To cut a long story short, it was Yoochun’s fault.

It didn’t matter, how or why. Most things happened because Yoochun was a crazy motherer and Yunho was unfortunate enough to be his best friend. Which meant that by default, he was the one who got inadvertently dragged into Yoochun’s messes.

For how much longer, it wasn’t clear, since Yunho’s status as a scholarship-wielding college student was in dire jeopardy. Since he’d entered college, hapkido was his priority. It had paid off in that he’d won.

It had also been a brutal mistake in that all the late night practices and out of town training camps he’d attended, meant Yunho had ridiculously bad grades.

“A Pyrrhic victory,” his coach lamented, patting Yunho’s shoulder kindly. “The university still has a minimum passing grade, and they aren’t going to make exceptions, not even for the national champion.”

It didn’t seem fair. Hapkido players didn’t need Math, or Chemistry, or English. There seemed little point in investing all his time and effort into subjects he’d never use, once he turned professional.

“I’m benching you,” his coach says, firmly. Yunho opens his mouth to protest but his coach silences him with a look. “You’re a smart kid, Yunho-ya, a quarter on the bench isn’t going to harm your career, in fact it might do you good.”

That’s how they end up here, with Yunho anxiously thumbing through Yoochun’s course catalogue, and stopping at the class that’s circled in bright red marker: ART 131: An intricate study of the human aesthetic.

“This? How is this the answer to all of my prayers?”

“Take it,” Yoochun says, eyes bright with amusement, “it’s an easy class, and it bumps your miserable schedule up from one unit to six.”

Yunho groans, “We’re jocks, Yoochun-ah, neither of us knows anything about art.”

Changmin raises an eyebrow at the comment and Yunho sends him a shut-up-or-I’ll-kill-you-and-dump-your-body-somewhere-secret look

Changmin doesn’t look intimidated. Or impressed. But because he is Yunho’s other best friend, and has known him since the day Yunho solemnly promised his dying grandfather to give up Picasso for Lim Hyun Soo, he says nothing.

“Exactly,” Yoochun continues breezily, not noticing the less than subtle exchange between the two. “It’s perfect. All subjectivity and blurred lines and none of that Physics crap Changmin helped you fail through all of last semester.”

“Hey,” Changmin, glares.

“Which is why,” Yoochun continues, ignoring him, “you should totally take this class because it’s totally going to be an easy A and your ticket back onto the hapkido team.”

Yunho eyes him carefully, but scribbles the course control code into his notebook. “You’re sure about this? I can’t afford another D this semester or I’m ed.”

“Positive.” Yoochun winks watching over Yunho’s shoulder as he types in the course control number and clicks around, adding the class to his still woefully light schedule.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that Kim Junsu is the TA, does it?” Changmin asks drolly as Yunho clicks “confirm”.

“Nope,” Yoochun says gleefully when Yunho shuts his laptop and turns back to them, bemused. “It was the models that sealed the deal for me.”

“See?” Yoochun says, a skip in his step, after a particularly boring first lecture, “that wasn’t so bad was it?”

“Yoochun,” Yunho says warily, scanning his Art 131 introduction sheet, “we have three hour compulsory art sketching sessions. I can’t do this right now, not with competition season so close.”

“Relax,” Yoochun says with a grin, his gaze drifting to a certain bespectacled TA, “you do all the sketching in lecture, I checked. It won’t take any time outside of class at all.”

“Drop deadline is the week after after,” Changmin says helpfully, “better hope you have a clearer grasp of the class content before time runs out.”

“Always so pessimistic,” Yoochun says with a sigh. He waves them off and saunters over to talk to the TA, who is bending over the table, intently studying his notes, his delightful assets on full display.

The TA’s name is Kim Junsu. He’s been an Arts and Music student for the past three years. And to Yoochun’s surprise and delight, they’re all the same age.

“I’ve had some trouble with the element of light in sketching,” Yoochun says, suavely leaning against Junsu’s desk, “do you want to discuss that over coffee?”

Junsu does, his face lighting up and his hands moving animatedly as he deep dives into the pros and cons of using charcoal versus chalk. Yoochun throws them both a smirk over his shoulder as he trails behind Junsu, clearly enjoying the view.

“You love charcoal,” Changmin says a beat later, when the door shuts and it’s just Yunho and Changmin alone, in the airy lecture hall.

Yunho glances down at his notebook, long rough sketches fill the corners of the lined pages, circling his history notes.

“I haven’t touched it in a long time,” Yunho admits “not since.”

“Yeah,” Changmin says, knowingly, his fingers hovering over a faint pencil sketch etched into the side of Yunho’s notebook, scant lines detailing a classroom, glass windows and the faint outline of a figure hidden in the shadows.

“But Yoochun hyung is right about one thing. It’ll be an easy A.”

It turns out that both Junsu and Yoochun have an unhealthy obsession with music, although Junsu favors the guitar, and Yoochun is more experienced with a piano.

After two weeks of late night jams that turn into sleepovers, Yoochun has also discovered that Junsu’s positive attributes extend to (a) being a crazy talented singer and (b) being incredibly y in glasses.

They basically are inseparable, thereafter.

“He’s so ing hot, Yunho-hyung,” Yoochun gushes, “and it’s like the gods answered all my prayers because I swear I couldn’t even make this up. He ing sings like an angel, and the way his fingers caress the piano, he’s like—”

“Perfect?” Changmin interjects, blandly.

“Exactly he’s—”

Yoochun doesn’t shut up about him, and by the end of the conversation, Yunho could probably write a bestseller extolling the virtues of one Kim Junsu.

“I thought you said the sketch sessions would be held during lecture,” Yunho hisses, at Yoochun who is too busy making goo goo eyes at Junsu across the lecture hall to pay much attention.

“I don’t know,” Yoochun says dreamily, as Junsu turns to write something on the board and his shirt rides up a little to show a bared sliver of tanned skin. “But whatever it is, don’t you think it’ll be worth it?”

“No,” Yunho tells him sharply, because he can’t afford to miss the extra sketch lab that makes up 40% of his grade. Which means he’s going to have to miss at least three hours of hapkido practice. And Yunho, who is already in his coach’s bad graces, can’t exactly afford that. He sighs, dropping his head to the table and wonders why he ever thought taking Yoochun up on a suggestion was a good idea.

The sketch lab happens on Friday. The professor starts them off with thirty minutes of freehand sketches as warm up. Yunho sketches Yoochun who sketches Junsu. Yoochun really does have beautiful hands, and inspiration catches Yunho by the neck. Before he knows it, he has six sketches of Yoochun’s hands, the way they curve around his pencil, the way they catch the light, the way Yunho knows they hold a cigarette.

At a quarter past twelve, there’s a soft unobtrusive knock. Yunho looks up to see a blonde boy enter. He bows to the class briefly, his expression calm and collected, but Yunho’s eye is drawn to where his fingers are twisting in his shirt, a nervous tic.

“Check out the new model,” Yoochun mouths, motioning with his eyes.

Yunho glances over again, feigning disinterest very badly and Yoochun stifles a laugh, shakes his head and turns back to his sketch of Junsu.

His name is Kim Jaejoong, Yunho learns later, and he is gaunt and too skinny, his shoulders broad, his skin pale and fair, eyes smudged with kohl eyeliner. The cotton V-neck he is wearing falls low on his chest, revealing a peak of dark ink, over his heart.

He stands in the center of the room, allowing Junsu to adjust him just so, then remains that way for 30 minutes.

Yunho sketches the way the sunlight falls upon his face, the way his veins on his neck strain to get out from under his skin, the way his eyes fall shut, deep in contemplation.

It’s the best hour of his life.