NOW PLAYING: Intro of CD 1 — American Idiot.

“So, the first thing you want to do to improve my acting, is to see my playlist?”

Jihoon’s lips fall into a mixture between a frown and a pout; the former because it’s kind of what it is, but the latter because he also has the urge to jut out his lower lip, and ends up doing it halfway. It’s messy, unappealing, and somewhat of a bother: in the end he settles for showing his displeasure with his brows instead.

“Yes.” If Jihoon has any thoughts regarding the ridiculousness of the situation, he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he stubbornly pushes on his opinion and request, and gives Woojin the most intimidating glare he can muster.

Considering Jihoon’s baby face and the thick rimmed round glasses that aren’t scoring him any points in the intimidation factor, the glare wouldn’t even intimidate a baby. Obviously it doesn’t work on Woojin either, considering he now has a funny look on his face, like he’s trying to restrain his laughter—and it takes all of Jihoon’s might not to pout.

Damn him and his tendency for pouting. (This is likely attributed to the fact pouting does help him get what he wants, because honestly, if he can’t work intimidation then he might as well try another tactic, but some of it is also because Jihoon’s gotten so used to pouting at the face of the mirror that some of it translates to pouting during real life situations, too. Inappropriate real life situations, maybe, because Park Woojin’s barely a friend and is mostly an acquaintance, yet here Jihoon is, trying not to pout.)

“I don’t get why I’m doing this.” In the end, Woojin hands his phone over to Jihoon, who opens the music application almost immediately as he gets his hands on the gadget. The list of songs (an impressive amount of 3583, this Jihoon figures out after a particularly long scroll, long enough it gets him to start playing elevator music in his head) are diverse enough in genre: Woojin has some hip hop, indie, as well as movie soundtracks. Jihoon even spies a song from The Lion King, but wisely keeps his mouth shut, though fighting back a smirk is a more difficult task than what he’d expected.

He shifts through the songs in his head, although he still has the phone held in his hands; somehow, it just makes things easier to skim through the songs, and reorganize them to fit within his song organizing system that runs rampant in his mind. This process takes him a little under four minutes, and it’s four minutes Woojin seems to be bothered by, if Jihoon’s judging from the fidgeting and twitching of his dormant arms.

“Be patient.” Jihoon meant to keep the words recited in his head, but inadvertently the words fall through the crack. Rather than taking it back, he acts as if he’d intended for the words to be said, and flashes Woojin an enigmatic smile before resuming his retreat into his headspace, getting involved in the last few steps before he manages to find his breakthrough.

When he does find it, he snaps his fingers (unnecessary but at the same time, it’s nice for the effects!), and meets Woojin’s confused stare with a bright-eyed one of his own. “I’ve got the first step in mind!”

Woojin blinks. “O… kay?”

Jihoon strangles the urge to roll his eyes, reminding himself that this is the first time Woojin’s worked with him, and might not be used to his unorthodox method of teaching. There is, after all, a reason why he’s one of Seongwoo’s favourite pupils (or as Seongwoo likes to call them, his “little ducklings”) despite the fact he hasn’t headlined, or even performed, in a single one of his productions.

“I think you need to find your love for theatre.” At Woojin’s lost look, Jihoon chooses to resume, instead of staying silent for too long and letting Woojin get the wrong idea of what he’s attempting to get across. “I’m not saying I’m going to force it onto you, but you won’t be able to perform to the best you can if you view the entire thing as a joke.”

“Are you a mindreader?” Woojin practically leaps away from Jihoon, hands swatted in front of him, as if that might be enough to fit away a fortune teller. “Only Guanlin knows I still don’t take this thing seriously!”

Jihoon snorts, and this time, he doesn’t bother to fight the urge to roll his eyes, obviously unimpressed. “You’re dense as hell, you know that?”

“What gives?” Woojin says defensively, obviously taking it as a slight against his intellect.

“Anyone can see you’re still not giving this your all, Woojin,” explains Jihoon with as much patience as he can conjure. It’s not exactly much, but it’s still something, given he hasn’t resorted to catching the other in a headlock in frustration.  “Like it or not, though, you have to it up and just… like it, I guess.”

Woojin crosses his arms in front of his chest. “And how am I supposed to do that?”

Jihoon casts a look at the list of tracks. “You listen to a lot of genres, but I can see that you’ve got a couple of punk rock songs. Did you know there’s a broadway version to some of Green Day’s songs?”

Considering the widening of Woojin’s eyes and how his arms fall slack, Jihoon would bet his favourite beret (the red one he’d bought in Paris two years ago) on the other not knowing. “Really?”

Against himself, Jihoon smiles. “Yeah. Here, take a listen.” He searches the song on Woojin’s Spotify application (bless him for having the premium membership, or else it’d be a pain to shuffle through the songs individually), and finding it, he hands over the right part of the earphone to Woojin, who puts it on without a second thought. Although Woojin darts his eyes expectantly on the other pair, Jihoon ignores it, and inserts it into his own ear.

In the corner of his eyes, he can see Woojin making a face, but he doesn’t voice his complain; so this could constitute as a win in Jihoon’s book.

He clicks on the song, and the result is immediate. Music blasts through the earphones in moderate volume, and at first, Woojin is visibly hesitant at the rendition of one of the most played songs on his phone (Jihoon had checked, and it was snugly seated on number 16, the first being the Batman theme song), but as the song continues to progress, he relaxes, and even begins to bob his head to the beat.

Jihoon succumbs to the gnawing urge to smirk in triumph. The first step of his mission, now accomplished.

“Not bad,” admits Woojin, albeit grudging. “I guess this isn’t too bad.”

“Not bad,” echoes Jihoon with no little amount of incredulity. Woojin appears to be enjoying the cover, and all he says about it is ‘not bad’? Jihoon’s not saying that he calls bull, but he calls bull. “Guess I’ll have to give you homework until you can give a higher compliment than ‘not bad’.” He makes air quotes, finding sadistic pleasure in Woojin’s paling complexion.

“You’d give out homework?”

“I have to get the job done somehow.” Jihoon shrugs, like that explains everything. It kind of does. “I can’t make you improve by leaps and bounds if we only do this, what? Once a week? Every two weeks? That’s why I said we should figure out a schedule,” he stresses the word, and mirrors Woojin’s frown. It’s not as if he’s particularly thrilled about this either. “You’re not the only one who’s seeing this as a burden, you know. I have to take care of the costume designs as well, and helping you takes some hours of that off my agenda.”

Woojin gnaws his lower lip at the admission, and in contrast to the upbeat song, his crestfallen expression shows some regret. Jihoon memorizes the picture in his head, remembering to reference this when, at some point, they’ll eventually have to practice facial expressions while acting. “Yeah, you’re right,” he gruffly says, and takes the earbud out of his ear, letting it dangle slightly above the ground. Jihoon, affronted by the careless treatment of the device, tugs it up, and keeps it clenched on his palm. “I should’ve considered your situation more. Sorry.”

Jihoon would be lying if he said he wasn’t pleasantly surprised at the admission. Contrary to the rumors he’s heard of him, Woojin’s not as difficult as he’d been led to think; this might even be the first time in a while someone owned up to their mistake to him, and while that might not mean in someone else’s books, it means something in Jihoon’s.

While Jihoon is not much for moral codes and ethics, he knows better than anyone else when to appreciate effort when it is given.

“I see something in you, you know,” he says, and it’s so out of the blue that Woojin chokes on his own spit. “The same thing that Seongwoo sees, too. Don’t tell me you’ve never wondered why he gave you a pretty major role, even though you lack the kind of experience that nearly everyone else has.”

“Uh…” The other boy’s brows have furrowed together in puzzlement, and Jihoon sighs, taking the earphones off his ears and pocketing that (and his phone) in his pocket, before turning on his heel to face Woojin directly.

He makes sure to look at Woojin in the eyes when he continues. “You’ve got potential. It’s unpolished, definitely, and it’s going to be hard to dig out, but I think we can do it.”

“We?”

“Yeah, we. Why else do you think he’d assigned me to help you out?”

Woojin hums, but the corners of his mouth twitch, fighting a smile. “Are you a professional acting trainer on the side or something?”

“Or something,” affirms Jihoon, plastering the most innocent smile he can create. “Now, don’t forget to watch the following movies, they’re all musicals and you could stand to learn a thing or two—”

The groan Woojin lets out is loud enough that it distracts Jihoon from the words he’d meant to say. “I thought you weren’t serious about the homework thing.”

“Of course I was serious!” Jihoon eyes Woojin’s slouching posture, the awkward way he holds himself together, all to the hastily combed hair he proudly sports. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

NOW PLAYING: Track 1 of CD 2 — Eugene.

When Woojin meets Hyungseob on Monday, it’s purely coincidental. Neither of them share the same classes, and meet, with a of what Woojin would like to call fate (except it probably isn’t and it’s just his ability to be at the right place at the right time, sometimes), a few steps short of the cafeteria.

What’s even more coincidental is the fact that the both of them are alone: Woojin doesn’t have Guanlin hanging off his arm (though that might be blamed to Guanlin’s absence on Monday, something about his throat being sore after practicing singing all day on Sunday), and Hyungseob, on an occasion that comes once in a blue moon, doesn’t have his regular group of friends crowding around him. No Justin Huang (and thank God for that, because Woojin has had enough of the blown up messages in the dance team group chat because of him), no Lee Euiwoong (who’s perfectly nice but also just so perfect in general it makes Woojin wonder if he’s an android sent to infiltrate their high school), and no Choi Seunghyuk (odd as it is, Woojin can’t remember much of him—maybe because he seems to be the most invisible in their group?). Last year, the group also had a senior named Zhu Zhengting, but he’d graduated—last Woojin’s heard of him, he’d just begun a traditional dance program in China.

“Oh.” Woojin stops short, face morphing into something resembling surprise. At first, it seems as if Hyungseob means to ignore him and continue walking, but at the last moment, his feet drags into a stop, and he shoves a small, hasty smile Woojin’s way.

“Woojin, hello,” he greets, raising his hand in a single wave. “Guanlin’s not here with you?” He cranes his neck, as if he thought he could find the giant stalking Woojin from behind. Hyungseob doesn’t find him, though, so he purses his lips, and returns to viewing Woojin with a ghost of a smile.

There’s something odd about the picture this paints. Maybe Woojin isn’t as close to Hyungseob now as he was in the past, but he’d like to think he knows Hyungseob well enough to spot a fake smile from a mile away. And this? This isn’t even as energetic as all of Hyungseob’s fake smiles tend to be, and that strikes a sense of worry in his chest, racing off speculations in his head.

“Hyungseob… are you okay?”

The smile (but could it even be called that?) fades away, and Hyungseob’s chapped lips narrow into a thin line, weighed down ever so slightly by a featherlight frown. His gaze wavers, like he doesn’t know whether to keep looking at Woojin or to retract it to the floor, but he takes a deep breath, shoulders squaring and fists clenching, and hardens his resolve to maintain eye contact with Woojin, whose whispers of worry in his head grows louder in volume by the second.

“Of course I am.” The tell of his lie is his own hesitance, because even if Hyungseob is a good actor, there are just some things that Woojin can see underneath. The flaky façade he wears like a mantle, right at the present moment, is one of them. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You…”

You look sad.

The words scald Woojin’s tongue, and he wretches with the itch to say them. But something tells him that now might not be the time; so, against his own wishes, he forces himself to stay quiet, instead throwing on a smile so artificial it’d make someone from customer service proud. “Sorry, it’s nothing. Maybe I was seeing things.”

Something like disappointment flashes in Hyungseob’s face, but it’s gone almost as fast as it comes, and it leaves Woojin wondering if he’d imagined it in the first place. Maybe he’s just projecting.

“Where’s Guanlin?” Hyungseob says instead, making Woojin remember he hadn’t answered his initial question.

Laughing to hide his embarrassment, Woojin stretches his hand upward, and reaches for the back of his shoulder, rubbing it in a nervous habit. “He’s sick. Got a case of the sore throat, you know, from practicing and everything. You’re not with your friends?”

“No, they’re up on the roof. I wasn’t feeling heights, I guess.” Hyungseob laughs, and the sound is so soft that Woojin’s unable to resist the smile that creeps onto his mouth, lifting up its corners. “Do you want to eat together?”

Woojin gulps at the offer, and his mind is already coming up with all the scenarios of how things could go wrong—most of said scenarios being Woojin ing up and making a mess of himself in front of his longtime crush. Knowing Hyungseob, the offer was meant to be a friendly invitation, because Hyungseob is all things nice and everything else that Woojin will never be, but still. This is an opportunity. It could even be The opportunity, but Woojin knowing himself, would probably say something stupid before the bell rings, and maybe Hyungseob would never want to talk to him again, but—

“Of course!” the words come out in a flurry, and he slips over a syllable or two, but it’s still audible, if the renewed grin Hyungseob wears is anything telling. “If you want I could get us a table while you get your food?” Although the cafeteria is usually big enough to supply a place to eat for a majority of the student body, Woojin doesn’t want to take any chances. If he’s going to eat with Hyungseob, then he better get them the best seats the cafeteria has. Or at least, the remainder of the best seats that the cafeteria has, considering it’s been fifteen minutes since the lunch bell rang and by now, all of the good seats near the window (the view isn’t necessarily idyllic, considering it’s their basketball field, but it’s a nice place to get some natural light in) must’ve been taken; but if he runs, maybe he can get them one of the seats that isn’t right next to a dumpster or squished between, like, ten other tables.

Hyungseob blinks, but his grin never fades. “Okay, sure! I’ll try to hurry so you won’t wait up too long for me.”

Please, Ahn Hyungseob could take an entire year picking out his food, and Woojin would be the one to say sorry.

But, since he can’t say that out loud without making his crush known to the world, Woojin settles for a weak smile, and swings a fisted arm over his chest in a gesture so awkward it makes him wonder what he’s doing with his life. “Take your time!”

Though unconvinced, Hyungseob warily drawls, “alright then.”

Luckily, there is an available seat that isn’t so ty in its location, so Woojin practically leaps to take a seat, claiming the table as his. Theirs. Whatever. The sudden movement results in dirty glares from some others, and from the seat on his right, he can hear a girl muttering, “it’s that kid again, he’s so annoying.”

If the words hurt him, he doesn’t let it show, and settles for drumming his fingers tirelessly against the table while he waits for Hyungseob to finish picking out his lunch.

When Hyungseob waddles his way towards their table, he’s carrying two trays, and it takes Woojin a snap of Hyungseob’s fingers to snap him out of his trance, brain short circuiting as he realizes that Hyungseob even picked out Woojin’s food, unless he’s suddenly had his appetite increase tremendously and now needs to eat two full trays for lunch. “Is that for me?” he decides to ask, and promptly hating how hopeful he sounds. Woojin tries to bury the hope somewhere deep in the gravel of his heart, because if it ends up not being for him, he’s going to be the most humiliated he’s felt in months.

“Of course it is, silly.” Hyungseob laughs, his smile so radiant it drives sunflowers to shame. “I don’t know what you like, though. Or, what you like now, to be more precise. I picked out whatever I could remember you used to like back then—hopefully your tastebuds haven’t changed too much?” Even if Woojin’s tastebuds had done a complete 180, it’s Hyungseob who picked out his food, so even if Hyungseob asked him to eat anchovies—and he loathes them, really—he would’ve grabbed a mouthful and shoved it in his mouth.

, he’s hopeless.

“Don’t worry, I like it!” Woojin hasn’t even thoroughly scanned the contents of the tray, but he makes sure the words come out with enthusiasm, and lifts his tray off Hyungseob’s wavering arms. It’s only after he’s set the tray down on the table that he gets a proper look, and viewing the tray consisted almost entirely of protein with a little side of carrots as the vegetables, he decides that, yes, it is to his liking, and it’s not just because Hyungseob was the one who picked it out for him.

They eat, mostly in silence, save for the clangs that result from their eating utensils touching their plates and that one second where Woojin needed to pause to burp. (That was embarrassing as hell, and it was because Hyungseob was there; if he wasn’t, then Woojin would have little to no qualms about burping in public.)

“You know,” Woojin finds himself saying after the momentary silence that ensues after his loud burp, “I’m here for you. Just, you know. If you ever want to talk… or something, anything.”

“That’s sudden.” Hyungseob sips on the straw connected to his carton of milk, makes a noise of satisfaction at the taste, and peers at Woojin shrewdly. “What’s this about?”

“I don’t know.” Woojin does know, actually. Maybe he might not be able to place it, not yet, at least, but there’s something that strikes him as off regarding Hyungseob’s recent behavior. More subdued, and while being subdued isn’t a bad thing, it’s Hyungseob, who’s almost always personifying a bright ray of sunshine—that’s what worries Woojin, but if he spills all of this to Hyungseob at this moment, over lunch that’s barely edible and the only salvation of their taste buds being the drinks that weren’t produced by the school, that seems like ty timing more than anything. “I just wanted you to know.”

Hyungseob’s mouth releases the straw, and he gently places it back down onto his tray. An undecipherable look crosses his eyes, yet, he still musters a lopsided smile. Weak, maybe. Shaky, almost definitely. But, it’s a smile, and as far as Woojin can tell, none of it artificial.

Right now, that’s enough.

NOW PLAYING: Track 2 of CD 2 — Another Night On Mars.

Visiting Guanlin’s house after school doesn’t turn out to be as smooth sailing as Woojin initially expected. But then again, it isn’t as if he’d prepared himself for the onslaught of rapid fire Mandarin and the screeching that ensued almost immediately after he’d shown up on the doorstep, so, that’s something.

“You’re Guanlin’s friend?” a pretty girl who resembles Guanlin to a considerable degree asks him as soon as the house has settled back into a semblance of its regular normalcy, and she places her hands on Woojin’s shoulders, leaning in to inspect every detail of his face. Frankly, it makes him feel like he’s being inspected underneath a microscope, and small spaces like these (or lack of personal space, to be more precise) makes him uncomfortable, but he attempts to smile, still. Maybe it’s not as good of an attempt as he’d expected, considering the disappointed sigh that erupts from the girl almost as soon as he attempts the look.

“I'm Park Woojin, and yeah, I’m Guanlin’s friend.” Woojin wants to bow, to show some formality and proper manners, but if he does it in this position, he’d just end up bumping his head against the girl’s chest and that’s really not a situation he wants to go for. In place of that, he settles himself for a stocky nod of his head, hoping it’ll do the job. Not the most polite thing he’s ever done, but even that isn’t much competition.

The girl, who Woojin figures must be a few years older than him, gives him back his personal space after three more beats of scrutinization. Maybe she’s found whatever it was she’d been looking for, or maybe she’s just grown bored. Whichever the case is, Woojin’s just glad he has a wider space to breathe, now.

“Why are you here?” She narrows her eyes, cocking her hip to the side. If she really is Guanlin’s sister, then Woojin is shocked at how it seems like all the intimidating genes went to her, because frankly, the aura she emanates can make Woojin gulp. On the other hand, Guanlin is, as far as Woojin knows, a big baby stuck in the body of a giant teenager.

“Guanlin told me he’s sick.” He holds up the plastic bag in his hand, letting it dangle in front of the girl’s face, a rustle carried by the wind. “I came with food. I mean, if that’s fine. If not I could just go home.” That’d mean he’d also wasted the time he had spent earlier in the kitchen to brew soup, which probably doesn’t even taste that good (but as his mom would say, it’s the thought that counts), but he could always reheat it and give it to Guanlin at school. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.

The girl stays silent long enough for Woojin to start feeling awkward, standing right at the entrance of Guanlin’s house holding up a plastic bag, of which the scent of chicken broth is beginning to waft in the air. His arms are beginning to cramp, too, and he masks his discomfort with an awkward curl of his lips.

Right at the exact timing he returns his arm to its former position, she sighs, and moves aside to make way. “His room’s the one with his name on the door. I think he was napping, so… don’t forget to knock.”

“Oh.” Woojin coughs, and now that there’s proper distance between them, he bends his back into a quick bow. “Thank you!”

She eyes him for a moment, and, as if she’s found something in him that she’s been looking for the whole time, she lets a small smile to grow fondly on her lips. Woojin rubs his lower back as he gets himself back into an upright standing position, but makes sure to return the smile, wary as it might be. “Don’t mention it.”

True to her words, Guanlin’s room is the one with his name plastered on the door, and Woojin can recognize the wiry handwriting from a mile away; it’s even more obvious counting in the fact he has it written on red ink, making it contrast starkly against the plain paper it’d been scrawled on. Noise comes out from the crack of the door, but Woojin finds himself unable to discern whether the noise is from a movie, or if it’s music, or if it’s just his mind playing tricks on him; ever since he’s started consuming musicals, he may or may not have begun hearing music in his head. Which, you know, might not be the healthiest indicator of life, but it’s still something.

He raps the knuckles of his hand on the door. Once, twice, until it’s a whole cacophony of knocking—and now that he thinks about it, ‘a whole cacophony of knocking’ sounds like it could be the title of a cheap, third grade musical. (Yes, this is what theatre has done to Park Woojin: sue him.)

“Hold up,” he can hear Guanlin’s cry over the door, and winces when a thud, as well as a loud curse (maybe it’s a curse? It’s in Mandarin, but judging by the context, it sounds like it could be a curse), follows only a few seconds after. Eventually, however, the door swings open; on the other side is Lai Guanlin, with bloodshot eyes and dark rings forming a blue, purplish spot just a few centimeters underneath his lower lashes. Even his lips, usually plump and a healthy flush of red, are chapped and terribly pale. It makes for a picture that stabs a rush of worry into Woojin’s maternal instincts, which is pretty ing weird, because he’s never really had maternal instincts (or never knew about it) before now. Huh. “Woojin!”

Woojin must’ve failed to hold back a grimace at the sound of Guanlin’s voice—throaty, raspy, all the things that Guanlin’s voice usually never sounds like—judging by the crestfallen turn Guanlin’s expression has gone for; previously a sunny disposition, or at least, as sunny as someone down with sickness can muster.

Shockingly, it was a good try; or maybe, he shouldn’t be so shocked, because this is Lai Guanlin he’s talking about. The kid could look like a puppy even when his back is burdened by the weight of the world: or, in this case, the leading role. (God. When did Woojin grow so fond of him? He’s getting soft, without a doubt; for some reason, though, he doesn’t find himself opposing the feeling as much as he’d had a few days ago.)

“You look awful,” he comments, and before Guanlin can further resemble a kicked puppy, Woojin offers the plastic bag filled with the soup by holding up the bag, pushing it closely towards Guanlin’s loose arm. “I made it. I mean, I don’t know if that’s what you’d like, and I’m not the best cook, but. I figured that’s the best I could do to help.”

Guanlin’s eyes widen as he takes the plastic bag into his hands, and he peers his head inside to check the inside. Woojin tries not to grin at the sight of Guanlin’s head nearly disappearing inside the bag, but he loses his self control the moment Guanlin begins to sniff the contents. “This smells really good!” he cries, although the noise comes out muffled from the plastic. “You made this all by yourself?”

“Yeah.” Guanlin lifts his head from the bag, and the clutch of his fingers tighten, like he’s holding something fragile. Considering it’s broth, it might as well be. “I picked up a few tricks from the kitchen,” Woojin says, as if this explains his ability to cook, and it does: being the only child to a mother who owns a restaurant, he’s had to help out a couple of times in the kitchen, and he’s also been taught a few tricks by the maestro herself. He’s nowhere as good as her, the flavor of his creations not as strong as what his mother can cook up, but he’s decent, and that counts for something. (Counts for something like college, when one day he’ll have to live away from home, and he won’t have to rely on take out or unhealthy instant food if he can make something for himself.)

“This is really nice of you,” compliments Guanlin, and his grin is exactly like the ones he wears when he’s healthy; the only difference lying in the fact that he might be paler than usual, his lips in worse condition. But it’s the same grin, and Woojin gladly returns it with his own. “Come in! We could play video games, if you want. Do you like video games?”

Woojin hasn’t played a video game in about five years, where he’d been playing against Hyungseob in the newest console (of the time) that Hyungseob had received for his birthday, and he doesn’t know the first thing about the games that his classmates rave on and on about nowadays. But, Guanlin’s eyes are filled to the brim with so much hope that Woojin doesn’t have the gall to deny him.

“I guess,” he supposes, and yeah, saying that was worth it if Guanlin’s face of delight is anything to go by. “Maybe you’ll have to walk me through it, though. It’s… been a while.” Would five years constitute as a while, or would it be considered as a pretty damn long period of time? Whichever the answer is, Woojin can’t think much on it, because Guanlin’s pulling him by the sleeve inside his room, long, thin limbs that make up a leg slamming the door shut.

For the first time, Woojin gets a clear view of what Guanlin’s bedroom looks like, and his initial thought is: oh, I’m neater than he is. Not like he’d expected anything less, considering Woojin’s habit of cleaning up whenever he felt uneasy, or bored, and boredom is far from a stranger. Before Guanlin somersaulted into his life, Woojin might’ve even considered boredom to be his only friend. (Now that he thinks about it, that’s just… sad. And a little pathetic. Sadthetic.)

“I haven’t cleaned up in a while,” Guanlin says, with something that sounds something like embarrassment. He hastily throws a blanket over the mess covering his bed, an assortment of half-opened snacks and empty cans, leaving Woojin to wonder why he’d been consuming junk food if he was sick. “I mean, if I’d known you were coming, I would’ve! Really!”

“Guanlin, it’s alright,” Woojin assures, laughing as he does. “You said something about video games?”

“Oh! I did. Come on, sit here!” As Guanlin throws himself onto his bed (a Queen-sized with space patterned sheets that match the pillow cases), he pats on the empty spot next to him, and Woojin takes a seat, sitting crosslegged on the surface. By now, Guanlin’s started to rummage through a container of gadgets on the floor, only stopping after he finds the controllers. “Here you go,” he chirps, handing over one to Woojin. “Let’s see… I think I have a few newer games, and a few older ones, too. I’ve been playing the newest Injustice for a while, though. If you want, we could play that!”

Although Woojin has no idea what Injustice is, he finds himself nodding, succumbing himself to whatever fate lies ahead. He’ll probably lose in whatever it is they’re about to play, and he’s already accepted the fact; as if he’d stand a chance against Guanlin, who seems like an avid enthusiast of video games—contrasting Woojin, who tends to finds himself getting hyped over re-runs of superhero movies on the local channel. (Also, Dancing with the Stars, but that one is a family secret between him and his mom. And maybe Sejeong too, because she’s practically his older sister by everything but blood.)

He sits still as Guanlin gets the game set up, and when that’s done, he begins fiddling with the controller held within his hands as soon as the game starts running. To keep his mind away from his looming, imminent loss, he resolves to stare at the bag containing his chicken soup propped onto Guanlin’s study table, watching how the steam continues to emanate, still, and revels at how hot the water he’d used to make the broth must’ve been. “If you don’t eat it soon, you’ll have to warm it up again before you do. I think it’d taste weird if you ate it cold.”

“Really?” He’s never seen Guanlin stand up that fast before, and nearly jumps when the controller hits his arm in the quick movement it’d taken for the other to get up (and dropping the device in the process.) “I’ll have to eat it as I play, then!” Then, he’s gone, crossing the room in a straight dart just to pick up the bag. When he’s back and safely seated next to Woojin, the controller on his lap despite the fact the main page of the game has begun to greet them, he fumbles with the plastic bag and takes out the food carefully, the plastic spoon that Woojin had supplied following shortly after.

“Here, let me help.” Woojin opens the tray for Guanlin and sets it down on the bed, careful not to let any of the soup that’d managed to get on it to spill onto the sheets; that’d be a mess to clean up. Guanlin carefully dips the spoon onto the soup, and blows on it to subside some of the heat before precariously placing it onto his mouth, taking a small sip to taste it.

Instead of saying anything and alleviating some of Woojin’s nerves, he gulps it all down after the first taste, sighing in something that suspiciously sounds like content afterwards. “This must be the healthiest thing I’ve eaten all day.” Remembering the wrappers hidden underneath the blankets, Woojin’s not surprised. “It tastes really good, too! I didn’t expect it to be this tasty—no offense!”

Frankly, Woojin’s too amused by how quick Guanlin is to reassure Woojin to even feel offended by the unintended slight. Not that he says it, and instead settles for a pleased smile.

“You should be eating more healthy things if you want to get better, Guanlin.” Woojin sighs in exasperation, ignoring Guanlin’s pout. “Do you want Seongwoo to visit your house carrying, what, store bought salad because the star of his show can’t make it to practice?”

Guanlin’s jaw drops in horror. “He wouldn’t really do that, would he?”

“I don’t know.” Woojin fakes an innocent smile, and has to swallow down his laughter, though the shaking of his lips should inform anyone he’s lying; Guanlin doesn’t see it, however, and resumes to stare at Woojin with the eyes of a terrified teenager. “I mean, you know how he is…” he trails off, letting Guanlin’s imagination do the rest.

“You’re right,” Guanlin whimpers, and promptly shoves a spoonful of hot broth into his mouth. For a whole second, he doesn’t take the spoon out of his mouth, and his eyes close at the temperature of the soup. Woojin eyes him with worry, but before he can do anything to help, Guanlin snaps out of the heat induced trance, takes a deep breath, and opens his mouth, letting the tongue bask in the relief from the cold air. “I have to eat healthier,” he says after the fiasco, resolve settling in his eyes like growing flames. “And I have to get better, so that Seongwoo won’t visit me! Could you imagine how bad that’d be? I—I’d even hide in my closet.”

He looks dead serious, to the point that Woojin, against his slippery will, finds himself bursting into laughter, bending down with a hand against his stomach at the image of Guanlin—tall enough to be taller than Seongwoo—stuffing himself inside his closet just because of a visit from the eccentric man. On one hand, Woojin would like to think Guanlin isn’t as dramatic or easily scared as this action might make he seem like, but then again, Guanlin is a baby; this might not be him overreacting, but him being himself, and somehow, that’s as terrifying as it is interesting.

“Hyung, why are you laughing?” Guanlin grumbles, putting on a sour face, even as he continues to devour the soup that Woojin’s made.

“Nothing, nothing,” lies Woojin, catching his breath after his fit of laughter. “Just keep eating your food, Guanlin.”

Guanlin’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “If you say so.”

He resumes to eat, and the bowl is empty in less than five minutes.

(Woojin begins to wonder if Guanlin literally inhales his food instead of eating it regularly, because the bowl had been big enough for him to stuff at least four spoonfuls from his wooden soup spoon.)

NOW PLAYING: Track 3 of CD 2 — Hard Times.

There aren’t many things that can surprise Park Woojin to the point of staggering, but coming into the dance club’s meeting room and seeing Park Jihoon right there, standing out with his neon sweatshirt and tanned orange joggers, is enough to get him to gape, even forgetting to close the door behind him despite Yerim’s annoyed shouting.

“You”—Woojin points a shaky index finger Jihoon’s way, who doesn’t even look like he’s moved by the reaction Woojin is showing—“what are you doing here?”

Jihoon claps his hands together, face contorted in absolute delight that Woojin just can’t relate to right now. “Great, you’re here. I’m here to help you with method acting!”

The statement is loud enough to attract unwarranted attention, namely from Justin Huang who has taken to looking at Woojin with a mixture of glee and confusion. “Method acting? Is that what you ditched club meeting last week for?”

“No!” Apparently, he sounds ridiculous enough that Jihoon’s looking at him in confusion and something that looks a lot like knowing. “… Okay, um, maybe.”

“You didn’t have to go so far to lie about method acting,” comments Yerim, wrinkling her button nose. “If you got a boyfriend and you wanted to hang out with him instead of going to a club meeting, you could’ve just said so.”

“Yeah!” Justin’s quick to pick it up. “You didn’t have to ask him—poor guy, by the way, I feel bad for him—to partake in the lie, too. Shame on you, Woojin. Dishonor on you, your family, and your cow!”

“I don’t even have a cow—”

Samuel, who’s been staying silent next to Justin, finally speaks up in the middle of the stirring commotion: “I’m sorry about Justin, he’s been watching too many medieval era movies.” Figures.

Woojin shakes his head, as if that can shake the entire dance club and Jihoon away too, but unfortunately, they’re still there when he’s gone back to his silent, standing position. “Why are you really here?” he ends up asking Jihoon, sounding as dead tired as he is exasperated.

Jihoon rolls up the cuffs of his ridiculous sweater. Woojin doesn’t know much about fashion (correction: he knows next to nothing about it), but the voice of reason in his head is chanting at him to let it burn. “I told you.” He sighs, patting the hem of his sleeves that now barely graze his elbow. This makes Woojin wonder if he’d done so to prepare himself for a fight, but then again, even Jihoon’s not that eccentric—or is he? Whatever the answer is, he isn’t dying to find out. “We’re going to do method acting.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’ve got to be in the club room, too!” Woojin says in a hushed whisper, still aware of the people that surround them. It’s not as if they’re not aware of his disposition in the theatre club by now, but still, it isn’t something Woojin wants to blow up; he’s already getting enough passing comments about him and leather jackets and greasy, oily hair (because apparently that’s the customary hairstyle of Kenickie) as it is. Does he need more? No—but maybe, when hell freezes over.

“Think, Woojin.” Jihoon’s index finger pokes his temple, and Woojin flinches away. It doesn’t deter Jihoon at the slightest. “What better way to pressure you into method acting than having you do it as Kenickie in the middle of something… Woojin-y?”

“No,” he refuses without a single ounce of hesitation, glaring at the smirking Jihoon. He wants to wipe away the infuriating smirk, but he remembers to keep himself in check, because getting into a scuffle with Park Jihoon over him being infuriating is highly uncharacteristic of himself. Thinking about the imaginary scuffle, however, isn’t something he’s above of. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” Jihoon sings, and in his head, Woojin (very, very begrudgingly) would admit he doesn’t sound half bad. Though it does makes him inwardly question why Jihoon doesn’t participate in the actual performance, he lets the question sift to the back of his head—that’s probably an unimportant train of thought. “I thought you wanted me to help you polish your potential?”

“Well, yes,” confesses Woojin, raising his voice slightly, “but not like this!”

“Go big or go home, Woojin.” Jihoon is enjoying every last second of this, if his strangled laughter and quivering shoulders are anything to go by. Right at this moment, Woojin decides he’s an infuriating little . “Next time, I’ll corner you in class, so might as well get things over now.”

“In class?” Woojin says, obviously affronted. “Can you even do that?”

Jihoon snorts. “Trust me, you don’t want to know half the things I’m capable of.” He’s right, Woojin doesn’t want to know. Jihoon’s terrifying enough as he is, which is funny, considering he’s got the face of a baby and the stature of a shortie, his cherub cheeks not doing anything to help him look scary, but Woojin still finds him more terror inducing than someone along the lines of Ha Minho. The hidden depth, he figures, is what seems daunting. There’s something about Jihoon that just screams he’s capable of anything, maybe even hiding a body in the middle of the woods (and Woojin’s slightly unconvinced that this hasn’t happened before, but only slightly, because that’s how scary Jihoon can be), and Woojin would’ve resolved not to get on his bad side if it wasn’t for the fact he could be annoying as hell.

“Fine.” He has to will away a snarl at how pleased Jihoon looks, and woefully ignores Justin Huang’s shrieking fit of cackles—if he wasn’t (very, very secretly and also in a moderately minuscule amount) somehow fond of Justin, Woojin’s sure he would’ve decked him by now. “… Do your thing.”

Jihoon links Woojin’s arm with his, and Woojin doesn’t even bother to resist. One way or another, Jihoon would get his way, and Woojin finds it less stressing to just go along with his whims. “I’ll have to borrow this guy for a while,” he says to the other members of the dance team, with a smile that Woojin would even classify as nice if he wasn’t already aware of the hidden meanings that every one of Jihoon’s smiles hold. “But when I get back, he’s going to be someone new.”

“Are you taking him to a plastic surgery clinic?” Samuel asks, eyes wide.

Woojin uses his free hand to slap a palm over his face, groaning in embarrassment. Why is this his life, again? He’d lament over needing better friends, except he’s not sure what Jihoon is, hovering between the line of acquaintanceship and friendship in a way that he can’t quite figure out.

“Nope,” chirps Jihoon, unshaken by the remark. Woojin wishes he had that kind of composure with his own actions—he still thinks, mostly in the middle of class, if he really hadn’t forgotten to turn off the oven. “You’ll see.”

And, in the end, they do see. Jihoon isn’t a terrible acting coach, considering that was Woojin’s first experience of being actually taught by him instead of blasting music through the phone, and he explains things so clearly that Woojin wonders if he had a mentor of his own; except, that’d be ridiculous, because if he did then surely he would’ve been a performer instead of staying backstage. Even within the fifteen minute timespan he takes to work on Woojin, Jihoon all but barks out the imperfections within his posture and expressions, and by the time Woojin re-enters the dance club’s room, this time as the greaser Kenickie and not outcasted rebel Park Woojin, he finds it outstandingly easy to act, like Kenickie’s a part of him instead of being just a name, repeated countless times, on a piece of paper.

“You did great,” Jihoon compliments him once Woojin’s gotten down from the high of being Kenickie, and he has to blink a few times to remind himself that he isn’t an actual Grease character and is instead a normal high school student, but Jihoon smiles knowingly, like he knows the exact train of thoughts that Woojin’s having. If he did know—Woojin wouldn’t be surprised. “Like I said, you’ve got potential.”

‘Yeah.” Woojin laughs, and it’s euphoric as it is shocked. “I have potential,” he repeats the words in a daze, but can’t fight away the stupidly wide grin that breaks out on his face.

“And don’t you let any of it go to waste,” mutters Jihoon, so softly that Woojin barely picks it up. When he turns to ask what the other had meant by it, Jihoon’s already turned to get his backpack, slinging it over his shoulders. “I’ve got to go home. I’ll see you.”

Jihoon has taken three steps when Woojin catches up with him, his own bag haphazardly thrown over the crook of his neck. “I’ll walk with you!” he volunteers himself, and while Jihoon never pauses his steps, the curious tilt of his head speaks loudly enough for the them to hear. “You’ve helped me a lot today. Even though I didn’t want to, at first,” he mumbles, shamefaced. “Besides, maybe you’d like the company?” Woojin meant that to be a statement, he really did, but at the sight of Jihoon’s limpid eyes, it slipped into a question.

He’s not taken aback. He’s not.

“The company could’ve been better,” teases Jihoon, faking a high-pitched whine, eliciting nervous laughter from Woojin. “But I guess you’ll have to do.”

Woojin’s not saying there was a moment before, but if there was a moment, then the statement had been enough to shatter it into little pieces strewn across the dirty high school floor. “What do you mean I’ll have to do? I’m perfectly fine company!” he defends, half-serious, knowing that Jihoon’s joking—but at the same time, he might be serious, and Woojin wouldn’t have known any better: he hasn’t known Jihoon long enough to recognize when Jihoon’s messing around and when he’s not. Even when he’s gotten to know the other more, Woojin would still have lingering doubts on Jihoon’s readability; the boy puts up a wall between what he shows and what he’s thinking of so strongly it’d put swindlers to shame.

“Are you, really?” Jiho.on scrutinizes him, taking a break of a few seconds from staring ahead. It doesn’t result in serious injury, though that could be attributed to the fact that the path they’re taking doesn’t have sudden turns or sudden appliances. Woojin and his previous misfortune of once hitting his head on lockers twice in a row can’t relate. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“Oi, Park Jihoon.”

Jihoon raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright,” he wheezes through his chuckles. “Oh, we’re here.” His tracks falter as the sight of the doorway looms ahead, the school gate a whole twenty steps from the immediate exit. (Woojin knows this because he’s counted it before; why? He doesn’t even remember, though he’d reckon it was boredom.)

“I’ll see you, I guess.” Woojin raises his hand in a wave, but instead of nodding, or even waving back, Jihoon looks at him quizzically. It sends a wave of unease down Woojin’s spine, like there’s something he’s missing. Is he supposed to smile?

“What, you’re not going to walk me all the way to the gate?” that’s what Jihoon says instead of goodbye, and Woojin feels his heart skip a beat—he wasn’t expecting that.

“Oh, I didn’t think—”

“… Woojin, stop.” A hand stops Woojin’s own from clambering to tie his shoelaces, because if he’s going to walk Jihoon all the way to the gate then he’d have to retie them, considering they’ve fallen loose at some point. He meets Jihoon’s face like this: the both of them stooped down, a smirk that reeks of amusement standing too close to the awkward, downturned pull of his mouth. “I was kidding. I can walk myself back.”

“I’m still not used to you,” admits Woojin, surprising himself with the courage he wrenches to help him not flinch away when Jihoon peers in. “I mean—I get that you might be the type to joke around or something with your friends, but we’re barely even civil, and—”

Jihoon puts his hands up in a universal signal for Woojin to quiet down, but Woojin has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop himself from laughing when Jihoon falls to the ground at the loss of balance that his hands had brought. “I know you want to laugh,” he mutters, and stands up from his spot on the ground, wiping away the dust that’d clung onto the bottom of his pants. Woojin follows suit, stretching his knees back to its standing position, sighing at the relief it brought. “Woojin, I’m going to make this blunt.”

“Um.” Woojin tries not to feel nervous, not that trying automatically translates to succeeding. “Okay.”

“Messing with you is fun.” Jihoon shrugs, like he hasn’t just made a statement that’s frozen Woojin’s stature. “I’ll stop if you want me to, though.”

“Is this like, a friendship thing?” Woojin manages to say through his nearly frozen tongue, and something that feels a lot like hope makes his chest warm. “Or am I reading too much into this?”

The louder, more realistic part of Woojin is skeptical of it being anything but the latter. Gaining two friends in the span of a few weeks seems to be too good for Woojin, because even having Guanlin stick around seems like nothing short of a miracle. Having Jihoon becoming his friend could even seem like too much; just last week, they barely talked, but if Jihoon finds himself comfortable enough to pull small jokes with Woojin, then—

“It’s a friendship thing, I guess.” Jihoon smiles, and he doesn’t know how much the words mean to Woojin, who’s beginning to feel the start of a wide, reckless grin. “Are you okay with that?”

“Did you even need to ask?”

At the wavering of Jihoon’s pupils, alongside the repeated opening and closing of his mouth—like he has something to say, but just doesn’t know how; apparently, he did.

“I am,” Woojin assures, and this might be the happiest he’s looked in front of Jihoon, but now he has another friend. And friendship is fragile: one wrong move and he could find himself returning to his friendless disposition, and even if he was used to it before, now he’s gotten used to the banter, the smiles, the chatter that constant company brings. What’s terrifying is how he doesn’t know if he could ever go back—doesn’t know what would become of him if Guanlin (or now, Jihoon) decides to step away from his life, leaving Woojin all alone, back to square one. It’s not dependancy. Woojin functions well enough without his friends, but they still mean something to Woojin, maybe lesser than the extent of what he thinks of his mother, but certainly enough for him to care about them more than he cares about himself. (Is that healthy? He has the feeling it isn’t, but by now, Woojin never thinks twice about putting others’ happiness above his own.

In Sejeong’s words, he’s only three steps away from being a martyr, but the last step for that is dying, and she’d pull him back from the jaws of death if he ever so much as thinks of doing that.

“Are you sure?” Jihoon’s mouth twists into something that isn’t a frown, but isn’t a smile either. “No take backs,” he warns, but Woojin doesn’t even have the mind to think about taking the words back.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

Woojin’s never done this before, but he gives it a shot; raising his hand in a fist, holding it expectantly in the air, until Jihoon gives in with a sigh, bumping it with his. The notion is far from grand, and it’s simple, maybe even listed amongst the most basic forms of friendship, but Woojin smiles, anyway; it makes his chest feel a little lighter when he spies the semblance of a smile on Jihoon’s chapped, but somehow, still pink, lips.

“See you tomorrow?” Woojin has the feeling he’s sounding way too hopeful, but Jihoon doesn’t seem to mind, if the casual nod is anything to go by.

“Yes. I’ll see you.” Jihoon waves at Woojin one last time before he leaves, never looking back. If he did, then he might’ve seen Woojin standing still in his place, never moving a single inch despite the ticking clock (there are dishes to clean and clothes to wash and hang to dry, after all), watching Jihoon’s retreating back until he disappears from Woojin’s line of sight.

Why was I even staring at him? Woojin finds himself questioning, but the answer is right there, niggling the back of his mind, stubbornly unspoken.

NOW PLAYING: Track 4 of CD 2 — The Middle.

On the following day, Jihoon begins to sit with Woojin and Guanlin during lunch. Their table is far from crowded, considering it’d fit five people at the very least and they’re only a trio, but with Guanlin adamantly squishing himself next to Woojin like a territorial puppy, therefore leaving Jihoon to sit across them with dry amusement showing all over his face, it might as well be a party.

“So he’s friends with us now?” Guanlin’s been playing with the food on his tray with his plastic fork for nearly five minutes now, eyeing Jihoon like he’s a threat to his and Woojin’s friendship. “I was never informed.”

“Maybe that’s because you literally just got back to school after taking a break for a couple of days?” returns Jihoon, smiling wryly. “Nice to have you back, Guanlin.”

Guanlin’s eyes narrow in further suspicion. “… Thank you,” he says warily, and points his index and middle finger simultaneously at his eyes before facing them towards Jihoon. “I’m watching you.”

This is getting ridiculous, Woojin decides, and brings down his own palms to lower Guanlin’s raised fingers. “Guanlin, stop it,” he sighs, trying not to let the younger’s wounded look get to him. “Just because I’ve found another friend, doesn’t mean I’ll forget about you all of a sudden.” Admittedly, the words are more embarrassing said than thought, and Woojin refuses to look up from his plate of pudding (at least, it looks like a pudding, he hasn’t grown the balls to actually taste it) after he says them. Still, an unusual silence blankets around the table, and when he finds the courage to look up, both Guanlin and Jihoon are staring at him; the former in wide-eyed respect, the latter like he’s about to laugh his off at any given moment.

“Besides,” he tries not to stutter, and succeeds, mostly, “I think you’d like Jihoon.” He’s actually not sure of that theory at all, but might as well say it, considering his words have the potential to weigh significantly on Guanlin’s overall image of the other student. “He’s…” Annoying but somehow easy to get along with, most of the time? “Jihoon’s eccentric.”

“Eccentric.” Jihoon raises his brows, high enough they disappear underneath his fringe.

“What, you’ve got a better word?” Woojin retorts, shoving a spoonful of his salad into his mouth. At the stale taste, he tries not to spit it out, and mostly succeeds; only choking and looking like he wants to barf when he swallows it down, maybe, but none of it are catered off his system. So, there’s that, at least.

“No, I guess,” sighs Jihoon in defeat, right before fixing Guanlin a slight grin. “You should listen to Woojin. He thinks you’d like me.”

Woojin rolls his eyes. Of course. “No need to be condescending about it either, Park.”

“Who said I was?” Jihoon fakes an affronted look, going far enough to stick a hand over his chest as his face morphs into that of good ol’ scandalization. “Park.”

“Okay, stop it,” protests Guanlin, as if he hadn’t been the one to voice his suspicions less than five minutes ago; either way, not so long ago that Woojin’s plate of pudding is still untouched, and he doesn’t have the urge to take even a small bite of it—maybe he’ll just give it to someone who does, but then again, both Guanlin and Jihoon have taste. “If Woojin approves of you, then I guess you can’t be that bad,” he admits grudgingly, corners of his mouth weighed down by a deeply set frown. “But I still don’t trust you.”

“Never asked for your trust.” Jihoon salutes, completely off-handed, and out of context it would’ve made Woojin to scratch his head. “The two of you are coming to practice after school, aren’t you?”

Guanlin nods fervently, and his tray shakes at the jittering of his legs. “Of course! I missed a day or so, but I’m not going to miss any more.” His lips set off into a determined purse—Woojin smiles fondly at the sight. “Did I miss anything important, though? Woojin hasn’t told me.”

“Hm.” Jihoon’s brows furrow, and he begins to twirl his fork around the soggy pasta that’s only half-eaten on his plate. “I don’t know if this would count as important, but it’s… a little worrying, I guess?”

For some reason, Woojin doesn’t have a good feeling about this. The pudding that suddenly wiggles in his plate agrees, too.

“Hyungseob hasn’t been performing like usual,” Jihoon spills, and sighs in something akin to frustration. “Woojin, do you know what I’m talking about?”

Numbly, Woojin shakes his head. “Um… no, I’ve never seen him perform before,” he says, quiet and subdued. Call him a bad friend, but he’s never watched any of Hyungseob’s productions before—although Woojin does know that Hyungseob is, arguably, the star of the theatre club, and shines the brightest when he’s on the stage. Maybe the latter is more of secondhand information than anything else, but Woojin has never doubted Hyungseob’s capability. He might not seem intimidating or particularly threatening, but there’s always been a fire in Hyungseob’s eyes that burns and courses blindingly.

If he’d been searching instead of just looking, maybe Woojin would’ve noticed the way the fire’s starting to burn out.

“I’ve worked with Hyungseob since middle school. This is the first time I’ve seen him so unenthusiastic about something.” Jihoon frowns, and the twirling of his fork slows down. “It’s just, weird, I guess. Usually he’d be bouncing off the walls about memorizing his lines or begging me to show him the sketches of his stage outfits, but he’s been quiet. Maybe there’s just something going on—like, too many assignments, or something.” But even through the spoken lies, Jihoon’s face made of contorted worry says it all; even he doesn’t believe what he’s saying. “It’s been a busy start of the year.”

Even Guanlin, who’s usually the last to pick up on the atmosphere of a situation, realizes the worrying implications. He’s stopped bouncing his legs, and has begun to chew on his lip, the way he always does when he begins to fret.

“But he’ll be okay, right?” Guanlin asks, big eyes peering at Jihoon, who begins to look uncomfortable.

“I don’t know,” Jihoon says, and puts down his fork. He smiles, but there’s no happiness in it, only a sad, lingering kind of sorrow. It sets off some alarm for Woojin, who begins to suspect that Jihoon might even be able to relate to Hyungseob’s current troubles, whatever they are—and the previous thoughts he’s had before suddenly seem less ridiculous than he’d initial