According to Hyukjae, he’d realised it as far back as sixteen, and certainly as far down as the hand working under his sweats for a surreptitious high. At some point, a face through the orgastic white, and the face looked an awfully lot like… Donghae’s.

It hadn’t worried Hyukjae much right then and there, but it soon became increasingly difficult to divorce this friend of his from a dirty thought. And as it turned out, a good one too.

Then Hyukjae knew he had a problem.

A Thursday feels like a key turning in the lock, one long metropolitan slip and slide down sunset way, five beers tossed in the air, one coin tossed to see who pays. It doesn’t matter because Siwon offers to anyway—he has the widest range of most anything; from connections to fridge magnets to notes with scribbled phone numbers that never do make it to his list of hangs-and-wanks half the time. As the prodigal son and perhaps even possible heir to Boryung Pharmaceuticals, it had been theorised time and time again that Siwon was just at SNU to show for something; “he could be studying, i dunno, lesbian dance theory, all, and still be CEO” —Heechul had said once. It’s also why Hyukjae had come fresh out of bed, in joggers no less: he needed help, Siwon’s help. And a bit of Heechul’s backhanded commentary.

“Okay but if you know the guy who does the dorm sorting at Gwanak why can’t you just put all six of us together?”

“Be—”

“He knows the guy,” Heechul interjects, putting an arm around Siwon, “And this bastard isn’t even staying in dorms.”

“Look, look, it’s not like the halls are unlivable.”

“Yeah why can’t we crash your Gangnam pad?” —a muffled objection from the left that sounds suspiciously like Kyuhyun through foam.

Siwon shrugs the arm off, “Because the last time y’all came over we lost my grandfather’s carpet to 7-11 tteokbokki—”

“ —Donghae’s fault —”

“ —and besides, you know my dad’s pretty adverse to the otherwise liberal notion of two men like, doing the do.”

“Twinky-ing in the stinky-ing,” Heechul adds hopefully.

“...”

“We get it,” Hyukjae stirs the conversation back, and none of them really remember what they are supposed to be talking about anymore, “Your dad hates fags. So, moving on, why can’t you sort us all together, or, OR, at least, in some arrangement where I’m not the only person living with Donghae!”

“Must have been some of luck,” Jungsoo sniggers, barely looking up from his screen.

“Seriously guys.”

“I’m not sharing a dorm with Heechul.”

“Same feelings here head.”

“You’re all hopeless,” Hyukjae settles into his booth cushion, feeling defeated. “Siwon, for real, seriously?”

A smile cracks through from Hyukjae’s left and nearly blindsides him. “I don’t actually know, know the guy. Besides, maybe it’s about time you get over that hill about Donghae. Talk to him. By yourself. You two would probably be a lot closer if you did.”

Great. There was the awful taste of the truth again; being sixteen, wanting to split the words from his mouth without the weight of the world. Siwon was right, there was a time before when they had been nothing but pockmarked, rubescent kiddos, sprawled over Donghae’s living room floor, game consoles in hand.

Touch was a medium devoid of affection and the slow thrum beneath Hyukjae’s pre-pubescent ribs; but then Donghae had gotten handsome, then ridiculously handsome, which was terrible, because he was also such a nice, nice, guy. The whole gamut of hormonal emotions must have hit him back then; frustration, anger, jealousy, guilt… mainly guilt. The concept of a confession sounded terrifying to him: Hyukjae had never been good with (unironic) proclamations of desire and romance, mutual pining seemed otherworldly and besides, Donghae still went to their old church and Hyukjae couldn’t remember if the pastor was one of those woke old geezers or just an old geezer.

He felt sorry for ever drifting, but their same circle of highschool friends had kept their friendship just partially afloat.

Until now.

Thursday night deflates as Hyukjae disappears behind subway doors and Heechul bursts into a flash-bang of laughs and one hand slapped over Siwon’s chest.

“So it worked then?”

“Yeah, yeah, gave the sorting guy a ring, easy-peasy.”

According to Donghae, Hyukjae had always looked funny; his eyes were too close to his nose and his nose was too close to his mouth and his ears were too big for his face—as Shindong-hyung had so lovingly pointed out once. Not that Donghae found him ugly or anything; it was quite the opposite: Hyukjae’s looks were rather endearing to him. It’s the same thought that crosses his mind as the two boys trudge up a small incline that leads to their block.

Donghae sighs, kicking at the loose gravel under Hyukjae’s over-stretched shadows.

Gwanak Residence Halls, he recalls with some dread, students are sorted into dorms regardless of nationality, department or age. Six to a dorm, two to a room; it would have been weird otherwise to demand a roommate from any of the other four non-Hyukjae folk. Jungsoo was the friend living closest to their block, and hence his closest Emergency Contact… but the man did have a propensity to ignore guests who showed up unannounced, and especially if he had a bath and scented candle going.

Donghae chalks his rapid fire pulse up to just him being an overdramatic libra. There’s nothing to be afraid of right? Not like Hyukjae was particularly scary either, he had an intimidation factor of about, a toaster strudel out of ten. Still, there had to be an explanation for why Hyukjae had fallen off the edge of his world, one fine day, only to reappear, slightly more standoffish, and… with one dangly earring?

It would be the first time since sixteen they had hung out one-on-one. Donghae didn’t know what to make of that.

Apparently, neither did Hyukjae. The small red bump on Donghae’s neck had suddenly become ten times more interesting where words had failed them both.

“Uhhh,” Hyukjae starts, barely looking the other boy in the eye, “You can call dibs on either bed.”

“I’m not fussed.”

“Yeah, same.”

Standing in front of him now, Hyukjae could only think about how Donghae looked both more real and less real at the same time; somewhat like a hunky assemblage of to-be relations and a thousand guilt boners had sprouted four limbs, and maybe even an —Hyukjae’s gaze betrays him for one fleeting glimpse—definitely an . Thankfully, some part of his rational mind wills blood away to someplace less embarrassing.

This old friend of his, undeniably, is hot. Hyukjae will admit that much, as a self-proclaimed man of taste; to some extent, he might actually even admit that while looking directly into Donghae’s deep, soulful, onion soup-brown eyes. But beyond bare looks, he also knew the latter as a thoughtful, fair-tempered, quietly sensitive guy, who was also one heck of a singer, and a bigger heck of a main-lead-syndrome type boyfriend. Which was irritating because Hyukjae would definitely have had a much easier time getting over someone he knew was a douchebag who…  kicked puppies and like, hated pineapple on pizza or something.

Hyukjae is so lost in thought at this point he doesn’t register Donghae clearing his throat (twice), nor the awkward fidgeting on said man’s part until he finally announces:

“Well, I think I’m gonna have a look around campus.”

“Okay,” Hyukjae replies dumbly.

Wait.

Was that an open invitation.

(Arghhhhh)

He’s about a second away from slapping himself when Donghae turns around, one foot out the door, and spares him the violence.

“By the way, drinks with Heechul tonight?”

Hyukjae thinks there’s no way in hell Heechul hadn’t spiked his drink earlier that night because he’s somewhere close to levitating by the time two am swings around. That and the fact he’d made the rookie mistake of keeping pace with this guy Heechul had invited over (Kim Youngwoon, was it? Whatever). Now his legs had reached a gelatinous final form, and his head was about two brain cells short of what it usually had—which would place Hyukjae in the negatives, technically speaking.

It’s probably also black magic that Donghae is completely sober, either that or it’s something he said about wanting to be present for a morning lecture, not that Hyukjae was paying much attention amidst the free flow of poktanjus on Youngwoon’s tab.

Also has he already mentioned that he’s floating. Floating as in like, Aladdin and the whole magic carpet shabang; except this magic carpet feels a lot like human bone and flesh and a shoulder blade tucked under his chin and suddenly Hyukjae realises he might actually be on Donghae’s back.

Breathe. Non-sober Hyukjae thinks

AHHEJDJSNSNXSJNX GO STUPID GO CRAZY NKNMFCKMD;

“You need water,” a voice echoes drunkenly in the deep, empty chasm that is Hyukjae’s mind.

The need for consciousness resurfaces behind his lids as Hyukjae’s eyes blink open again. His neck is throbbing and his pillow is warm from where he was propped up against it, but there’s half a hand against his forehead which he decides he can’t hate, particularly because the hand is Donghae’s and the look in Donghae’s gravy-brown eyes is one of affectionate concern.

“Heeeey,” coherent words manifest from the slosh-brain, somehow.

“You good? You definitely drank too much man.”

“Yeaaaah?”

“U-huh.”

“Well,” Donghae continues, inching forward, “We’re gonna get you to sit up, okay?”

Sure, Hyukjae thinks, okay sit up let’s see. Hehe. Toe wiggle. Right, yeah. I can move my tooooes. If I can move my toes then. YES. GOOD. Knee. My. Knee. Up, perfect, yes, more. Okay. How about…. left arm .. just, back up a bit pffftt . Ew. Droolunnng ahhhhh hnnmmmm

Donghae sighs at the squirming boy, swooping an arm under so it comes to rest on Hyukjae’s warm back, then hauls him up against the bed frame. The latter fidgets a little more in bed, flings one hand up in Donghae's direction—completely divorced from the concept of depth perception of course—so missing  his face by a whole ten centimetres.

“I’ve got you water here,” Donghae tries, hopefully, as Hyukjae’s head lolls on his left shoulder

“... or you’re gonna feel real tomorrow.”

“Screw tomorrow,” Hyukjae slurs.

And then he throws up all over the floor.

Donghae never does make it to that lecture.

Instead, he finds that nursing Hyukjae back to sobriety could very well be a major of its own. Mug full of camomile tea nestled in Hyukjae’s hands, memories of last night half wiped from Hyukjae’s head and not quite so from the carpet in their room.

“Thanks, by the way,” Hyukjae mutters through slurps. His head is still spinning; half from the hangover and half because he’s in love and Donghae might very well be an angel in a world of Kim Heechuls. At least it’s what the narrative suggests,

The narrative which currently sounds a lot more like Donghae looking at Hyukjae through steam and thinking about how he looks best like this: eyes droopy and tired, ringed with creases on the sides, face a natural state of flushed salmon pink… and south of that… south of that …

“What,” Hyukjae’s lips move darkly.

Donghae feels funny, a deep, visceral type of funny that he can’t put on a finger on. A memory he had unconsciously shrugged off a long time ago recolours itself in his mind; of him and Hyukjae roughhousing in his parents’ backyard, just short of sixteen. Somewhere under an ache of sun, a lapse of judgement, a stumble, Hyukjae had come crashing onto him, and almost too close for comfort. He had shoved him off then but the mere split second sensation of Hyukjae’s lips on his neck and left him giddy for days. It feels a lot like that now.

“Nothing,” Donghae mumbles, divorcing himself from that weird headspace.

Curiosity gets the better of him.

“Actually