These days, Dongwoon’s been noticing, that the little man isn’t around very often—sometimes he’s not around at all. And the times when the little man is around, he doesn’t do much—doesn’t seem very interested in the going-ons between Dongwoon and Kikwang anymore for some reason. The little man only actively participates, kicks and glares at Dongwoon, when something like that one afternoon near the lobby bathrooms happens.

          But after the Skype session with Kibum, the little man is almost nonexistent—Dongwoon has seen neither hide nor hair of him since.

          He almost misses him—especially right now, considering Dongwoon could actually use some of the little man’s usual prodding. Especially now—because, right now, Dongwoon has just climbed Kikwang’s balcony (the way they’ve visited each other for as long as Dongwoon can remember—back and forth) and is sitting on Kikwang’s bed with the second year. It’s a Friday night so at least Dongwoon doesn’t have to worry about keeping Kikwang away from sleep or homework, but that reassurance isn’t really doing anything for Dongwoon’s nervousness.

          This plan sounded a lot better directly after the first year’s epiphany following the Skype session with Kibum.

          And if Dongwoon had the choice, he would gladly retract this entire bit with him coming over to Kikwang’s room so the first year could construct a better plan that wasn’t filled with so many holes-turned-potential-disasters. Except he doesn’t—he doesn’t have the choice of turning back time to half-an-hour ago when he spontaneously decided to do it now or never and chose now because if he chose never, then his life would (and it’s not like never is even an option because how is any human supposed to be around Lee Kikwang and never—

          “Hungry?” Kikwang asks, holding the bag of sunflower chips out to Dongwoon.

          Dongwoon thinks that it’s now gone to the point of ridiculous when he can’t even look at Kikwang offering him chips without staring at how the second year the sugar off of his full lips as he eats. “I already ate dinner,” Dongwoon says, shaking his head.

          Kikwang nods, rumpling the bag closed and tossing it onto his nightstand. The second year has his laptop opened, one window open to emails and the other to university sites. Dongwoon also sees a tab with Twitter and another with their school site—for homework and grades. He sees Doojoon telling Kikwang about the schedule for tryouts after school every day this coming week.

          “Aren’t you glad you tried out in the summer?” Kikwang asks, turning away from the screen and grinning at Dongwoon. “Imagine how much it to have to try out after a school day.”

          Dongwoon makes a face. “Only crazy- people like Doojoonie-hyung and Hyunseungie-hyung do that.”

          Kikwang laughs. “Right?”

          Dongwoon smiles back, reaching out and lightly holding Kikwang’s hip. The second year raises his eyebrows playfully, slowly closing his laptop and crawling across the bed to Dongwoon. The sweatshirt Kikwang has on rides up (taking along the t-shirt underneath and flashes a strip of smooth, taut skin) as the second year brings himself closer to Dongwoon. The younger boy leans back as Kikwang slides into Dongwoon’s lap, hand curling in the first year’s hair as their lips meet.

          The kiss is brief only because Dongwoon draws away before Kikwang can take it any further. Dongwoon sees the disappointment flash blatantly across the older boy’s face and now the first year knows that he’s been stupid these past few weeks. He’s been incredibly stupid because it took him weeks upon weeks and Kibum verbally slapping him across the face to realize an answer that shouldn’t even be an answer because it’s just simple fact.

           He doesn’t understand how he could’ve ever forgotten exactly what Kikwang is to him, regardless of ing labels (that just confuse the out of Dongwoon—labels are better suited for people like Kibum because Dongwoon doesn’t even know what to do with them anyway).

          “Hyung,” Dongwoon says, sliding his hands down Kikwang’s side, resting on the second year’s hips. “Best friends tell each other everything, right? Like—you can tell me anything and I can tell you anything?”

          Kikwang blinks—instant confusion spreading across his face. “I—sure—yeah, of course.” He shifts nervously in Dongwoon’s lap.

          Dongwoon smiles. “Cool.”

          “You have something to tell me?” Kikwang asks, eyebrows furrowed, sounding utterly puzzled.

          “I do, actually,” Dongwoon says and silently (politely) requests that his heart please stop beating that hard and loudly even though he knows that his heart will most likely just ignore him—it’ll continue beating harder and louder until it bursts completely out of his chest, most likely.

          Kikwang bites his lip, waiting.

          Dongwoon takes a deep breath. “I like this guy,” he begins and Kikwang’s eyes shoot open wide, “I really, really like this guy and he says he likes me back.” Really, Dongwoon almost wants to laugh at the panic enveloping Kikwang’s face even though the first year knows that’s just mean. “And we’ve fooled around and all that, but then I got kind of stuck, y’know?”

          Kikwang blinks, expression unsure and almost frightened for some reason. “What d’you mean?” he asks hesitantly—quietly.

          Dongwoon his lips, thinking for a moment and rearranging words in his head to make sure they come out right (because he refuses to mess this up). “I found out that this guy I really liked already had before,” he says softly, forcing himself to look straight into Kikwang’s (shocked) eyes. “He had before with this other really popular guy at school—and—I don’t know—it makes me nervous.”

          The second year frowns. “Wait—why, ner—”

          “’Cause they’re both really popular and hot and older than me,” Dongwoon says, offering a tiny smile. “So it’s like I can’t measure up and all—y’know? I wouldn’t know what to do—or how to do anything—and the other guy probably made this guy that I like feel amazing, and—”

          “I think you could make him feel more amazing.”

          Dongwoon stares.

          Kikwang smiles (tiny and uncertain, just like the smile Dongwoon gave seconds ago). “This guy you like,” the second year says slowly, “probably doesn’t care if you don’t know what to do or how to do anything or if it’s your first time. It’s just—” Kikwang bites his lip again and looks down, frowning for a moment, before peeking back up hesitantly at Dongwoon. “Good is nice—but—it doesn’t really matter how amazing it is if it’s not with the right person, y’know?”

          Dongwoon is still staring.

          He isn’t quite sure what else to do right now anyway (his mind is kind of having difficulty comprehending much).

          The older boy laughs then. “And if you haven’t even had before, why’re you acting like you at it?” Dongwoon blinks, as Kikwang’s laugh turns into a grin. Kikwang wags his eyebrows teasingly. “I think you’ll be awesome at it—y’know, being tall—”

          “Hyung, what the —” Dongwoon says, shoving Kikwang off of his lap. The second year is too busy rolling around on the bed laughing to really care about how Dongwoon feels his face and ears burning up into a temperature that is definitely far higher than the expected, healthy human body temperature.

          Kikwang’s eyes are shut tight, teeth clenched to keep in the laughter from rising to a volume that might alarm the second year’s parents right down the hall. One of his arms is wrapped around his stomach while his free hand slams against the mattress repeatedly even though Dongwoon refuses to see how this is funny—he just confessed his insecurity issues to his boyfriend and Kikwang thinks this is funny.

          “Dongwoon-ah,” Kikwang says breathlessly when he’s calmed down. There’s still a wide grin on his face as he sits up, latching himself onto Dongwoon’s arm. “Yah—Dongwoon-ah, it’s a compliment, y’know?”

          He can’t help it.

          Dongwoon can never help it (has never been able to help it) when it comes to Kikwang.

          He smiles, laughs, and cups Kikwang’s face in his hands—bringing their lips together—not fierce, not light, not brief, not deep—just a kiss that’s a kiss. Just a kiss that’s open-mouthed but not heavy, only a few seconds but not innocent, warm but not heated. It’s just a kiss, but it’s perfect and Kikwang is perfect and Dongwoon feels stupid. Incredibly stupid. But—in the end—he supposes that it’s all right for him to be stupid—for both of them to be stupid—as long as they fix it together.

          When they part for breath, Kikwang’s eyes open slowly (eyelashes fluttering) and Dongwoon’s heart speeds up when their gazes meet. “So—what?” Kikwang asks, smiling softly. “Now? Right now?” His fingertips linger against Dongwoon’s jaw.

          Dongwoon smiles back nervously. “I meant it though, hyung,” he says lightly (trying to hide how fast his heart is beating). “I—really—I won’t know—”

          “I’m a good teacher,” Kikwang says, and suddenly the second year looks a little nervous too (nervous, but still smiling). “And you’re a fast learner.”

          The younger boy pulls Kikwang against his own body by the older boy’s hips, fingertips digging into the second year’s waistband. “’Kay,” Dongwoon says quietly—tries to make his voice playful even though the nervousness is finally, honestly, truly here and it feels like he might pass out. “Just—yeah—okay.”

          Kikwang grins suddenly, one hand starting to tug Dongwoon’s shirt upwards. The second year’s full lips drag along the line of Dongwoon’s jaw, up to the younger boy’s ear. “Lesson one,” he whispers, breath ghosting against the first year’s cheek.

          Personally, Dongwoon’s aiming for the honor roll.  

          Joon’s head whips around and he catches the first year easily by the collar, shaking him and snorting. “Yah,” Joon says, “yah—aren’t you supposed to be helping Sanghyunnie load the bags onto the bus?”

          Mir struggles against Joon’s grip until the older boy finally legs go of him, pushing him a little bit and causing the first year to stumble as he rights himself. The younger boy faces Joon and wrinkles his nose, almost pouting. “I finished loading my share,” he says. “Sanghyunnie-hyung is still doing his.”

          “Then go help him so we can get on the road faster,” Joon says, slinging his arm around Mir’s neck and pretending to choke him.

          The younger boy laughs in Joon’s grip, bumping his side against the third year’s. “It’s too ing early to lift so much,” Mir says, making a face as they walk—arms around each other—towards the bus docks.

          It’s a sunny Saturday morning—a clear blue sky with cold January weather that nips at their noses. There’s no wind, but it’s a cruel and icy sort of frosty that stabs at them despite how many layers they pile on. Mir’s body is warm against Joon’s, but it’s still not enough even though Joon has on gloves and a scarf and a sweatshirt underneath his coat and two pairs of socks. He just hopes that the school that’s hosting the workshop will have good heating in their indoor fields.

          “You need to stop hanging around Kim Kibum so much,” Joon says. “You curse way too often now, Mir-ah.”

          Mir rolls his eyes, wrinkling his nose and grinning. “I need to stop hanging around you so much,” he says. “I feel my IQ dropping.”

          Joon smacks the maknae’s head. “Yah—yah—my—yah,” Joon says, utterly indignant because while he might not be the wittiest bulb on the chandelier, he’s certainly one of the most intelligent and it’s not like Mir’s IQ was ever very high to begin with. “My IQ—is—it’s—it’s higher than you know how to count, Bang Cheolyong.”

          The younger boy laughs, slipping away from Joon as they approach the bus. “Sure, hyung.”

          Byunghee is immersed in his piles upon piles of papers, shuffling them back and forth in his gloved hands while he talks in low, quick whispers with Seungho. They’re both at the bus’s entryway, also conversing with the bus driver—most likely on the quickest way to get there, with the least amount of traffic. Joon’s been on trips with Byunghee before, and most of the time, the traffic-avoidance-route turns out to be some obscure ravine-featuring-route that frustrates the bus driver to the point of nearly stranding them on the side of the road.

          “Sanghyunnie done yet?” Joon asks, nudging Byunghee with his elbow because his hands are too cold to come out of his pockets.

          Byunghee stops talking to Seungho, and turns to Joon (as Seungho walks away after discreetly glancing at Joon). “Sanghyunnie’s already on the bus,” Byunghee says, raising an eyebrow—and then directing his gaze at Mir. “After you ditched him with loading the bags,” the coach says pointedly to the maknae (without much meaning at all, in Joon’s ears, because ever since Mir came to the school he’s been Byunghee’s favorite for one reason or another).

          Joon smiles to himself as he hears Mir start up the whining (and the shouting). He climbs onto the bus, waves to Sanghyun (already seated behind the driver’s seat and listening to music) and pads all the way to the back of the bus where Seungho is seated. The teacher is looking down into his lap, clearly flipping through papers he needs to grade—most likely the first years’ midterms.

          He hates how his heart pounds against his chest as Seungho looks up and meets his eyes, waiting.

“Can I sit with you?” Joon asks quietly.

          Seungho just shrugs, taking the piles of papers from the seat and moving them to make room. Joon sits down slowly, not really knowing where to look, eyes searching over the papers and carefully at the older man’s face. Ever since everything went on, Joon hasn’t had any more tutoring sessions—his grades have gone back to normal with midterms anyway and neither his parents nor Jihoon-hyung saw a point in having Seungho continuously tutor him.

          It was only ever supposed to be a temporary thing anyway.

          The bus begins to move once Byunghee and Mir board (sitting with each other across from Sanghyun).

          Seungho doesn’t speak—simply going on to grade papers, pen cap in his mouth as his eyes quickly scan across the papers (the pile that was once resting on what is now Joon’s seat is squeezed between Seungho’s thigh and the window). Joon doesn’t want to watch him—doesn’t want to spend this entire bus ride staring at every single movement Seungho makes, doesn’t want to look for too long at how Seungho’s hair falls into his eyes and brushes across the rims of his glasses. He doesn’t want to follow the swift path that Seungho’s tongue makes across his lips. Joon doesn’t want to watch how the early, winter morning sunlight makes Seungho’s silhouette glow (even though Seungho always glows, even when the weather outside is cloudy and rainy).

          Joon is starting to wish he just sat beside Sanghyun instead.

          They’re just reaching the toll road when Seungho puts down his pen suddenly, pen cap falling lightly out of his mouth as the teacher yawns into his hand. Joon watches the older man blink blearily for a few seconds before pushing up his glasses to rub at his eyes and then continue grading.

          “Hyung?” Joon tries softly.

          Seungho turns his head, blinking. “Mm?”

          “Maybe you should—maybe—sleep?” Joon suggests hesitantly. “It’s a long drive and it’s really early still. You could grade when we get there or something.”

          Seungho blinks again. “Oh,” he breathes. “I slept pretty early last night,” he says, sounding faintly surprised at Joon’s words. “I’m not tired—I just hate mornings,” Seungho grins, and turns the particular midterm he has in his hands.

          “Yeah, I know,” Joon blinks.

          Seungho blinks back. “What?”

          “Whenever I try to greet you before school starts on my way to homeroom,” Joon says unhappily because this has actually been an issue of his deep concern for the past few months, “you actually like smack my face around when there aren’t any other teachers around.”

          “You’re ing too loud in the morning,” Seungho says, shrugging.

          “Hyung, stop ing cursing,” Joon says.

          Seungho bursts into laughter, covering his mouth reflexively with his free hand. “You’re ing full of bull,” the teacher snorts lightly—playfully.

Joon grins. “Love your language, seonsangnim.”

          Seungho just grins back, and slams the third year headfirst into the back of the seat in front of them.

          The rest of the ride has Joon eventually falling asleep against Seungho’s shoulder, earplugs booming music into the student’s ears. Even though Seungho had started out nearly nodding off at the beginning, the teacher always woke up as the morning starts to fade while Joon apparently needed to nap. After Joon falls asleep, Seungho goes on grading papers while Mir moves to sit with Sanghyun (they end up falling asleep on each other too) so Byunghee can talk to the driver about where to park and drop them off when they reach the host school.

          It’s become clear now that it’s going to be a bright weekend, frosty and sunny with the sunlight gleaning in through the bus’s windows.

          Seungho tears his gaze away from the outside, looking back down to the midterms in his lap and shuffling the ones that are done with each other—clipping them neatly together and tucking them onto his other side. As his eyes prepare to sweep down another row of bubbled-in answers, his line of sight shifts to Joon—to how one of the third year’s hands is balanced between Joon’s thigh and Seungho’s lap. The student’s palm is facing up, fingers curled.

          Seungho’s body moves by itself.

          His arm doesn’t give a —refuses to listen to his brain (but his brain won’t say anything—doesn’t even try even though it should hold his arm back)—and moves closer to Joon. Seungho glances back to Joon’s face, making sure his eyes are still closed, making sure that he’s still deeply asleep. The teacher bites his lip as his hand moves by itself as well, tentatively touching his fingertips against Joon’s palm, sliding his hand inside of Joon’s and threading their fingers together—

          Seungho yanks his hand out.

          He takes away his hand as quickly as he’d slipped it in (looking again at Joon’s face even though the student hasn’t moved—is still far off in unconsciousness). His eyes instantly fly to the front of the bus, scanning over the backs of Byunghee’s head—Sanghyun’s and Mir’s because Seungho’s heart is beating rapidly and the moment his skin touched Joon’s everything became infinitely worse.

          Seungho hates it—he hates the feeling that erupts throughout his entire body when he touches Joon—he hates feeling happy and guilty at the same time because there’s just so much potential happiness (so much that he wants even though he shouldn’t—even though it’ll end badly again even though he wants to believe Joon is different), but there’s so much guilt because Joon doesn’t deserve to be caught into something that can only be hidden.

          He hates that whenever he’s near Joon, he’s always afraid—terrified that Byunghee will look at them for a little too long and suspect something, terrified that Mir or Sanghyun will think differently of Seungho because they might know how Joon feels. Seungho hates being scared. He’s never supposed to be scared and he doesn’t want to be scared.

          Joon scares him.

          Joon frightens Seungho because Joon is everything that destroyed Seungho the first time around and Seungho had promised himself (promised Junhyung’s parents) that there wouldn’t be a second time.

          It’s not that he’s trying to deny how he might or might not have feelings for Joon. In all honesty, it doesn’t matter whether or not Seungho cares about Joon with more than a teacher ever should for his student. That’s not the part that counts or the part that Seungho cares about.

          Seungho is fine with holding everything in—he’s fine with liking (loving) Joon from a distance, with having his feelings unrequited, with gritting his teeth through whatever pain there might be. It’s fine with him and he doesn’t care.

          It’s okay for Seungho to love Joon (because he can just hold it in and hide it and no one, not even Joon, will ever know).

          It’s not okay for Joon to love Seungho (because Seungho doesn’t want Joon to have to hold things in and hide things during the last few years that Joon can still be a child, can still love without caring what anyone else thinks—Joon’s childhood is fading fast with every day that passes and Seungho doesn’t want Joon to be in pain during these last chances).

          Joon wakes up quietly—soundless yawns and blearily blinking eyes with one hand moving to his hair, fingers lifting and dropping strands. “We there yet?” he says hoarsely, sleep still in his voice and in his eyes as he squints at Seungho.

          “Yeah,” Seungho says lightly. “Go ahead, you can hop off right now.”

          Joon’s eyes (still half their normal size) peer out the window, leaning forward slightly since Seungho is the one with the window seat. “We’re still moving,” the student says, confused. He glowers sleepily at Seungho. “That’s not funny, hyung.”

          Seungho shrugs. “I think it is.” He grins.

          Joon stares.

          And then pushes Seungho into the window—Joon uses his feet to shove Seungho as hard as possible, sticking the teacher against the corner (which, in the end, doesn’t really do much since Seungho’s laughing too hard to feel any pain, and because Seungho is stronger and Joon isn’t really moving the teacher anywhere—the third year is just kicking and shoving at a boulder).

          “Is there—like,” Joon says (huffing and puffing because he probably expended more energy than was necessary trying to at least budge Seungho—who’s still sort of laughing), “an actual reason why you’re so mean to me or is it just because it’s fun or something?”

          Seungho blinks. “Fun is a reason,” he says.

          Joon blinks back for a moment before bursting into incredulous, indignant, disbelieving laughter. “Oh my God,” he laughs, as Seungho breaks into another grin. “—hyung—I hate you.”

          Seungho just grins, eyes trailing back outside the window. “Go back to sleep, Changsun-ah,” he says. “I’ll wake you when we’re there—still ‘bout an hour.”

          The teacher is already looking out the window again so Joon can’t meet his eyes, can’t wordlessly ask if it’s okay—but he takes the chance anyway. Joon waits until Seungho is focused in watching the buildings and trees zoom by before he carefully (hesitantly) leans his cheek against the teacher’s shoulder again. It was an accident the first time, but Joon wonders if having it be on purpose is okay too.

          He waits for a reaction—for Seungho to look over and either draw the line or let it slide.

          Only there is none.

          Seungho merely continues to stare out the window, and Joon doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be feeling. He knows that this isn’t a good thing—that a part of Joon actually wants Seungho to draw the line because then at least Seungho understands that Joon isn’t just resting his head against Seungho’s shoulder because it’s comfortable (and warm and close and perfect and soothing)—that Joon isn’t doing this the way he would lean on Doojoon’s shoulder or Junhyung’s or Yonghwa’s.

          It won’t matter how hard Joon tries if Seungho doesn’t even know that Joon is trying—doesn’t even understand that there’s something Joon is trying for. If Seungho turns Joon down because he doesn’t feel anything for the student, then Joon is okay with that—it hurts but it’s okay. But Joon doesn’t think he could take it—doesn’t want to imagine how much, much more it would hurt if Seungho doesn’t want to be with Joon because he can’t even imagine Joon having feelings for the teacher—because Seungho can’t even see Joon as more than a child, more than a student, more than just a dongsaeng.

          At the very least—even though this just makes him more immature—Joon wants Seungho to see him as an adult (because children don’t have relationships—adults do).