Seungho laughs. “Are you really still sulking?”

          “No,” Joon says primly and continues to rearrange his folders for the seventh time in alphabetical order according to their labeled subjects. He’s not sulking. There’s no reason for him to be sulking. Just because two of his dongsaengs decided to flee the country before he could ensnare them into a Christmas party doesn’t mean that he’s sulking over it—especially not when it’s Christmas Eve.

          And just because those two dongsaengs haven’t contacted him—haven’t even sent him a French postcard yet in their three days of absence—doesn’t mean that he’s sulking either.

          “I think you’re still sulking,” Seungho says from where he sits on the edge of Joon’s bed, sounding highly amused instead of grievously concerned and properly distraught like he should.

          “I think you need to get more sleep,” Joon shoots back mockingly from his desk. He’s about to move his math folder behind his history folder when Seungho reaches out and kicks his chair, and Joon loses grip on the stack and the folders topple to the ground. “Yah,” he whines, upset, “Hyung.”

          “My eye circles,” Seungho says in the voice Joon can only describe as the how-dare-you-not-turn-in-your-homework tone, “are a natural occurrence.”

          Joon snorts, grinning, “Yeah—okay.”

          “You’re sulking,” Seungho brings up again and Joon pouts.

          “I’m not,” he insists, and kicks at the fallen folders halfheartedly.

          Seungho laughs again. “You are,” he says, shaking his head, “you really are.”

          Joon pushes out his lower lip, arms folded. “It’s just—they—you know—dongsaengs—Europe—left me—Christmas—don’t even call—bunnies— on a mountain—even—ugh—this—they don’t—love me—why—they—hyung,” Joon says, flapping his arms up and down at his sides.

          “Yoon Doojoon and Yang Yoseob, right?” Seungho asks.

          Joon nods glumly.

          “I don’t think they left because they don’t love you, Changsun-ah,” Seungho says, sounding very much like he’s trying not to laugh again. Joon frowns. “Those two are really smart kids, and you told me that they already told you they had plans to go to France. It’s not really a surprise.”

          “But my Christmas party,” Joon says in a small voice.

          Seungho raises his eyebrows. “Maybe a break from the parties is a good idea.”

          “It’s a terrible idea,” Joon says, sighing.

          “Party ,” Seungho responds.

          Joon gasps, grinning. “Seonsangnim,” he says, mockingly scandalized.

          “ off,” he retorts and Joon thinks that if his grin grows any wider, it feels like his face might split in half. After all, it takes hard work to make your teacher comfortable enough around you to curse like the twenty-five-year-old he is, instead of the teacher he works as.

          Joon rolls his chair forward so that he’s sitting with his knees inches away from Seungho’s. “So,” he says in a tone of playful briskness, “what holiday plans are you sacrificing to be stuck tutoring me on Christmas Eve?” He glances up to Seungho’s face—

          And doesn’t really like what he finds.

          Because when he glances at Seungho’s face, he finds that same odd light in Seungho’s eyes that he found when he tried asking Seungho exactly why he drives Junhyung home on some days rather than the Yong family’s driver. He finds that same odd light in Seungho’s eyes and Joon doesn’t like it at all—doesn’t like how that light is sad and worried and upset and—

          “You’d think I’d sacrifice plans to tutor you?” Seungho snorts in a terribly failed attempt to play that odd light off.

          Joon merely gazes back.

          Seungho bites his lip and looks away.

          Joon wants to ask.

          He wants to ask so badly what Seungho’s connection to Junhyung is—why they’re so close—if Seungho lives with Junhyung—how long they’ve known each other—how come Joon has never heard of Seungho before he came to teach at the school. He wants to ask so many questions—questions to really know Seungho—questions that he can’t ask as a student to a teacher because he doesn’t want to be a student, doesn’t want Seungho to be his teacher.

          But he is.

          Seungho’s his teacher and he’s Seungho’s student.

          Joon stands up and digs around at his desk, cupping out a small wrapped box and coming back to sit across the teacher. Seungho is staring at him again now, still somewhat nervously biting his lip. “So,” Joon says quietly, starting to feel nervous himself—heart thudding a little unsteadily, “I found this a few weeks ago when my mom made me go with her to an antique shop.”

          Seungho blinks.

          “It’s old,” Joon smiles up at the teacher, “and rickety, and isn’t in the best shape, but I think it’s kind of cute. You told us that you really liked novels during the West’s Victorian Era, so—I don’t know.” He shrugs, holding the box out to a more-and-more-stunned-as-the-seconds-tick-by Seungho.

          Seungho takes the box from Joon’s hands slowly, turning it in his own hands, eyes half-lidded and eyelashes staining against the tops of his cheekbones as he looks the gift over curiously. Joon feels his throat dry after a minute of watching the older man because not only is he nervous and just wants to know if Seungho likes it or not but his eyes and his eyelashes and his hands and his fingers and his lips and—

          “I’ll open it tomorrow,” Seungho says with a small smile, making a show of shaking the box lightly beside his ear, “Since today’s only Christmas Eve.”

          “Hyung,” Joon whines. “Then how am I going to get to know if you like it or not?”

“There’s this thing called a cell phone, Changsun-ah.”

          “You’d better text me the second you lay eyes on it,” Joon huffs.

          Seungho rolls his eyes.

          “I’m serious here, hyung,” Joon says and tries not to whine because he’s heard that that doesn’t really win him maturity points, which are supposedly important when trying to woo someone seven years your senior.

          Seungho laughs, head tossed back and eyes quickly vanishing from sight. “What—you don’t know what serious is,” he says, and Joon shoves at him. “What—what?” Seungho asks, grinning, no longer laughing. There’s playful challenge in his voice and he shoves back at Joon.

          There’s playful challenge in his voice and light in his eyes and color in his cheeks and laughter on his lips. He’s not in teacher’s clothes. He’s in a sweatshirt, in jeans. His hair isn’t up and off his face. It’s down, it brushes just over his eyebrows. His sleeves are rolled up, his jeans are low, his t-shirt peeks out just slightly from beneath his sweatshirt, his hood is crooked, his socks are blue, and Joon thinks every part of him is wonderful.

          “Hyung,” Joon says thoughtfully.

          Seungho raises his eyebrows, surprised by disappearing smile on Joon’s face. “Mm?”

          “If,” Joon proposes, “before midterms, I get my grade all the way up to an A and bring up my semester average with an A on the midterm, too, will you hang out with me?”

          Seungho’s eyes bug slightly. “What?”

          “Because then I won’t need tutoring anymore, right?” Joon asks. “And then that means I’ll only see you around in school sometimes and at practice.”

          Seungho blinks. “So?”

          Joon doesn’t want to admit it, but he thinks that maybe stupid really is highly contagious. Or maybe Lee Joon really is just a blip in Yang Seungho’s radar—a tiny, insignificant ant on the picnic spread of the teacher’s life that will easily be swatted away without even a bread crumb to carry back to the anthill. “I—you—me—friends—aren’t we—but—just—don’t—hang out—you want to—me—how—could you—this—hyung—I—so mean—and—hyung,” Joon sputters, hurt.

          Seungho just stares at him, and pointedly wipes his face with the edge of his sleeve.

          “I thought we’re friends,” Joon tries again, more coherently and with less saliva. He looks at Seungho glumly, lower lip pushed out and indignant.

          “Oh,” Seungho says. “Oh,” he breathes, “you mean you want to hang out with me?”

          Joon nods—in such rapid succession that he feels his head vibrating rather than moving up and down.

          “You could’ve just said that,” Seungho says, “instead of spitting on me.” He pauses thoughtfully, “Again.”

          “I—I—I—I—I didn’t,” Joon defends. “It wasn’t spit.”

          Seungho gives him an odd look.

          “I mean—I mean—it—it—well—no—just—hyung,” Joon says imploringly. He puffs out his cheeks and leans forward. “Please hang out with me,” he says in a small voice.

          Seungho responds by smacking him in the face with his knee. “I hope,” he says as Joon falls off his chair from the impact, “that you never make that face again, because you’ll just get hit a lot in life if you do.”

          Joon is right. He’s completely and totally right because he is definitely a mere ant in the picnic spread of Yang Seungho’s life, and he’s surprised he hasn’t already been coated in bug spray. He doesn’t bother getting back on the chair and just flops spread eagle on the floor. “You hate me, don’t you?” he sighs. “After I ace everything, you’ll just disappear from my life except when you make me clean up the hurdles instead of making Mir do it.”

          He stares at the ceiling, determined on sulking and observing the tiny brown speck near the smoke detector blinking above him. He’s determined on sulking, except dark eye circles and huge, glistening, endless eyes (too deep, they never seem to stop) obstruct his view of the smoke detector. Joon glowers. Seungho looks amused and too beautiful for Joon’s health. “I don’t like you anymore, hyung,” Joon says, sniffing.

          The corners of Seungho’s full lips curve upward. “Nothing I can do about that, then,” the teacher says easily. He stands up and leans down one more time to knock the edge of the wrapped box against Joon’s forehead. “I guess I have nothing to do after midterms anymore, then.”

          Joon sits bolt upright. “Wait—what—really?” he asks blankly.

          Seungho bursts into laughter.

          “Wait—wait—hyung, do you mean it?” Joon tugs at the edge of Seungho’s sweatshirt. “Really? We can? Really?”

          The teacher is still laughing. “Has anyone ever told you you’re so stupid it hurts?”

          Joon thinks.

          He tries to remember.

          “No,” he says certainly.

          Dongwoon is of the opinion that lately the little man is getting to be quite spoiled.

          The little man used to get ecstatic, used to bring out the party poppers and all of its best party clothes and food whenever Kikwang so much as laughed at something Dongwoon said or smiled just especially for Dongwoon. The little man used to pull all the stops, used to go completely Lee-Joon-fanatic whenever Kikwang so much as brushed arms against Dongwoon, so much as hugged Dongwoon. The little man used to be content and perfectly happy with things like that.

          But nowadays—nowadays, the little man has decided to up his ante. He’s decided that he’s officially too good for small things like that—decided that now that Dongwoon and Kikwang are dating, small things like that just won’t cut it. The little man is no longer content with just a smile from Kikwang—it’s just an everyday occurrence so why should the little man waste his streamers on that? The little man no longer brings out the silver-lined tablecloths and china when Dongwoon gets glimpses of Kikwang shirtless because the little man expects Dongwoon to get his hands under here whenever they make-out anyway.

          And for a while, it was tolerable—the little man’s growing expectations were somewhat manageable. It was tolerable and manageable and bearable and Dongwoon was getting along just fine into winter break and even into Christmas. He was getting along all well and fine, but of course—of course—Doojoon and Yoseob had to break that well and fine streak by video-calling them on Christmas Day (or what Dongwoon supposed was Christmas Day in France’s timing) and everything was pretty much shot after that.

          Because with Doojoon and Yoseob’s impeccable sense of timing, they called directly after Dongwoon had finished showering and right before Kikwang had finished putting his clothes on after the first year had let him shower first. Meaning that the two third years came face to face with their very dongsaengs and being the unkind hyungs that they are, decided that this could of course mean one thing and there would be no point in actually asking their poor dongsaengs why they weren’t respectably dressed—no, it’d be far better to just pull assumptions whether that made things terribly awkward after the Skype call ended or not.

          Dongwoon just thinks that it’s lucky the awkwardness wasn’t as terrible as it could’ve been—just a few minutes of Kikwang and him blinking at each other and staring at the laptop as though it had done both of them great personal wrongs.

          The awkwardness isn’t the problem.

          The problem is that Doojoon and Yoseob’s idea of let’s-have-good-fun-with-the-maknae-line-today has given the little man a further increase in standards.

          Now, now, the little man isn’t even happy with Dongwoon sneaking his hands under Kikwang’s shirt—not even happy with Dongwoon gripping Kikwang’s hips—unsatisfied with just making-out—discontent with simply the second year’s body pressing up against Dongwoon. The little man has been way too spoiled and combined with Doojoon and Yoseob’s insistent bullying, he’s started to get ideas that could possibly end with Dongwoon’s death at Hyunseung’s hand. And possibly also at the hands of the rest of the soccer team if Dongwoon does it wrong—and from what he’s heard from Kibum, a lot of things can go wrong without the proper information, rehearsal, and mentor.

          And, Kibum never fails to tell Dongwoon, lots of lubricant.

          Dongwoon just wants his little man to leave him alone.

          Because he misses a time when he can watch a movie with Kikwang and actually focus on the movie and the general enjoyment in the other boy’s company than think about he wishes Kikwang would stop giving that popsicle the treatment he should be giving to Dongwoon’s—

          “Are you sure you don’t want one, Dongwoon-ah?” Kikwang asks, eyebrows furrowed because anyone would be confused considering that this is the fourth time he’s caught Dongwoon staring in his direction during the course of the movie—no thanks to the little man. “Yoseob’s dad’s trying out a new product so he gave lots of them to us and they’re really good—we’ll never finish them all, so I can get one for you if—”

          “No—no, I’m good,” Dongwoon says and shifts in his seat on one of the couches in the Lee house’s basement theater. “I’m full, really—I already ate.”

          Kikwang blinks. “It’s just a popsicle. It can be like dessert.” He’s starting to look even more confused with every excuse Dongwoon offers. “And you’re never full.”

          The little man is glaring at Dongwoon, pointing out stubbornly how Kikwang’s lips are probably cold and perfectly swollen from on the popsicle—how they probably taste like vanilla and chocolate and sugar—how his tongue is probably sweet and cool—how those full lips are less than a foot away—how Kikwang’s parents aren’t home—how there’s an easily accessible lock on the basement door so the maids can’t walk in—how the theater is soundproof—how the sofas are wide, how the floor is covered in plush carpet—how everything is picture perfect so why won’t Dongwoon get a move on before the little man’s party food expires and he has to buy more?

          And Dongwoon shoots back that everything isn’t picture perfect—everything is only ninety-nine-percent picture perfect and the one percent that’s missing is an extremely important one percent that Dongwoon can’t do without because it’s probably the one percent that renders the other ninety-nine-percent utterly useless.

          Because despite this supposed to be second nature and all of that, the fact remains that in regards to his human intellect rather than animal instincts, Son Dongwoon, when faced with prospects of ual with Lee Kikwang, really has no ing clue what to do.

          “I think,” Jonghyun declares with his head pillowed in Kibum’s lap, camping out in Jonghyun’s room on the second year’s bed, watching the countdown to New Year’s on television, “that you hate me.”

          Kibum doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “I think,” he says, “that you’re absolutely right.” His fingers absently pull through the older boy’s hair, grazing gently against his scalp, letting the soft strands slip over his palms. The idols performing on stage strike an ending pose and the song comes to a finish, while the trio of MCs files back on to the stage to announce the next group. “But, I’m kind of curious—why do I hate you?”

          “You hate me,” Jonghyun sighs dramatically, “because you’re watching some stupid New Year’s Eve music program instead of paying attention to how depressed I am that we have to go back to school in two days and I haven’t even started any of my break homework yet.”

          “I don’t understand how your incompetence as a student is my problem,” Kibum says and he shakes his leg up and down, jostling Jonghyun’s big head. The second year frowns. “I do, however, get pissed off by your incompetence since it usually ends up with you grounded so I’m always the one who always has to waste gas money and go to your house.”

          Jonghyun sits up. “Well,” he retorts, “you’re wasting my electricity by watching TV.”

          “Well,” Kibum says, “fine. Should I leave?” He raises his eyebrows and there’s a long pause during which the commercial break starts up. The girl drinking the orange juice doesn’t get to detail the great antioxidants within the beverage before Jonghyun has collapsed back onto Kibum’s lap, this time with his arms around Kibum’s waist and his face in Kibum’s stomach. “Hyung, you’re such a .”

          Jonghyun turns his face up, grinning. “Really? This an upgrade from flirt?”

          Kibum rolls his eyes, and tries not to think about how despite the fact that they touch each other all the time—despite the fact that they’re entire relationship these days is defined by constant physical contact, Jonghyun’s arms around him still has the same ability that it did the first time they touched to make Kibum’s heart beat a little faster, a little louder. “No,” he says, “it’s a demotion.”

          “Yah,” Jonghyun drawls, rolling onto his back so he can stare right up at Kibum with that smile, eyes into crescents and crinkling at the corners. “Kim Kibum—when your hyung’s stressed about school, you’re supposed to comfort him and tell him he’s amazing and badass and is going to ace everything.”

          “Even when it’s his own fault he at school?”

          “I—I—I—no,” Jonghyun stutters indignantly. He pouts. “You have terrible buddy manners. You should get Nicole to teach you how to comfort guys better.”

          “If it involves lots of face-petting and mushy words, then why don’t you just stab my eyes out instead?” Kibum says. “And why bring ‘Cole into this?”

          A grin starts to tug at the corners of Jonghyun’s lips. “She’s kind of super hot, you know?”

          More than anything, the light in the second year’s eyes tells Kibum that he isn’t serious—that it’s just more shameless flirting. He snorts. “Yeah, and what happens when Jinwoonie comes to squish you?”

          Jonghyun laughs and reaches up to brush the backs of his fingers against Kibum’s cheek lightly. “I was wondering about that,” he says. “For someone who likes her that much, he’s not really making any moves on her, is he?”

          “Not everyone’s a Neanderthal who thinks with his , hyung.”

          “They should be,” Jonghyun says, miffed. “It makes faster progress. I mean, look at Dongwoon. He’s gotten a lot farther somewhere than Jinwoon.”

          Kibum’s eyebrows furrow. “Not by much. Dongwoonie doesn’t know how to have yet. So I don’t think he and Kikwang-hyung have done it.” He makes a mental note to address that—possibly in the form of helpful advice for a friend, possibly in the form of entertaining bullying for himself. “But I guess I should teach him soon, or something. You know, before his explodes and he doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

          “Good luck trying to fit that into Kikwang,” Jonghyun mutters.

          “It’s called lube, hyung—you know, for the better endowed,” Kibum says and enjoys how Jonghyun’s ears flame bright red. “I heard it comes in sherbet flavors now.”

          Jonghyun sits up again, looking greatly offended—the kind of offended that one looks when his mother has just been repeatedly insulted and then slapped in his own presence. “I,” he says solemnly, “am hugely endowed.”

          “Hyung,” Kibum says dryly, “I’ve already seen it, remember?”

          Jonghyun blinks. “Oh,” he looks down. “Right—never mind, then.”

          Kibum falls backward onto the bed laughing.

          He’s fallen backward onto the bed, holding his sides from laughter, and when he opens his eyes, when he finishes laughing, he finds himself looking straight up at Kim Jonghyun’s dark, glowing eyes. The older boy is holding himself up with his arms over Kibum, one knee against the edge of the bed, just barely touching Kibum’s thigh. Kibum never tells anyone, never tells even Nicole or Dongwoon or the rest of the 91-line that his heartbeat races too—he never sympathizes with Nicole about Jinwoon or with Jinwoon about Nicole or with Dongwoon about Kikwang because he never lets them know that Jonghyun can still make his heartbeat quicken.

          Because they’re buddies, they’re friends—it’s supposed to be casual and comfortable. There’s not supposed to be any thudding hearts, any racing pulses. He’s been doing this with Jonghyun for months and it doesn’t make sense, whether he loves him or not, it doesn’t make sense that he would still get deliciously nervous like this—it doesn’t make sense that Kibum still has to try and ignore the pain in his chest because his heart is beating so fiercely, so fiercely trying to jump out of him completely.

          By now it should be comfortable and casual and ordinary—Kibum thinks that by now he should be as adapted and relaxed about this as Doojoon and Yoseob seem to be, as Hongki and Jonghun, as—

          Jonghyun kisses him—Kibum receives it, chin tipped upward, hand holding the side of the older boy’s face. The kiss is gentle and slow—the older boy kisses Kibum like he’s waiting for him, mouth parting and closing maddeningly against the first year’s, warm and full with a tangible kind of heat. It’s not the kind of kiss Jonghyun usually gives, but it’s the kind of kiss Jonghyun’s been starting to give recently. It’s the kind of kiss that tells Kibum Jonghyun doesn’t want to have —he just wants to kiss him like this over and over until they fall asleep.

          Until they fall asleep and Kibum has to leave again.

          Leaving before Jonghyun wakes up is something Kibum still never fails, never forgets, to do because if Jonghyun is going to be stupid and insist not to have , not to continue in this safe, comfortable, perfect relationship they have already, then Kibum has to do everything he can to protect himself. This whole kissing-with-no--following is already scaring the out of Kibum. It’s making the alarms—the bells—ring in his head louder than ever. It’s alerting him that there’s danger, so much risk, in this if he doesn’t keep his guard up and leave when he has to.

          Jonghyun draws away before Kibum can put tongue into it—before he can start touching and making sure that there’s going to be . Before any of that can happen, Jonghyun draws away—draws away and leans on his side, those round dark eyes reduced to half their size because he’s smiling a smile that lights up his entire face—

          Too beautiful

          —that lights up his entire face while his gaze is pinned on Kibum, hand down the first year’s arm and lacing their fingers together one by one. “New Year’s kiss,” Jonghyun grins, almost triumphantly, and ever playfully. He gestures towards the television where the large countdown clock has reached midnight and the entire stage and the artists standing on it are being drowned in confetti and streamers.

          Kibum waits.

          He waits for Jonghyun to go on and be Kim Jonghyun—to go on and suggest New Year’s that accompanies the New Year’s kiss. He waits and waits, staring expectedly up at the second year. He waits and waits and waits and when nothing happens—when Jonghyun just continues to hold Kibum’s hand and kiss the younger boy, light and meaninglessly—meaningless because there’s no further intentions behind it—when nothing happens, Kibum breathes between the kisses, “New Year’s ?”

          Jonghyun stops, and blinks. “Do you want to?”

          Kibum blinks back because this he didn’t really expect. “Do—don’t you want to?”

          Jonghyun blinks twice. “I mean—I want to if you want to.”

          “Hyung, stop being stupid—I asked you first.” Kibum tugs at the hem of Jonghyun’s shirt. “Do you want to or not?”

          The other boy looks surprised at Kibum’s tone for a moment, eyes wide and puzzled. He looks confused and then it quickly evolves into sheepish. Jonghyun head tilts to one side and he half shrugs with an almost apologetic smile. “Not,” he says, offering a small smile. “I mean, I’ll do it if you want to, but I don’t really—I don’t know.”

          Kibum stares. “Did I get fat or something?” he asks flatly.

          Jonghyun laughs, wrapping his arms completely—tightly, snugly—around the first year’s waist and rolls them around so that Kibum is lying on top of him. Kibum looks down at the other boy, unimpressed and irritated because things aren’t going the way they are supposed to. He’s unimpressed and irritated but he doesn’t do anything when Jonghyun stretches upward to kiss him again, small teasing kisses against Kibum’s frowning mouth, and then kisses over his cheeks, on his jaw.

          “I hate you,” Kibum says, refusing to smile, “Just as a reminder.”

          Scared of you

          “Figured out why yet?” Jonghyun smirks.

          “Why would you kiss me if we’re not going to have ?” Kibum says instead, ignoring the older boy’s question.

          Jonghyun’s eyebrows go up. “I can’t just kiss you?” he asks, confused.

          No. No, he couldn’t just kiss Kibum. Jonghyun can’t just kiss Kibum without having . There’s absolutely no such thing allowed. It’s not allowed because that’s not the kind of thing they do. Jonghyun and Kibum can’t do things like that. They can’t kiss without having . They can’t just touch and sleep with each other without sleeping with each other. They can’t be in a bed and not . That’s not the kind of thing Jonghyun and Kibum are supposed to do.

          That’s the kind of thing Doojoon and Yoseob do. The kind of thing Hongki and Jonghun do. The kind of thing Dongwoon and Kikwang now do. The kind of thing Nicole and Jinwoon will do. The kind of thing Junhyung and Hyunseung did.

          The kind of thing Jonghyun and a girl someday-sometime-somewhere will do.

          But for now—

          Kibum puts on a smile and holds Jonghyun’s hand.

          “’Course you can, hyung.”