“There’s a difference, hyung,” Doojoon says, “between the season of giving, and the season of stuffing-so-much-down-someone’s-throat-that-they-puke-it-all-back-up.”

          Joon looks insulted—the same way normal people would look after a particularly distasteful slight about their mothers. “There are starving children in Africa, Doojoonie,” Joon tells him with the air of the fourth wise man.

          Doojoon chooses not to respond—not to even spare Joon a proper incredulous glance—because it will all just add to the flames of retardation. Instead, he just continues to walk along down the hallway. He and Joon downed their lunches in less than ten minutes out of the forty-five minute period because they had planned to cram in studying for their AP Biology test the next period, only to find out that it had been rescheduled for after winter break.

          So now they are wandering aimlessly up and down halls with nothing to do for the next half an hour.

          “We’re not doing a gift exchange, hyung,” Doojoon says after a few moments. “I’d rather you just kill us with another party.”

          “I haven’t had a single party in December,” Joon says, sounding more insulted than ever.

          Doojoon looks at him dryly. “So Junhyung’s birthday party didn’t happen? We just all had the exact same terrible hallucination?”

          Joon snorts like Doojoon is stupid. He smiles patronizingly at the soccer player and Doojoon, even after years of knowing Joon, can never quite stop reeling from the stupidity of this all. “Doojoon-ah,” Joon says in a condescending voice, “that was Junhyungie’s party. Not mine.”

          “Oh,” Doojoon stares. “Well then.”

          The track athlete pats the captain’s back comfortingly. “It’s okay. I understand.”

          “No, but really, hyung,” Doojoon says once he recovers from Joon’s excessive dumbness and they reach the Literature hall, “we’re not doing this. It’s stupid, and I don’t want to be stuck in Korea during winter break just for this.”

          “It—it—it—it—it is touching,” Joon sputters indignantly, “and it’s going to strengthen our bonds of friendship.”

          Doojoon stares again.

          Then—

          “Why are you so gay?” he asks.

          Joon’s mouth opens and closes furiously for a few moments. “I’m not gay,” he manages to stutter out finally.

          Doojoon squints at him.

          “I mean I am—“

          Doojoon squints harder.

          “Wait—I mean I’m not because I’m bi—“

          Doojoon thinks about how glad he is that Yoseob isn’t here right now because if he was, than the younger boy probably would have laughed his last laugh over this scene and then died from lack of oxygen. He also thinks that maybe being around Joon in general is just one big health hazard for Yoseob, what with the younger boy somehow finding the inherent stupidity that makes one lose all hope for mankind amusing enough to actually almost choke laughing.

          He stops Joon midway in his journey to turning a gentle shade of purple in the face by patting the older boy on the shoulder. “It’s okay,” Doojoon says mockingly, “I understand.”

          Joon gives him a glum look. “I hate you.”

          “Good. Then that means I don’t have to come because no one gives presents to people they hate,” Doojoon says, marginally cheered. “Yoseobie’s not coming either by the way.”

          “Doojoon-ah,” Joon pleads, “you can’t just not come because you want to Yoseobie on a mountain—“

          “—it’s one of Europe’s best ski resorts—“

          “—you can just go after my party—“

          “—I thought you said it wasn’t a party,” Doojoon says with raised eyebrows.

          Joon blinks—momentarily thrown off. “I mean—it’s not,” he says quickly. “It’s not—really. I mean—well—like—well—see—it’s a—kind of—it’s a little party,” he stumbles. “Technically it’s a party—just not a party-party. It’s like a small-ish-mini-kind-of party.” He stops walking abruptly, right in front of a door to a class that is clearly in session.

          Doojoon sighs, subconsciously stopping too and turning to face Joon. “Hyung—I mean—I guess we’ll come, but I really don’t—“

          The soccer player blinks and stares because Joon isn’t listening to him—Joon isn’t even looking in his direction anymore. The other boy is peering through the little square window on the classroom door, a broad, excited smile on his face. He glances briefly at Doojoon and puts a finger to his lips, grinning like a small child about to steal a cookie and then bursts into the room.

          Joon has always been like that small child—always stealing cookies, always getting into mud puddles, always getting lost—and in cases like these, Doojoon reacts the same way any parent would if their child suddenly runs for it in a strange and new environment. The soccer player zooms towards the doorway, about to run into the classroom himself when he realizes that it’s a full freshmen class—and that stops him just at the doorway.

          He also realizes that this is the regulars Lit freshmen class that Joon told him Seungho had to take on. And that Joon is presently blatantly outright flirting with Seungho in front of his class—the track athlete has seemed to have yanked Seungho’s teaching book right out of his hands and is holding it above the teacher’s head, laughing. Doojoon sees it as flirting because he knows Joon’s intentions, but the thing about Lee Joon is that in a way, he flirts with everyone he encounters in life without really knowing it. Flirting, right now Doojoon knows, is the farthest thing from Joon’s mind.

          To these freshmen, it might seem like a student who is simply too close with his teacher, perhaps knowing him out of school as a family friend or a neighbor—perhaps some of them even suspect borderline flirting—

          But Doojoon knows that right now, Joon isn’t thinking of or intending flirting at all.

          Right now, Doojoon knows that Joon just wants to make Seungho laugh.

          Doojoon grins to himself, as Seungho finally manages to pull the book back out of Joon’s hands—but clearly, only because Joon lets him, playfully and teasingly.

          And as far as Doojoon can tell, Joon’s doing a pretty good job of it.

          Yoseob thinks that it’s his destiny to forever be surrounded with stupid.

          “He doesn’t hate you,” he says for what is probably the fifth time during this conversation. “Geurimie was sick—okay—he didn’t not come to your birthday because he hates you. His sister was sick.”

          “I never said he hates me,” Junhyung says morosely and unconvincingly. He’s currently sitting in what Yoseob would probably describe as the Thinker pose, looking appropriately depressed and angsty and moping and in high resemblance of what Joon usually looks like when he gets yelled at by a teacher because he turns in an essay covered in spit droplets.

          Yoseob rolls his eyes. “No—it was heavily implied. You know, by the sighing and the rain clouds.”

          “Yah,” Junhyung looks up defensively. “I can’t sigh?”

          “Oh my God,” Yoseob says.

          “I’m not upset,” Junhyung tries again and fails just like the twenty-three times attempts before this one.

          Yoseob gives a small smile. “It’s okay, you know,” he says, “to be upset.”

          “I’m not,” Junhyung repeats. “Geurim was sick and he wanted to stay home with her. So I shouldn’t be upset because then I’d be a petty .”

          “Well,” Yoseob shrugs, “I mean, you’re already an as it is—“

          Junhyung’s mouth drops open a little.

          Yoseob grins. “I’m kidding—you’re a great guy with a vaguely likeable personality who everyone loves and appreciates.”

          “Vaguely?”

          “Vaguely,” Yoseob says firmly.

          “I hate you,” Junhyung says.

          “Yeah, you love me,” Yoseob waves a hand absently, and pulls forward the sleeves of his sweatshirt over his icy hands, fingertips clinging to the cuffs. He glances around to the snow that’s started drifting down lightly, flakes catching onto the roads. According to his cell phone, it’s supposed to stick this time around and work its way up to about eight inches by tomorrow morning. Which, he normally wouldn’t mind because snow is always welcome while school is still in session. But if it continues into a storm and flights out of Korea are cancelled, then there will be problems and Yoseob will be pissed.

          “Cold?” Junhyung asks, noticing how Yoseob has wrapped his arms around himself despite the fact that Junhyung is still in his uniform—thin Oxford shirt and khakis—and Yoseob has already changed out into sweatpants and a sweatshirt and a vest.

          “Freezing,” Yoseob says, eyeing the windows disapprovingly.

          Junhyung snorts. “Worried that your honeymoon flight’s going to be cancelled?”

          Yoseob points a finger at the other boy. “Yah,” he says solemnly. “This is the Alps we are talking about—the Alps.”

          “I didn’t even know you owned skis,” Junhyung says with raised eyebrows.

          “I don’t,” Yoseob grins. “But Doojoonie-hyung bought me a few snowboards as early Christmas presents.”

          Junhyung looks caught between the choice of laughing and crying. “A few?”

          “You know,” Yoseob says playfully, “in case the colors clash with my jackets.”

          Junhyung laughs. “So wait—are you going with his family, or is he going with yours?”

          Yoseob sticks his tongue out thoughtfully. “Mm—I mean, it was supposed to be just us two, but then Doori-noona wanted to join in and take some of her friends too, so I guess in a way it’s me going with Doojoonie-hyung’s family.”

          Junhyung pulls on a teasingly scandalized expression. “So you two are going to be in another country with no parents in a cabin all to yourselves?”

          This time it’s Yoseob’s turn to laugh. “It’s not like we don’t already have whenever,” he says. “It’s just that now we can do it on a mountain.” Their heads turn suddenly as they watch Yoona and Taeyeon, bundled up in multiple scarves and at least two jackets each, push open the front doors to brave the pathway to the gates. When the girls open the doors, a fair amount of snow blusters in and Yoseob can feel it full force. He shivers. “Why does it have to be so ing cold?” he wrinkles his nose, and is actually about to pull his hood on when a pair of more than familiar arms appear around him, wrapping themselves so tight around his stomach that it’s a little hard to adjust his breathing for a moment.

          “Obviously,” Doojoon’s playful voice comes from somewhere near Yoseob’s right ear, “because I wasn’t here.”

          Yoseob exchanges glances with Junhyung, who just rolls his gaze away with a knowing smile. The goalie chooses to make puking sounds and elbows Doojoon lightly in the chest. “You’re disgusting,” he says. “Jonghyunnie may take first place in being a vomit-worthy flirt, but you’re runner-up, hyung.”

          “I don’t know,” Junhyung says. “Have you guys seen Dongwoonie and Kikwangie yet today?”

          Yoseob makes a face and he hears Doojoon give a shout of laughter. The captain releases Yoseob just long enough to take a seat behind Yoseob, so that Yoseob is seated between Doojoon’s spread legs. “I don’t think it’s possible to not see them,” Yoseob says as Doojoon’s arms rewrap around the goalie and he feels the older boy’s cheek rest atop the crown of his head.

          “Yeah,” Doojoon grins. “The little flying cupids start smacking you in the face when you get to the five meter point.”

          Yoseob laughs and burrows backwards deeper into the other boy’s warmth, and almost in response, Doojoon leans forward slightly, adjust his arms so that Yoseob won’t be uncomfortable. At the very least, even if he’s surrounded by stupid, he knows he should be thankful that he got his vaccination before he plague had really started up.

          “But, I mean,” his vaccination says thoughtfully, “at least they’re finally together now. Dongwoonie almost started to mope better than you, Junhyung-ah.”

          Junhyung’s mouth open and closes incredulously. “I—I—I don’t mope.”

          Yoseob feels Doojoon bury his face into the side of the goalie’s neck just as he feels bubbles of laughter coming up his own throat. “Yah,” he laughs, “I don’t know about you, hyung, but when someone spends an entire half an hour after practice dragging themselves around the soccer field in the shape of a certain someone else’s name, I call it moping.”

          “It’s not moping,” Junhyung insists in a small voice, hanging his head.

          Yoseob raises his eyebrows. “Fine,” he says. “Fine, if you’re not moping and you’re not upset and you don’t think Hyunseung-hyung hates you, then how about you go find him and talk to him?”

          Junhyung stares.

          “Yah,” Doojoon says softly into Yoseob’s ear, “yah, Yang Yoseob.”

          Yoseob gives the captain a meaningful look, before turning back to Junhyung’s wide, avoiding eyes. “Well, if he’s not moping or upset and he doesn’t think Hyunseung-hyung hates him then going to talk to him won’t be a big deal, right?” he asks. “’Sides, I’m sure that Hyunseung-hyung is the one who has more reason to think you hate him because he couldn’t go to your party.”

          Junhyung is no longer staring at him. The other boy’s eyes are now well into burying themselves intently on the corner of a floor tile. Yoseob feels his ears heating up, and Doojoon’s arms suddenly let go of him—Doojoon lets go of him at the same time that Yoseob stands up and covers the few feet between him and Junhyung. He covers the distance and grabs Junhyung by the shoulders.

          Yoseob shakes the older boy until their eyes meet, and for a long moment, they simply look at each other.

          All they do is look at each other.

          All they do is look at each other but that’s not all that Yoseob sees.

          Yoseob doesn’t see Yong Junhyung’s miserable and worried face on a day in late December while they sit together after school. He doesn’t see Junhyung still and silent in front of him just a few days after turning eighteen. He doesn’t see the white walls of the school, doesn’t see the surrounding pillars connected to stone benches, doesn’t see the front doors, doesn’t see other students milling about—studying and going in and out of the library.

          Yoseob sees the poster and photograph-covered walls of Yong Junhyung’s room. He sees the haphazardly thrown textbooks and folders and notebooks over Junhyung’s desk. He sees the neatly stacked CDs in the shelves near the nightstand. He sees spring outside the window, pink blossoms blooming and green grass sprouting. He sees Junhyung standing with his face towards the ground, hair covering his eyes. He sees Junhyung’s expression contorted with so much confusion and pain that it almost makes Yoseob lose his breath.

          “He broke up with you because you hung around me too much?”

          “It’s not your fault, Yoseob-ah.”

          Except it was.

          It was Yoseob’s fault his best friend is now approaching an entire year with his heart split neatly in two, with no sign of it being put back together any time soon.

          “He’ll probably be at his locker,” Yoseob says quietly.

          A moment passes, and then Junhyung stands up slowly and wordlessly. He gently takes Yoseob’s hands off of his shoulders, punching the younger boy’s own shoulder lightly. “Yah,” Junhyung says softly, a small smile. “What kind of face is that, Yang Yoseob?”

          Yoseob kicks Junhyung’s leg without any real force. “Just go find him, you ,” he says. Junhyung grins again and Yoseob watches him sling his backpack over his shoulders and start down the hall. Once the other boy’s figure disappears around the corner, Yoseob feels himself being tugged backward and spun around, fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweatpants.

          He lets Doojoon catch him by the waist, and twirl him around so that the goalie is standing between the captain’s legs, face-to-face this time instead of back to front. He recognizes the expression in Doojoon’s eyes right now—Yoseob’s seen that look before. “It was,” he says before the older boy can say anything otherwise. “It was my fault. We’ve already established this—so don’t say it’s not, hyung.”

          “No,” Doojoon says calmly, “you’ve already established it and I’ve already told you before that it’s not. You’re just being stupid about it.” He wraps his arms all the way around Yoseob’s waist and the younger boy feels him thread his fingers right in the nook of the goalie’s back.

          “I’m not stupid,” Yoseob says matter-of-factly. “I already got my vaccination for stupid.”

          Doojoon smiles. “Really?”

          “Yeah.”

          “Well,” the captain says, reaching up with one hand to pinch Yoseob’s cheek—the younger boy puffs out his face purposely just to make it difficult for Doojoon, “then maybe you need to get a second shot because the first one clearly wasn’t effective enough.”

          “It was plenty effective,” Yoseob says. “Maybe you just haven’t gotten yours.”

          “No, I’ve definitely gotten mine,” Doojoon says. “I’ve definitely gotten mine because I’m not the one that thinks it’s somehow my fault that my best friend and his boyfriend broke up when they were already clearly having their own problems beforehand.”

          Yoseob intently stares at Doojoon’s left knee.

          “Yoseob-ah,” and now Doojoon’s voice is gentler, not so much his reasonable captain tone anymore. “It’s not your fault and you know it.”

          He doesn’t respond.

          He doesn’t respond and he doesn’t plan on responding, but then he feels warm fingers searching for Yoseob’s hand and threading themselves through the goalie’s own, still somewhat cold, fingers. “It’s not your fault,” he hears Doojoon say again. “You know, and I know, that if you asked Hyunseung about this, he’d say the same thing.”

          Yoseob looks up then, and holds Doojoon’s gaze for what might have been minutes, could have been hours, possibly even days.

          And then he shakes his head. “It is my fault,” he says. “I have no one to blame but myself for being too awesome.”

          Doojoon stares.

          He blinks.

          He smiles.

          “Right,” the captain agrees, pretending to be serious. “Your evil ways were just too powerful and Junhyungie in because that’s the only way any sane person would choose to spend time with you over Hyunseung, who’s actually a human being—because I still have no idea what you are.”

          Yoseob laughs and thinks that no, Doojoon is wrong, because Yoseob definitely doesn’t need a retake of his vaccination against stupid—it’s working just fine as it is.

          Hyunseung thinks that maybe Junhyung needs to take his sign to the repair shop. He thinks that maybe Junhyung needs to take his sign to a repair shop because recently Junhyung’s sign seems to be malfunctioning. Well—no—really, it hasn’t just been recently. Hyunseung hasn’t looked at it too closely in a while because he hasn’t really been around Junhyung in a while, but in the few times he’s come into contact with the other boy—which feels like more and more often lately—the sign just keeps getting more and more confusing.

          Some of the neon letters are flickering on and off, some are hanging upside down, some have lost bars so that they don’t even resemble letters and look like gibberish figures instead and the few letters that are still whole and unbroken are arranged in ways that make them impossible to comprehend anyway.

          He thinks that Junhyung really should see a repairmen about that sign of his because otherwise Hyunseung has no idea what he’s thinking and if he has no idea what’s going on inside Junhyung’s mind, it makes confronting him all the more terrifying. And right now, facing Junhyung at Hyunseung’s locker—so clearly, he has nowhere to run to because it’s his locker—a few days after Junhyung’s birthday party which Hyunseung blatantly missed, is probably as terrifying as it will ever get.

          Although admittedly, it’s probably made more terrifying because of the little box and card Hyunseung has sitting just less than foot away on a shelf in his locker.

          The terror isn’t because he’s afraid Junhyung will be angry—Junhyung, despite what children less than eleven-years-old make of him, doesn’t get angry all that easily. He gets irritated and sullen fairly often, but never angry. And the irritation and sullenness that he goes through is normally more comical than anything.

          Hyunseung is just terrified because there’s no sign for him to read.

          “So, um,” Junhyung says, looking awfully perfect with his hair tousled and his uniform loose and wrinkled and his hands gripping his backpack and his shoulders just slightly hunched and his eyes lidded and it’s just horribly unfair that someone can look so perfect in the fluorescent lighting that makes normal human beings look misshapen and haggard, “how’s Geurim doing?”

          “The fever’s down,” Hyunseung says, pretending to fiddle with a book or notebook or binder or even maybe a folder in his locker so he doesn’t have to look directly at Junhyung because that’ll just make him nervous and his heart will race and his ears will heat up and everything will just be a bundle of awful. “But she’s still taking some days off of school.”

          “Oh,” Junhyung responds, biting his lip visibly.

          “Mm hm,” Hyunseung says absently and continues to stare into the depths of his locker—stare at the box and card sitting on the shelf, waiting for Hyunseung to stop being a coward and a pansy and a wimp. His hand comes up and starts inching towards the package. It comes about a centimeter shy and then suddenly loses momentum.

          Junhyung coughs.

          Hyunseung’s head turns instantly and his eyebrows go up.

          “Have,” Junhyung starts hesitantly, “have—you know—Joonie-hyung or any of the others given you crap about not coming?”

          Hyunseung sticks his tongue out thoughtfully. “I mean,” he begins slowly, “not really. Joonie-hyung spat on me a little bit, but he always does that, so yeah—not really.” He smiles sheepishly. “They definitely should have though.”

          Junhyung frowns. “Why should’ve they?”

          Hyunseung blinks because he thinks that this should be obvious. “Because it was your eighteenth,” he says. “And it was one of Joonie-hyung’s, and I should’ve at least texted you or called you or something telling you happy birthday and that I was sorry I couldn’t make it.”

          “Geurim was sick,” Junhyung says, and his frown deepens. “Your sister was sick. You don’t have to apologize for that.” But then something passes over the other boy’s face—something that Hyunseung doesn’t look closely enough, fast enough, to catch, and he adds in a smaller voice, “And even if she wasn’t, you still shouldn’t have to apologize.”

          Hyunseung is confused. “I don’t have to apologize for missing your birthday? Why wouldn’t I have to apologize?”

          Junhyung is giving the floor his full, undivided attention. “You don’t have to apologize to s,” he says quietly.

          Hyunseung stares. If there were levels of confusion, then Hyunseung would be in such advanced levels that even Lee Joon, who is the mastermind of being perpetually confused in life, would have trouble keeping up. “Did someone tell you that you’re an ?” he asks, and thinks that maybe he should at least pretend he isn’t confused because if he sounds too confused, he’s going to start sounding stupid. “Who called you an ?”

          Junhyung doesn’t respond.

          Hyunseung guesses that the school has really interesting tile patterns.

          He sighs and takes out the box and card, cupping them in his hands and shoving them into Junhyung’s surprised arms. It bewilders the other boy into looking up at Hyunseung with wide eyes. “You’re not an ,” he says with a tiny smile. “Sometimes you’re a , but definitely not an . I don’t get presents or write cards for s.”

          Junhyung’s eyes go from merely wide to completely round, standing there wordlessly staring at Hyunseung, one hand gripping the card and the other holding the small wrapped rectangle.

          “Open it when you get home, okay?” Hyunseung says softly. “It probably won’t make up for me not coming, though, so—so—so if you ever get an idea about what you really want, just tell me.” He closes his locker without looking back at the other boy and is about to start down the hallway and text his driver to pick him up when he suddenly feels something grab the back of his coat and yank it backward lightly. He blinks, and turns.

          Junhyung looks twenty different kinds of nervous and unsure and hesitant and somewhat confused himself. His hand falls back to his side limply and Hyunseung can tell that he’s biting the inside of his cheek. “Um,” Junhyung says, “I think I know what I want.”

          Hyunseung’s eyebrows automatically disappear into his bangs. “What?”

          Junhyung’s gaze slips to the floor again. “Do you want to—um—like—well—you know—sometime—if you want to—um—hang out?”

          Hyunseung stares.

          He stares.

          And stares.

          And stares some more because clearly Junhyung has been affected after spending too much time around Joon during the party-planning.

          It’s Junhyung’s birthday that was a few days ago.

          Not Hyunseung’s.

          This is supposed to be what Junhyung would’ve liked for this birthday, not what Hyunseung would like as a once-in-a-life-time miracle.

          “You want to hang out?” Hyunseung echoes blankly.

          “I mean,” Junhyung instantly says, “I mean—if—if—not if you don’t want to—just—I mean—if you don’t want to—no—no—that’s fine—just—I mean—“

          Junhyung has definitely been spending too much time with Joon.

          “—I just—just—you—I mean,” Junhyung says, now looking poorly confused and nervous and worried and sad and kind of adorable with all of that combined but it’s still awful because Junhyung should never look upset like this and when he does, something in Hyunseung’s chest starts to sting and burn.

          “I’d love to hang out,” Hyunseung interrupts him before he passes out from lack of oxygen or loss of saliva or the Joon-virus.

          Junhyung blinks. “Really?”

          The surprise, the disbelief, in his voice makes the stinging and burning in Hyunseung’s chest increase to the point where Hyunseung feels like throwing up.

          “Yeah,” Hyunseung murmurs, offering a smile. “I would.”

          “Are you sure?” Junhyung asks quietly.

          Hyunseung thinks that Junhyung really needs to get that sign fixed because otherwise Hyunseung can’t have any idea of what’s going on inside the other boy’s head and all that’s going to result from that is lots more stinging and burning. “You’re not an , Junhyung-ah,” he says, his smile a little exasperated now. “If anyone tells you that you are, call me so I can punch them for you.”

          The neon sign has suddenly gone completely pitch black—all the letters’ lights have flickered out and Hyunseung is terrified out of his mind and not being able to read anything. He’s terrified, so he pulls it off as best he can—he hits Junhyung’s shoulder lightly with his fist and walks away trying to keep his head from rolling off his shoulders because what’s he supposed to do if he can’t read the sign anymore?