“Then I’ll have it iced!” Guanlin announces, nodding with resolution. Woojin writes down Guanlin’s drink in a new line, gives it a once over, and nods.

“Alright, wait around ten minutes, approximately.”

Inside the kitchen, there’s only one chef working at the moment, considering today is a weekday; the restaurant (read: Woojin’s mother) is stingy, and only has a total of two chefs employed under the restaurant’s name. It’s all because both her and Woojin help out in the kitchen, too, so they don’t necessarily need many people to work with them. Quality over quantity, and all that.

“Classic sandwich,” Woojin hollers as soon as he steps within the threshold of the kitchen, and goes to the cooler to take out a bottle of sprite. He pours the drink into an empty glass, and adds in a few cubes of ice. “This isn’t too little or too much, right?” He holds up the drink for inspection.

Sejeong, the chef, momentarily pauses her work on the sandwich to peer at the drink in Woojin’s hold. “That looks fine,” she dismisses, and gets back to work, but not without adding, “Woojin, you sure are sounding like you’re trying to impress someone.”

“It’s not like that!” Woojin turns a dark shade of red, bristles, and power walks out of the kitchen. It’s really not like that—Guanlin might be good looking, and Woojin might find him cute, but it doesn’t translate to anything in that way; after all, sitting on the barstool and gripping onto the table to steady him as he whirls around the room, is leading Woojin to think of Guanlin as an oversized baby more than anything.

He sets down the drink on the tab