Chapter Text
Minho’s fifth semester at college starts the same way the last four had: Jiho beside him, scribbling in the margins of Minho’s notebook and cracking lame jokes about peasant uprisings in the Ming Dynasty. Minho is not going to admit Jiho still knows more than him about that, despite the fact that Minho is dual majoring in History and Music Studies, and Jiho is studying two music majors. He knows they were about grain. Or land rights. Or maybe they really were seizing the means of production.
“You’re a huge nerd,” Minho says, “and you’re not funny,” while Jiho continues to laugh at his own jokes.
The classroom has started to fill up but the lecturer isn’t there yet, which gives Minho an excuse to pull out his phone and start playing for Jiho the track he was up until four am on the first day of classes composing, but as soon as they get to the chorus the door opens again and the most gorgeous-looking man Minho’s ever seen walks in. Minho doesn’t notice he’s dropped his phone between his and Jiho’s seats until Jiho nudges his arm a few times, because he’s too busy watching the man walk to the desk by the podium at the other side of the room, his footsteps muffled in the carpet and his profile in Minho’s eyeline, and take off his jacket.
“What?” Minho asks after he finally tears his eyes away from the sight.
“You dropped your phone.” Jiho pushes it into his hands. “What are you—oh.”
Minho can hear the change of tone in Jiho’s voice when he spots who Minho’s looking at. It’s a small lecture theatre and their seats are close enough to the front of the room that Minho can make out the shape of this guy’s lips and the way his glasses perch on his round cheeks, but maybe Jiho is taking in the cut of his shoulders, the flex of his arms as he rolls up his sleeves, the way his jeans cling to him.
“Well,” Jiho says, and Minho can hear the interest in his voice; he knows what it sounds like because it’s been directed at him before, but fuck him, Minho saw this guy first.
“College rules,” Minho says, kicking at Jiho’s feet until he connects with something. “I saw him first.”
“First of all,” Jiho hisses, “none of those rules are real, and second—quit it—you conveniently forgot they existed two months ago when you tried to make out with Kyung on a dare. Rule Number Three: No Best Friends.” Minho doesn’t remind him that they broke that rule when they hooked up with each other last year, and how it hasn’t done them any harm, that, in fact, breaking that rule has made Jiho pretty happy for a good ten months now, and also, they’ve both broken Rule Number Five and hooked up with so many of each other’s exes since the dating pool of hot, available, queer men and hot, available women who don’t know they’re too good for Woo Jiho and Song Minho is so small, pitiful even, that it’s hard not to. He doesn’t remind Jiho of this because he had his eye on the lecturer as soon as he walked in the door, and Rule Number Six claims first dibs. “Third, he was a tutor last year for one of my performance courses, so I saw him first.”
Well, Minho thinks, fuck. The lecturer clears his throat and starts the slideshow. “Good morning everyone. Professor Kim isn’t here today, so I’ll be taking over the lecture.” Oh, so not a lecturer. Still, he has a calming influence and a deep voice that Minho is glad he’ll be listening to for an hour and half. “I’m Kang Seungyoon, I’m one of the tutors, you’ll probably see me in classes. I hope we can get to know each other well this term.”
Minho drops his voice to a whisper. “Okay, fine, those rules aren’t real.”
Jiho smirks his shark smirk and leans back in his chair. He could try being a little less smug, but Minho knows he never will. “I’ll get a date by the end of the day.”
“Yeah, hyung, I’m sure skinny dudes with unwashed hair who smell like baby powder are exactly his type.”
“More so than muscle junkies who can’t hear the difference between G and A major chords. I wish you luck, Song Minho.”
Minho rolls his eyes and turns back to the lecture, where he spends the next 85 minutes absorbed in the introduction to popular music from pre-1885 to the end of the Japanese occupation, and when it’s over and Jiho’s still taking down notes, Minho, who hasn’t taken notes since his first semester, slips down to the front where Seungyoon is packing up his laptop.
“Hi,” Minho says, putting on his brightest smile and ducking down to meet Seungyoon’s eyes until they both straighten up. “I haven’t had you for any of my classes, are you a new tutor?”
Seungyoon flashes a smile like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, like maybe doing his job is something to be shy about. “I started last year, but this is was my first lecture. I hope I didn’t bore you to death.”
“My mind might have wandered a little bit just listening to your voice, but no, not bored.” Minho lowers the intensity of his smile to something more coy, and Seungyoon’s eyebrows rise. Minho feels Jiho sidle up next to them and resists the urge to play dirty. “I’m Song Minho, it’s great to meet you.”
They exchange bows and then Seungyoon turns to Jiho with a smile that Jiho returns, one that would make Minho disheartened if he wasn’t so sure of his charm and ability to score.
“And it’s good to see you again,” Seungyoon says.
“Likewise,” Jiho says, then, “I was hoping we’d meet again, we never did go for that coffee.”
“Ah, yeah.” Seungyoon looks embarrassed, and laughs to cover it. “I hope you didn’t take that too personally. I’d make it up to you, but I have another class to get to in three minutes.” He pulls his satchel onto his shoulder, grabs his jacket, and starts walking towards the door while Jiho and Minho follow him. “We might see each other next week, depending on whether Professor Kim is available.” He says his goodbye and rushes out the door.
Jiho doesn’t meet Minho’s eyes as they round the corner and exit the building into the sunshine.
“He’s a little harder to get than I first anticipated,” Jiho says.
“Don’t be too down on yourself, hyung,” Minho says, trying to keep the laughter out of his voice, “there’s a whole semester ahead of us.”
—
He feels blissed out and sated in more ways than one, exhaling a stream of smoke while the nicotine calms the cravings. The sound of Jiho’s crappy laptop speakers blasting out Red Velvet is audible through the glass door to the balcony where Minho’s got his feet up on the table and the empty can of tomatoes he’s using as an ashtray balanced on his stomach for easy access. It’s become a ritual, his post-orgasm cigarette. Come to Jiho’s for the first part, stick around for the second.
When he comes back in, Jiho’s still naked, and Minho still has a mountain of reading to do even though it’s only the first week, but he ignores it a little while longer just to lie in Jiho’s bed and use his thigh as a pillow while Jiho sets up a drama to watch.
“I ordered pizza,” Jiho says, “extra cheese, beef, the crust you like.”
“You’re the best,” Minho says. It gives him an excuse to do nothing but watch crappy shows and eat pizza in Jiho’s bed and probably go another round until he absolutely has to get back to his dorm five hours before class starts so he can do his readings for two and sleep for three. “It’s first week and we’re already doing civil unrest in the Middle East. You’d think they’d save that for last to get people to show up in the last week.”
“Why do we even bother going to class if all the lectures are online?”
“Well, I don’t know about you but Seungyoon’s given me a new reason to show up to Critical Concepts In Popular Music.” Minho turns onto his back to look up at Jiho, at the point of his chin and curve of his jaw.
Jiho gives him a look like he was thinking the same thing. “Okay,” Jiho says, “I’m not sleazy so—well, not that sleazy—so let’s not live out a romantic comedy by turning this into a competition only to have Seungyoon reject us both when he finds out about it, so. I say we both go for it, and if he picks you I’ll back down with my pride.”
“You don’t have any pride,” Minho says, laughing into the air, flinching away when Jiho goes to flick his forehead.
“Watch your words, Song Minho,” Jiho says.
“Oh sorry, no, you’re right. You do have pride. I got that confused with self-respect.”
Jiho pulls a pillow from behind his back and starts whacking Minho with it, and it should be painful enough that Minho stops laughing, but he can’t, he’s convulsing with it, gasping, tears rolling down his cheeks when Jiho grabs him and attempts to squeeze him to death. It’s the closest he’s felt to anyone in months, with Jiho’s arms and legs octopussed around him, and then the squeezing turns into kissing and Minho’s still laughing through it, light-headed with it, curving his body into Jiho’s even though it’s too soon, he can’t get hard for at least another half hour. Jiho doesn’t seem to want to do anything, though, because he’s knows, they’ve been fooling around long enough that he gets it, and been friends for even longer, their friendship like a string that’s wound its way through their lives in unquantifiable ways.
“Sorry, hyung,” Minho says, during a break in kissing, “but it was too easy.”
“Well, of course you would confuse pride and self-respect, you don’t even know what they are.”
Minho laughs again, because Jiho when he’s haughty is ridiculously cute and fun to rile up, but he’s laughing too, and it’s so easy being with him Minho finds it hard to picture wanting to be anywhere else. They have fun together, and there are no strings, just sex and friendship—like dating without the dating. It’s the best relationship Minho’s ever had.
They fool around until the pizza gets there and Minho opens the door because he’s the one with clothes on and by the time they’ve finished three a half pizzas between them they’re too bloated and greasy to have sex again, so Minho calls it a night. He doesn’t kiss Jiho goodbye, because that’s another rule they have, filed away under social etiquette for fucking your best friend on the sly, and all of those rules are unspoken.
He doesn’t do his reading that night. Instead, as he’s walking across campus to the dorms, a tune forms in his head, lyrics on the tip of his tongue, and when he gets to his room he opens a new file and starts laying down a track.
—
“You look like shit,” Jiho says, when he shoulders his way through the classroom door that is really not built for people like them and carrying a box.
Minho grunts, because he got two hours and forty five minutes worth of sleep that morning and still didn’t finish the track. “I started working on something new.”
Jiho takes a seat around the four desks pushed together into a shapeless mass, next to Minho where he can slap the back of his head, not hard enough to hurt. “Do you ever take a break?”
“Do you?” Minho rearranges his cap. Jiho looks refreshed, because sex does that to him, gives him a glow that’s always a lost cause to Minho when he spends hours in front of a computer screen instead of sleeping.
Jiho shrugs and pulls out his phone, scrolling for a minute while Minho doodled in his notebook. “Those two YG trainees made it through to first round performances. They were top pick in their teams.”
“No shit? Wow.” Minho has to give it to them. They haven’t even debuted yet but already they’re on Show Me The Money and done pretty well so far. “What are their names again?”
“Bobby and B.I. I haven’t been watching the show religiously but they’re pretty good.”
“We’re better though, right?” Minho flashes Jiho a smile that he hopes hides his jealousy.
“Yeah, Minho-yah,” Jiho says, sighing. “We’re the best.”
Their conversation is cut short when Seungyoon walks in with his glasses and his leather satchel and his tight jeans. Minho tries not to stare but he knows Jiho is doing the same thing next to him, watching his mouth when Seungyoon starts introducing the course outline, reading list, assessment schedule, and what the tutorials will be like. “Any questions before we start?”
“Not a question,” Jiho says, “but I brought kkultarae.” He stands up offers the box to Seungyoon, who takes one and thanks him, before he starts taking it around to the thirteen other people in the room, conveniently forgetting Minho until he sits back down again. Jiho slaps Minho’s hand away when he reaches for the box. “None for you,” he says, then breaks into a smile, and Minho curses under his breath and takes one anyway.
The rest of the tutorial passes without incident, Minho drifting off every other minute staring at Seungyoon, who keeps pinching more kkultarae, licking his fingers, talking with his mouth full like he hasn’t been properly socialised. Minho finds it all unbearably hot, zoning out enough that he startles when Seungyoon looks at him and says, “Minho, what do you think?”
“Uh,” Minho says, and looks down at the papers Seungyoon handed out at the beginning of the lesson. “Folk music was the original pop music. It was mostly to, uh. Tell stories about the times and warn people about bad shit that was happening. And there were plenty of ‘fuck you’s to the King.”
Seungyoon gives him a smile like he thinks Minho’s trying and turns to the rest of class. “And the role of nongak?”
“It was the backdrop to the labor, the rhythm of the work, and it was meant to include the whole village,” Jiho says. “All ture members were meant to take part in either nongak or a variety show.”
“That sounds like idols and variety shows today,” Seungyoon says, and Jiho laughs a little too hard.
“Tone it down,” Minho murmurs, once Seungyoon starts addressing the class again, getting up to write on the whiteboard, and Jiho pinches Minho’s side through his tank top.
“I’m dazzling him with my wits. You have no chance.” He sounds really sure of himself for someone who usually takes six months to realize anyone is into him.
“Really?” Minho leans back in his chair with his hands behind his head, showing off his muscles, and when Seungyoon scans the class his gaze rests a little too long on Minho. “I have muscle and brains. Your turn.”
Jiho doesn’t try anything for the rest of the lesson except give Seungyoon a look as they file out of the room when the class is over, and laughs when Minho catches him.
“Come here, Jihohyung,” Minho says, a warning, and then Jiho starts backing away towards the stairwell, taking off when Minho stalks towards him with intent. His laughter rings out through the stairwell as Minho chases him down one, two, four flights of stairs and out into the sunshine, gasping for breath when Minho finally catches him and tackles him onto the grass. Minho doesn’t do anything, just crushes Jiho under his weight until eventually Jiho pushes him off and he rolls onto his back.
“You’re going to get slapped with a sexual harassment suit, hyung.”
“You know if I’m going down, I am definitely taking you with me.”
“That seems fair,” Minho says. It’s nice to lie there, letting the sun beat down on them until they’re sweating too much to justify being covered in grass, so they pick themselves up, and Jiho leads the way to the food court with his arm slung over Minho’s shoulder, chatting about his favorite pentatonic scale while Minho listens to the sound of his voice.