He was in the highest rank out of their entire school--and there's only a tiny amount of students in that rank, mind you--simply because of his mathematical skills. Despite his proficient grades, Minseok was only number fifteen in their classroom. Of course if he tried harder in his other subjects, he'd probably be number three or two (no one can beat the student class president--hagwons are his second home). 

He never enjoyed history, for nonfiction just didn't spark any interest. Science wasn't his forte, he soon found out after the teacher assigned them to memorize two thirds of the periodic table. He hated music, yet picked the elective to be with his friends. Watching and, unfortunately, listening to the dorks play instruments made him distaste the class a tiny bit less. They were horrible; it made him laugh. 

Kim Minseok tried his best in only two subjects--math and physical education. He excelled in both, resulting in him gaining attention. It was how he met half of their circle of friends. Four Chinese exchange students, to be exact. Luhan, Yixing, and Yifan were particularily interested in his athletic skills while Zitao offered to give him Chinese lessons in exchange for Korean lessons. Hey, if he managed a satisfactory grade in his foreign language class, it wouldn't hurt! 

He likes counting. No, scratch that, he breathes to count. In order to survive, Minseok needs to count. 

He counts everything, and surprisingly remembers all the numbers (chemicals are much more difficult than numbers, he reasons). Whether it be seconds, minutes, or hours, Minseok keeps track of it all. He was a human calculator. With one blink, he could solve basic algebraic equations. He only needed the basic skills (addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division) but he strived forth into calculus, eyes and ears glued to every word the teacher spewed. 

Jongdae doesn't know the real reason why Minseok counts. He figured it was his best friend's way of shining, of showing off that he was talented at something (although Jongdae believed he was talented at many things other than math). The latter never complained and so Jongdae suffered through long hours of hearing pencil scratch equations onto sheets of paper. 

"What is the secret?" their friends wondered. "How can you be such a math genius?" they'd ask, eyes following Minseok's movements as he sped through the assignment, calm and collected. He'd stop a couple of times, review notes, and then continue as if he wasn't solving some rubix cube (in their eyes, math was a rubix cube). 

The thing is, Minseok counts calories. He counts the damn calories of everything he eats, from the milk poured into his cereal to the teaspoon of oil used for frying an egg. Breakfast should be less than three hundred calories, he reminds himself, plucking ingredients from the kitchen and mentally calculating the portions that would fit the criteria. 

Eat every two-three hours, he sighs, if you want to increase your metabolism. He counts the numbers on the back of the protein snacks in his gym bag. He compares certain foods to each other, deciphering which is more healthier, which has less calories. This boiled egg or half an apple? This salad or a banana? 

Minseok counts the minutes (sometimes seconds) before each meal. He counts the minutes of cardio he'll need each day to see the numbers on the scale smaller. He counts the hours of sleep needed for best results. He measures his body parts, pushing himself to sweat off the centimeters. 

That's why Minseok counts. He needs to know, he needs to keep track of these things, or he'll go crazy. He wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything else, the balance in his life would tip over. He'd become insane, freak out and possibly have a mental breakdown. 

This is why Minseok breathed--to count.

"Hey, Min, you want some chips?" Yixing offers, extending the bag of thin crisps toward the eldest. His eyes are on the television screen, so he doesn't notice Minseok pale beside him. "This scene is really intense, isn't it?" 

Minseok scans numbers on the bag, blinking when he's finished. He turns his attention back on the movie, softly declining. His jaw sets as the smell of potato chips fill his nostrils and he swallows the urge to stuff a fistful into his mouth. 

Too many calories, Minseok. Too many calories...

Later that evening, after dinner, Zitao plops himself in front of Minseok's coffee table, piling junk food onto the wooden surface. Minseok's eyes widen, glancing over the two tubs of ice cream, numerous bags of chips, and the plate of cookies. Zitao sets a cup of milk on the edge, sipping between every handful of corn puffs and oreos. "Gege, you want some?" he directs towards him, engulfing a spoonful full of chocolate chip ice cream.

Minseok twitches in his seat. "No, thanks. I prefer to keep my dinner in my stomach." Tao cackles, lightly swatting his leg. "Seriously, Zitao, you shouldn't eat all of that nasty stuff. It's not healthy." 

Zitao dramatically gasps, hugging the tub to his chest. "Nasty? You have wounded me! There is no such thing as nasty ice cream!" 

Minseok rolls his eyes. "Are you even listening to me?" 

The younger waves him off, opening a bag of cone-shaped corn chips. "Don't worry, Min ge, I can just work it off during wushu practice tomorrow. The instructor always insists on doing a forty five minute cardio session before we start anyways. It'll just sweat right off!" He grins, then proceeds to cup his fingertips with the corn chips, laughing evilly and scratching the air whenever anyone passes.

Someone barks at him to stop playing with his food, and Minseok just barely smirks as Zitao whimpers. He's afraid to say anything, less the bitterness show. 

If only Minseok's body worked like that. He could eat whatever he wanted and just run it off the next day. Wouldn't that be a miracle? He wouldn't have to worry about counting calories! 

But his body didn't work that way and he could only sulk and envy their maknae, pointing daggers at the bag of his head whilst the crunching of chips and the cackle of wrappers haunted his eardrums.

He was fuming by the end of the hour, as their friends gathered around Zitao to help him finish off the snacks. Jongdae threw his arm over his shoulder, a biscuit stick hanging from his lips. He pursed his lips, silently urging Minseok to take a bite from the other end.

The eldest hyung shook him off. 

His fingertips itched.