Only in a world where Yoon Doojoon is team captain, Hyunseung thinks, would he and Junhyung end up more or less trapped in the foreign language hall, stapling information sheets about the soccer tryouts to the spaces of wall between the lockers after school, after everyone has already gone home because only mentally unstable people like Doojoon stay after school on the last day of exams.

          Maybe it would be one thing if they knew that Doojoon is working hard stapling his own quota of information sheets in the science hall, but considering how Doojoon made Yoseob his sheet-stapling-partner, Hyunseung highly doubts that Doojoon is doing anything remotely resembling hard, honest work.

          Although he supposes that blowing Yoseob is probably no easy task, so never mind.

          “Yah,” Junhyung says, walking up the hall, back to where Hyunseung stands near the piles of sheets. “Finished?”

          Hyunseung gives him an odd look. “What do you mean finished?” he says. “You haven’t let go of the staple gun since we got up here.”

          Junhyung blinks—looks down at the stapler in his hand. “Oh. Oh—but—I mean, you could’ve still done something.”

          Hyunseung continues to give him this look, eyebrows furrowing confusedly. “Did you want me to glue them to the wall with my spit or something?”

          Junhyung’s look turns incredulous.

          Hyunseung raises his eyebrows, shrugging, and takes the staple gun out of the other boy’s hand. He wordlessly goes on to pick up a few sheets and starts stapling them to the wall right behind him. He only gets three papers attached to the board before Junhyung starts making noise again. Hyunseung rolls his eyes, even though—for some reason—he has to simultaneously stop his lips from twisting upward.

          “Yah—yah, yah,” Junhyung is instantly between Hyunseung and the wall, and grabbing Hyunseung’s wrists to stop him from stapling any more. “Don’t,” he says, frowning.

          “What?” Hyunseung wonders if the others would find it mean or amusing if he staples Junhyung to the wall by the younger boy’s sleeves.

          “You’re doing it wrong,” Junhyung says, sounding offended for some indecipherable reason. “They’re tilted.”

          Hyunseung just raises his eyebrows again. “Good. That way, when they come to try out, we can skip the neck stretches.” He turns around and goes on to continue stapling, deciding that whether the others find it mean or not, the next time Junhyung raises a protest because of Hyunseung’s stapling methods (just that phrase already sounds twenty kinds of stupid in Hyunseung’s mind), Hyunseung is stapling Junhyung to the wall by the sleeves of his shirt and that’s that.

          Which would probably be a waste of staples.

          Considering Hyunseung would probably climb back up the stairs later on and un-staple Junhyung from the wall anyway.

          Junhyung is silent for a the few minutes that it takes Hyunseung to finish up one side of the hall way, and the older boy hears rustling behind him—Junhyung is probably gathering the unused leaflets and getting ready so they can leave the hall and head back down as soon as Hyunseung is finished. Hyunseung finishes off the last few staples left in the gun and turns to face the other boy—stares at the other boy because instead of cleaning up so they can go home as fast as possible (maybe even beat Doojoon and Yoseob to the quota because that would be satisfying), Junhyung is looking through his phone.

          “I know,” Hyunseung says, kicking Junhyung’s shoe to get the younger boy to look up, “that our school has nicely painted walls and all, but I kind of really want to go home before I starve to death.”

          Junhyung blinks. “What does you missing lunch have to do with the paint?”

          Hyunseung taps the edge of the phone. “Who’re you texting?”

          The other boy shrugs, and pockets it. “No one.” He bends down and starts putting the leftover posters and papers together. Hyunseung raises his eyebrows, waiting until Junhyung straightens up with the posters in his arms and slides his backpack onto his shoulder. The younger boy balances the leaflets in the crook of his left arm and holds out his right palm towards Hyunseung.

          “What?” Hyunseung asks, blankly.

          “The stapler,” Junhyung says, pointing towards it in Hyunseung’s hand. “I’ll carry it.”

          Hyunseung takes a step back, frowning. “You’re already carrying everything else—and you’ve got your backpack too.”

          Junhyung blinks again. “Yeah—and you’ve got your backpack. It’s just a stapler—it’s fine, here.” He reaches forward and grabs the staple gun out of the older boy’s hand before Hyunseung can say anything else. The younger boy just flashes Hyunseung a tiny smile (when Hyunseung proceeds to stare blankly—again) and motions with his shoulder to start heading down the stairs.

          Hyunseung, slings on his own backpack, and walks forward first to hold the door to the stairwell open for the other boy. They climb the first flight of stairs down in silence, Junhyung against one railing and Hyunseung on the opposite side. It’s odd, he thinks, how when he asked about who Junhyung might be texting, he isn’t irritated the way he always was when they were together (when it was always Yoseob or Hongki or lines upon lines of others that weren’t Hyunseung—that were better than Hyunseung).

          Maybe, Hyunseung supposes, that it’s because of what happened towards the end of midterms—maybe it’s because Junhyung’s established that they’re friends, that it’s okay for them to still be friends. Maybe now that Hyunseung doesn’t have to worry about being good enough, about being better than the others (just on par with them), things will be easier like this—less painful, less stressful, less diffic—

          “Yah,” Junhyung says softly.

          Hyunseung glances at him—their eyes meet.

          “You wanted to know who I was texting, right?” the younger boy asks with raised eyebrows.

          Hyunseung bites the inside of his cheek. “I mean—yeah—I guess. You don’t have to tell me, though,” he says, a little confused.

          “I was texting my mom,” Junhyung says, again with that tiny smile. “I was asking to make sure she didn’t need me to do anything on Sunday.”

          Now it’s Hyunseung’s turn to blink—twice. “What?”

          “You’re free Sunday, right?” Junhyung asks, tilting his head, smile disappearing for just a moment as his eyebrows knit together.

          They get to the second floor. “I—well—yeah,” Hyunseung pauses on the level between the flights of stairs.

          Junhyung stops too, one step under Hyunseung, and glances up. His expression is expectant as he looks at the older boy. “What time do you want to meet up, then?” he says, and Hyunseung’s eyes stretch reflexively because—oh—he hadn’t really thought Junhyung meant it (really meant it) when he said that they should hang out. Even though he’d hoped that Junhyung meant it, he didn’t think that it would be so soon either.

          “It—I don’t know,” Hyunseung says, and tries not to stumble over his words, “doesn’t matter, I guess.” They’ve both started walking down the stairs again, almost back on the first floor. He sneaks a glance at Junhyung’s face again—the younger boy has eyes on the papers balanced in his arm, expression thoughtful.

          When they reach the first level, Hyunseung opens the door of the stairwell for Junhyung again, letting the other boy go through first since his hands are full. He follows through after the younger boy and is about to ask if they’re supposed to find Doojoon or Yoseob in the other halls or if they should just return the extra papers first when Junhyung turns to him, his lips nervously.

          “So—just text me before Sunday, okay?” he says as Hyunseung raises his eyebrows. “I cleared up the whole day so whenever you want,” Junhyung says, with a sheepish smile that shows his teeth and turns his eyes into crescents.

          Hyunseung can only nod—completely on autopilot as Junhyung starts off in a jog into the cafeteria to give in the extra leaflets so they can be recycled. He watches the younger man hand over the papers to the old lady at the school store, bowing his head and letting her pat his cheek while he tries to politely smile off her questions on how well the soccer team is going to do for the school with its soon-to-be new members.

          He knows that they’re friends (best friends?) and that it’s okay for them to be—that Junhyung wants them to be. And he’s glad—Hyunseung’s glad—because it takes the pressure away, it makes breathing easier, it makes everything easier (it should, at least). A lot of things are less complicated and Hyunseung doesn’t find himself thinking too much. Everything should be lighter, and while some things are, he still doesn’t understand why—even though being friends is good, and fine, and okay, really it is—he doesn’t understand why it still hurts so much.

          Being friends is what Junhyung wants (it’s all Hyunseung deserves to be—can measure up to be—can afford to be), so that should be enough, shouldn’t it?

          Kikwang wonders if he’s done something offensive to Dongwoon lately.

          He wonders if, maybe, because he hasn’t really done this whole dating thing a lot—he wonders if maybe he’s violated some article of an act of a paragraph in a certain section of some unspoken and unknown universal rulebook of dating etiquette. It’s not really so much that Dongwoon seems angry (Kikwang doesn’t think he can remember Dongwoon ever being angry). It’s more like Dongwoon doesn’t seem to be acting like himself around Kikwang.

          It’s more like Dongwoon’s being weird. And not in the makes-you-spit-rice-into-Joon’s-face-purely-by-accident kind of way (like Hyunseung’s brand of weird), because at least that would be remotely comforting.

          It’s nothing like Dongwoon straightforwardly avoiding Kikwang or speaking to him less. In fact, Dongwoon seems to like speaking to Kikwang more—in fact, it seems that nowadays in Dongwoon’s mind the more they talk the better because there are certain things that can only happen when two people stop talking and for some reason Dongwoon doesn’t seem to want those things to happen.

          And this makes everything in general slightly discouraging (venting out his anger by kicking the backs of Jonghyun and Joon’s shoes whenever he passes them in the halls) and fairly frustrating ( in the harder-to-get-to bathrooms of the school). He also personally thinks that everything Jonghyun’s put him through has proved useless up until now because there’s no point in knowing how to have and having Lee Joon beneath his belt if the person he wants to have with doesn’t even want to have with him back.  

          Kikwang wonders if maybe he got uglier or something.

          It’s possible, right?

          He walks back over to where Dongwoon is stapling up the last of the fliers (the upper strips of the wall where Kikwang can’t reach), handing the first year the few papers that they left behind at the corner of the lobby (because as the youngest, they got the last pick of location and all that was left was the lobby, gym, and auditorium—in other words, the biggest and hardest to reach rooms).

          “Thanks, hyung,” Dongwoon says, taking the rest of the papers and hardly looking at Kikwang. The second year stares at the back of Dongwoon’s head when the younger boy turns back around and continues stapling. Kikwang blinks, and then sighs quietly, blowing his cheeks out.

          He doesn’t think he looks that bad today.

          He’s taken off his blazer and tie and his shirt is untucked and rumpled at the ends after a quick one-on-one game with Yoseob before Doojoon had pulled them inside to start putting up the papers. And—yeah—Kikwang hasn’t gotten that much sleep this past week because of the mini-onslaught of homework he’s gotten so his eyes are probably puffy and maybe his hair is kind of askew after being out in the winter wind during the soccer game but all in all Kikwang doesn’t think he looks that bad.

          “Dongwoon-ah,” Kikwang says, poking the first year’s back.

          Dongwoon still doesn’t turn around. “What’s up, hyung?”

          “Let’s make out.”

          The staple gun falls out of Dongwoon’s hands, landing on Dongwoon’s foot, and sending the younger boy tumbling backward into Kikwang which sends Kikwang tumbling onto the floor (which wouldn’t happen if Dongwoon was normal-sized like everyone else in South Korea) which sends Dongwoon spinning around so he doesn’t smash the life out of the second year which means Kikwang ends up pinned to the probably-not-so-sanitary floor of the main lobby with Dongwoon’s body pressed flat on top of him.

          Despite the pain, this is probably an ideal position.

          An ideal position that is thoroughly ruined when Dongwoon scrambles up off of Kikwang and the first year attaches himself to the lobby wall. Dongwoon is blinking frantically and Kikwang pushes himself to his feet as well, staring back confusedly because this is weird—this is really weird, and maybe Kikwang has developed some sort of not-yet-known-to-man disease that Dongwoon is sensing?

          Or maybe Dongwoon just doesn’t want to have with Kikwang—or kiss Kikwang or make-out with Kikwang or be involved in any type of ual activity with Kikwang because maybe Kikwang just doesn’t have that sort of appeal to Dongwoon (which is fair game, considering that Dongwoon is tall and attractive and young and apparently the kind of good-looking that makes the girls that sit behind Kikwang in third period hyperventilate over their calculators).

          Or maybe, Kikwang remembers Jonghyun telling him sagely while stealing the rest of the answers from Hongki’s left-open notebook, Dongwoon is just nervous.

          And if that’s the case (because Dongwoon likes Kikwang and you wouldn’t like someone who doesn’t ually attract you—right?), if Dongwoon is just nervous, Kikwang would be more than eager to accommodate that nervousness if it weren’t for the fact that Jonghyun and Joon have both done him great personal wrongs that now carry on to this very day because Kikwang still hasn’t told Dongwoon, doesn’t know if he should, and doesn’t really know how.

          Kikwang walks forward, slow steps towards Dongwoon (who is still plastered against the wall). “Dongwoon-ah,” Kikwang says, biting his lip while the first year’s eyes stare at him, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. He stands squarely in front of the younger boy, face tipped upward so their eyes are connected. A few seconds pass and that’s all it takes for something in Dongwoon’s gaze to shift (back to normal—back to Son Dongwoon).

          Dongwoon leans forward and downward at the same time that Kikwang leans forward and upward, heads tilting and mouths meeting.

          Something feels different.

          This kiss is different, but it’s an odd kind of different. Kikwang doesn’t want to say that it’s a wrong kind of different, but it’s not a right kind of different either. It’s like the way Dongwoon’s tongue slips into Kikwang’s mouth is different than all the times it’s done so before, but it’s not different enough—not yet—like it needs more time, like the way Dongwoon’s fingertips are Kikwang’s shirt has changed but it hasn’t changed all the way yet (like it’s almost there but not quite).

          Kikwang wonders how you know if you’re ready or not.

          He’s always wondered, even after his time with Joon, when you know if you’re really ready or not because even though Joon did everything for Kikwang and more (more than Joon really had to, but then again that’s probably why they’re friends even today) and made a night that could’ve been terrifying into something comfortable and warm and exciting (thrilling)—Kikwang doesn’t really consider it his first time. Not really.

          It’s something he doesn’t really like telling anyone (least of all Jonghyun, which means Kikwang can’t really tell anyone because Jonghyun is the only one who knows about Joon—or rather he was, until Hongki found out) because it’s not something a high school boy should think. He thinks that even Hyunseung would probably laugh at him or at least hold it to Kikwang’s face for a good two weeks. It’s something embarrassing, something he doesn’t think he’s ever going to tell anyone, the kind of girly thing that he really wishes he didn’t think but it’s not like he can stop his thoughts.

          Kikwang doesn’t think it’s a first time until it’s with the right person.

          Yeah—

          See?

          It’s stupid, right?

          It’s stupid, especially right at this very moment—right at this very moment with Kikwang already more than a little pent up and Dongwoon’s hips rocking instinctively into his and Dongwoon’s hands up his shirt, tugging at his waistband, tongue and lips making Kikwang’s head spin—right at this very moment, thinking about this train of thought while being touched, being kissed, being held, being pressed against Dongwoon (the right person) is doing absolutely nothing for Kikwang’s control.

          Thinking about it right now is a pretty stupid idea.

          It continues to be a stupid idea right up until something happens that hasn’t happened to Kikwang in front of Dongwoon yet, and the older boy ends up collapsed against the first year’s arms, Dongwoon having to slide both of them down to the ground with Kikwang panting heavily in his arms. Kikwang’s eyes are half-closed and he’s already trying to remember if he still has a change of underwear and possibly pants in his gym locker.

          When he regains enough breath to glance at Dongwoon, he (almost bursts out laughing) finds that the first year is looking down at him with the same look Jonghyun usually wears throughout math class.

          Kikwang would like to think that, being friends with Kim Kibum, Dongwoon is one of those boys who comes into their first year of high school already knowing everything and expecting everything and (even though Dongwoon liked Kikwang for so long, Kikwang highly doubts that someone as likeable and attractive as Dongwoon wouldn’t get any offers—and also expects Dongwoon to accept some of those offers), he supposes that he can’t think that any longer.

          He reaches up and pats Dongwoon’s face. “Yah,” Kikwang says with a tiny smile, chest still heaving up and down (his body feels limp). “Yah—Son Dongwoon—you’ve never seen your hyung come before?”

          Dongwoon’s expression.

          Kikwang pats the first  year’s cheek again, a concluding pat, and continues to lean back against Dongwoon’s chest as the second year s his pants slightly and peers into them—the damage isn’t too bad—if he walks carefully enough to the locker rooms (which aren’t that far), he’ll only need a change of underwear. And even if he doesn’t have a pair of his own still stored in there, he can always steal Yoseob’s (since Yoseob—and Doojoon—always bring lots of spares to school).

          “Hyung,” Dongwoon whispers (the way Kikwang imagines a CIA agent to whisper life-threatening mission reports), “did—did—did I make you do that?” He is looking down at Kikwang with something between nervousness, shock, and the look a small child has when caught eating candy before dinner time.

          Kikwang grins, head resting against Dongwoon’s chest (they’re both still sitting on the floor, with Dongwoon leaning against the wall and Kikwang leaning against Dongwoon, seated between the first year’s legs). “What—make me come?”

          Dongwoon blinks.

          “If it makes you happy,” Kikwang says, running his fingers once through Dongwoon’s hair, “sure.” He watches Dongwoon’s expression and realizes that the first year has been staring at Kikwang’s open fly (and the stain creeping into the waistband of Kikwang’s boxers) and not at Kikwang’s face. Kikwang watches Dongwoon, half-amused and half-not-really-knowing-what-to-think, and thinks that maybe Kim Kibum needs to take Jonghyun’s teachings more to heart and transfer some of that into Dongwoon.

          But, in the end, Kikwang supposes he doesn’t mind playing teacher.

          If he can only find it in him to tell Dongwoon who was the one who taught Kikwang.

          Kibum wonders if he should invest in some of those alarms specially designed from the spy magazines that Mir and Jinwoon giggle like schoolgirls over. He knows that those things are just issued out as companies trying to make money off of poor paranoid souls who would probably do a lot better spending their money on some counseling rather than unreliable spy gear, but at this point, Kibum personally thinks that he himself would do just fine depending on undependable spy gear.

          Not so much to protect himself, just to give him a heads up on whenever Jonghyun decides to drop by Kibum’s house via the first year’s bedroom window instead of texting his arrival and walking through the front door like a sane person.

          The first year crosses over from his bed to the door, hastily pulling on socks while he steps across the room (because it’s cold) and tugging a sweatshirt over his pajamas as he goes. He unlocks the terrace doors, and steps to the side to let Jonghyun in. The older boy walks inside without looking at Kibum, without touching Kibum or speaking, and the first year frowns at that.

          “Hi, Kibum-ah,” the younger boy says dryly, “I’m sorry to bother you in the middle of ing Saturday night when you might’ve wanted to get some sleep after dying during midterms’ week.”

          Jonghyun stands between the foot of Kibum’s bed and the desk, still not facing the first year. “Sorry,” he says quietly—

          Quietly—

          Kim Jonghyun is never supposed to say anything quietly.

          The first year walks around so that he’s in front of Jonghyun—so he can see the other boy’s expression. He grabs the second year’s arm tightly. “Hyung, are you—”

          Kibum’s heard Dongwoon tell him plenty of times—again and again, over and over—about how Lee Kikwang is the kind of person that is never allowed to be sad, never allowed to get hurt by anyone because Kikwang smiles all the time, laughs all the time, tries so hard to be happy and happy for others all the time and that’s why Dongwoon always tells Kibum (back when Kibum insisted that Dongwoon just confess to Kikwang whether it breaks the older boy or not, or move on because Kikwang can’t be protected forever) that it doesn’t matter if Dongwoon gets hurt as long as Kikwang doesn’t.

          In Kibum’s opinion, even though a number of others (the ’91-line will probably at the top of the list) would disagree, Jonghyun is exactly the same way.

          Kim Jonghyun smiles a lot, laughs a lot, loves to smile, loves to laugh, loves being happy—is this bright ball of energy that, despite all of its shortcomings and failings (and the occasional irritations it causes for Kibum and half of everyone else in the world), Jonghyun is someone who wants the people he cares about to be happy and tries hard to make sure they are. To Kibum, even though Jonghyun might not look the part like Kikwang does—to Kibum, Jonghyun needs to be protected just as much because making Kim Jonghyun sad, hurt, in pain, is a crime as well.

          “—crying?”

          Jonghyun smiles—a tiny, weak smile. “Wait till I tell you why,” he says, clearly trying to be playful (in a terribly sad voice that just punches Kibum harder in the chest), “it’ll be even funnier then.”

          Kibum isn’t laughing.

          He’s not laughing as Jonghyun collapses onto Kibum’s bed, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling with raw, hurt eyes. Kibum isn’t laughing when Jonghyun wraps his arms around the first year’s waist and buries his face in the first year’s lap—he’s not laughing while Jonghyun tells Kibum about how the midterm grades came out and, just like always, even though Jonghyun did study and he thought that they were decent—better than before (mostly B’s and one or two C’s), his parents passed disappointed and headed for straight-up furious. Kibum is not laughing when Jonghyun tells him that his father said he just wished that Joon was his son instead.

          And he’s definitely not laughing, is the ing furthest thing from laughter, when Jonghyun looks up at the first year, still with that watery smile, eyes rimmed with b moisture that hasn’t spilled over yet (but there are prints of wetness against Kibum’s sweatshirt), “I should invent a clone machine,” Jonghyun says. “So I can make another Joonie-hyung and give him to my dad.”

          Kibum stares.

          “No,” he says incredulously, frowning at the second year.

          Jonghyun blinks. “Wh—”

          “No,” Kibum repeats, eyes narrowing as he pushes Jonghyun away slightly, pushes the second year into sitting up. “Mothering no, hyung. You’re not going to ing invent a clone machine and clone Joon-hyung because your parents need to ing realize that their kid is Kim Jonghyun and not Lee Joon and instead of ing wishing they had someone else’s kid, they should ing appreciate the one they have.”

          This time, it’s Jonghyun who stares—eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

          Kibum merely continues to meet his gaze, bottom lip pushed out and eyebrows furrowed discontentedly because this isn’t the first time that Jonghyun has talked about his parents, but it’s the first time that his parents have said something that—to Kibum—went way too far because even though Jonghyun might not get the crazy perfect grades that Joon does, it doesn’t mean Jonghyun is a useless son.

          Jonghyun continues to stare—minimally blinking (that would be impressive in a less serious situation).

          He continues to stare up until Kibum has sort of had it, and sighs a little. “Yes, hyung,” he says, “my face is terribly attractive, I know.”

          There’s a short moment of stillness before Jonghyun launches himself at Kibum with that statement (because it’s clearly a statement of fact even though Kibum is just trying to make Jonghyun smile), nearly sending both of them rolling off of the bed and onto the carpet. Jonghyun burrows his face into Kibum’s stomach (like he always seems to do) and Kibum can feel laughter vibrating from the other boy.

          “You’re awesome,” Jonghyun laughs—muffled, his arms tight around the first year’s waist, “y’know that, Kibum-ah?”

          Kibum smiles at the ceiling. “So are you, hyung—y’know?”