Archive of Our Own

Yangyang plans it carefully—thinks casual, casual, casual so he doesn’t freak out for half an hour beforehand—and fucks it all up by waiting until they’re playing Madden and Dejun’s on the precipice of scoring to say: “I think we should try kissing.”

Dejun drops the controller so suddenly he ends up accidentally quitting the game. “You can’t just say whatever you want so I’ll throw the match,” he complains, whipping his snapback off his head and chucking it at Yangyang, who only just barely manages to duck out of the way. “You’re such a sore loser.”

“I’m such a sore loser?” Yangyang scoffs. He remembers he’s on a mission here. “Ugh—I wasn’t—” He pauses. “I wasn’t… just saying whatever.”

For a moment, Dejun looks like he’s considering mauling him to death. Then, he says, his voice low and tight, “You’re not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Yangyang whines, but whining feels like it’s pretty unlikely to get an already annoyed Dejun on his side, so he recalibrates. “Just, just—like, for the next five minutes, assume I’m totally serious, okay? And then you can throw a controller at me next or something.” Yangyang’s willing to bet it’s only the last sentence that gets Dejun to incline his head into a small nod, but he’ll take what he can get. He clears his throat. “It isn’t how it sounds.”

It totally is how it sounds. Even with just the help of Yangyang’s half-fused LEDs, Dejun’s eyelashes cast long shadows over high cheekbones. His eyebrows are furrowed and nearly invisible through overgrown bangs and somehow still stunning; his mouth is—his mouth—

—He’s kind of hot or whatever. Yangyang knows for a fact that he’s not the only one that’s noticed—he’s not the only one with eyes—but whenever anyone tries to pick him up, Dejun rejects them instantly; he only wants something with his one true love because he’s the type of person to have planned his dream wedding at eight.

But Yangyang has a strategy. Which brings him to his point. “It’s been a while for you, right? Like, a while?”

“Oh my god,” says Dejun. “We are not talking about this.”

“It’s been a while for me too.” Dejun scoffs, and Yangyang tries and fails not to trip over his words. Casual, casual, casual. “And I don’t want to… the next time I get back out there, I don’t want to be too rusty, right? Like, what if it’s someone really important, and they think I’m a bad kisser?”

Just like Yangyang planned, this makes Dejun pause. He can practically see the gears turning in his head: the nightmare scenarios playing out one by one, which is probably not ideal for him but pretty great for where Yangyang needs this to go. “So,” Yangyang continues after a moment, “I thought, you know. Why not get some practice with my bro?”

Dejun says: “Your bro.”

“It’s not like we have to go super far or anything. I mean—I obviously don’t want to,” Yangyang lies through his teeth. “But being bad at kissing is embarrassing. And you’re the only person I can practice with where it would be, like. Not a huge deal or anything.” Casual, he thinks. Casual, casual, casual, casual—

“Not a huge deal,” echoes Dejun. Yangyang wonders if he’s going to just repeat back whatever he says for the rest of the night.

“You know. It doesn’t even count.” He tries for a grin. He thinks the expression he lands on is about seventy-five percent there, but it’s too shaky. “Since we’re bros.”

For a long, terrifying moment, Dejun’s quiet. Yangyang wonders if he’s giving him the silent treatment and how long it’ll last. Their record was a week, but usually it’s about two hours before one of them tires of it. Then again, usually one of them hasn’t suggested that they kiss, because usually they’re not insane; why’d he think this was a good idea—

Dejun’s tongue darts over his lips.

Right. That’s why.

“You’re not offering to make out with Guanheng,” he says, finally.

“Guanheng doesn’t need the practice.” Dejun’s mouth flips into a small frown, and before it can escalate into a big one, Yangyang adds, “I need the practice too; I’m just saying. He wouldn’t say yes.”

“So I’m your second choice?”

“No,” says Yangyang, too quickly. He blinks. Casually. “You’re my only choice. I just said so. Try listening next time.”

Dejun’s lips press together like they always do when he’s trying not to smile, but only just for a moment. He looks up at Yangyang from under his eyelashes, his gaze dark and serious, and says, “You swear you’re not joking? If you are, I’ll kill you.”

“Yeah,” Yangyang says. “Swear.”

“And…” Dejun scoots a little closer. He’s been using a new cologne lately, something a bit melony. It’s—nice. “You really want to…” His mouth contorts silently around the word once, twice, like he’s struggling to say it aloud. “Kiss?”

Yangyang knows what he’s asking. You really want to kiss me?

“Yeah,” he breathes out again, and it comes out a little too honest, a little too hungry, but it doesn’t matter because as soon as he does Dejun’s leaning forward.

His lips are fascinatingly soft. Yangyang always thought they would be—Dejun uses lip balm so diligently it borders on insanity, owns about fifty different tubes—but it’s different knowing. He’s so stuck feeling it he takes a second to remember he’s supposed to be kissing back, and then Dejun’s pulling away with a frown. It only lasts half a second before Yangyang pulls him in hard enough that he overbalances and topples halfway onto Yangyang’s lap.

“Hey—”

“More comfortable like this anyway,” Yangyang says, tilting Dejun’s head toward him. “Don’t worry about it.”

Casual, he reminds himself as Dejun laughs, a shaky exhale, and leans in for a proper kiss this time. Casual. Dejun tastes like mint, predictably. His hands are warm and a little damp, but it’s fine because that probably means Yangyang’s not the only nervous one here. It still feels good when one of them shifts from the couch up to his face, running tender circles along his cheekbone as Dejun runs his tongue along the seam of Yangyang’s lips.

Casual, Yangyang thinks. Not tender. He feels like he’s getting outkissed right now, which, Dejun or not, simply won’t do, so he sucks on Dejun’s bottom lip, licks into his mouth, grins when Dejun lets out a quiet whine of a noise like he’s trying to muffle it. He almost tells him he can be loud. That’ll crush any plausible deniability he has left, though, so instead he lets his hand fall from the nape of Dejun’s neck to his waist, running up and down his sides so he won’t do something stupid like slip them under his shirt.

“Okay,” breathes Dejun, laughing again, pulling away. His eyes are bright. His hair is mussed. His mouth is a little swollen, kiss-red, an indent on his lower lip where Yangyang must have bitten—he doesn’t even remember biting. He resists the urge to lean in and do it on purpose this time.

“Okay,” he says back instead. “Haha. Yeah, that was—not bad.”

The smile slips off Dejun’s face. “Just not bad?” he asks.

If Yangyang knew what was good for him, he’d remember that Dejun has a pathological need to be praised and reassure him with the truth. Obviously, though, he doesn’t know what’s good for him, because he isn’t thinking about Dejun’s feelings—he’s thinking about the shape of Dejun’s mouth, the neat bow of his upper lip, the way he sounded when Yangyang licked into him and how to get him to do it again.

This means instead of saying it was really good, haha, probably the best kiss of my life if we’re being totally honest here, he replies: “Honestly, man? I think you need more practice.”

“You… you’re serious?” Dejun asks, his brows scrunching together. He’s still fully on Yangyang’s lap. It would be so easy to—

“Um,” he says. His heart thumps uneasily in his throat. “You’re, uh. You’re not bad. But you could be… great…?” He cringes. “Like, you know. You weren’t really…” He grasps wildly for something Dejun was doing wrong and comes up empty. “You could just use more practice.”

Dejun frowns like he does when he’s moving from confused to for-real-mad. Yangyang begins to feel like maybe he miscalculated a little. “And you’re the best judge of who’s a good kisser?”

Wait, what?

“I’m—was I bad?” Yangyang blurts incredulously.

“Was I bad?” Dejun echoes back, sliding off his lap and leaving him cold. Yangyang’s hand twitches out to pull him back in. He stuffs it in his hoodie pocket instead.

“No, dude, I was fucking with you,” he says, because obviously his initial plan isn’t getting him anywhere and he’d at least like to not have Dejun in a bad mood for the next few days. “Were—were you fucking with me, too? Or…”

Dejun scrunches his nose. He’s standing and his arms are crossed over his chest, but he doesn’t look two seconds away from leaving anymore. “It wasn’t funny,” he says. “You…” His mouth twists one way and then the other. Yangyang wishes he would stop doing things with it so he could stop staring. “You were fine.”

“Fine?”

“Good,” Dejun snaps, looking as if it’s physically paining him. “I guess.”

“Oh.” Yangyang tries not to look pleased. Judging from Dejun’s severely unimpressed stare, he’s failing. “Cool. I mean—you were great. Uh. Good. Also.”

“Cool,” Dejun repeats mockingly. He’s grinning again, though, a little bashful like it gets whenever he’s praised, so Yangyang takes the win.

“You lost the last game, by the way,” he says. Casual. “And the one before that. So if you’re giving up for the night…”

“That doesn’t count as a loss, you cheat,” Dejun says, shoving him, but he picks up the controller and starts another game anyway.

+ + +

Yangyang’s starting to think kissing Dejun might’ve been a mistake.

His logic at the time was if he did it he could get it off his mind. He’d spent weeks beforehand (months beforehand, probably since the first time he’d stayed up playing League with the pretty transfer second-year stuck in the first-year dorms beforehand) thinking about the bow of Dejun’s upper lip, the moles dotting his forehead, the way sweat dropped from his eyebrow down his cheek to the curve of his throat. If he could just know all of it once, it would stop.

It hasn’t stopped.

Instead he’s been caught staring about a billion times in the last five days: mostly by Dejun himself, who stares back like he doesn’t get why Yangyang’s looking, but sometimes by Renjun and Guanheng, occasionally by Kun and Sicheng, and all too often by Ten (who’s beginning to send him knowing looks, so that’s a conversation he’ll have to avoid). But it’s—it’ll wear off, probably. He knows now. Dejun tastes like mint. Dejun has acne scars along his cheeks, and they’re as pretty as the rest of him. Dejun laughs into a kiss, or maybe just into a kiss with Yangyang—maybe just into that kiss with Yangyang. He’ll never know that much, but it’s, like, fine.

One week after it happens, he thinks he really is getting over it. Sort of. He—he wants, but he’s always wanted, so it’s an easy, familiar kind of ache. The world keeps turning. He goes to class. He spends extra time with Ten to get the choreo for his solo down. He hits on Dejun, who assumes he’s messing with him every time. It’s exactly the same as before. It’s normal. (Sometimes at night he thinks about him in his lap and—well, it’s still as normal as it can get.)

That is—until Dejun knocks on his door just an hour from midnight, hikes the straps of his backpack higher over his shoulders, and says: “We should talk.”

“Don’t say it like that; it’s scary,” Yangyang complains, and Dejun rolls his eyes as he lets himself in. He lets his bag fall to the floor and perches on the couch in the same place he always does, which is—totally cool, except now it’s gone from Dejun’s spot to where Dejun sat when they first kissed, so that’s less cool. Or more cool, maybe. He’s wearing a beanie with a beagle embroidered on it and a sweater so baggy it’s swallowing him a little. Yangyang still has to blink and look away for a second.

“I was thinking about what you said.” Dejun takes off the beanie and lays it on the armrest. His hair’s sticking up in every direction. “Ten-hyung keeps telling me I should put myself out there.”

“Ah,” says Yangyang, who has no idea what he said or what Ten’s advice has to do with anything. “I… feel like you put yourself out there a lot, though.” Whenever he catches Dejun between classes he’s with a new friend Yangyang’s never seen before in his life. Pretty much everyone on campus knows him, and not just like, knows of him in the campus celebrity way like they do with Ten, but knows him. Like they’ve all hung out with him before. It’s a little freaky.

Dejun hugs his knees to his chest and rests his chin against them. It’s cute. “Not like that. Like—start dating.”

“Ah,” says Yangyang again, hoping desperately that he sounds less weirdly bummed than he thinks he does. “That’s cool. Is there—is there anyone you’d wanna put yourself out there for?”

From the way Dejun looks at him he thinks it was the wrong thing to ask, but he can’t figure out why. “I don’t think so,” Dejun mumbles after a minute, right as Yangyang’s gearing up to laugh awkwardly and ask if he wants to put on a game or something. “But I should probably try; nothing’s getting anywhere. I just—I think—” He glances over at Yangyang. He’s pink from his ears to his throat. Yangyang gets so distracted tracking the blush he almost misses it when Dejun says, “I think you were right. Even if you were joking. I—I need more practice.”

“Practice,” Yangyang repeats blankly. He shoots up off his bed. “You mean—you mean—”

“You’re my only option too.” Dejun shrugs like he’s totally chill about it and Yangyang’s the insane one for reacting, which is a ridiculous pretense when he’s never been chill about anything in his life. “If you don’t want to, I get it. I just thought…”

If Yangyang were thinking with his brain, he’d realize that explicitly letting his best friend use him until he finds something better is probably a bad idea. The only end result here involves Yangyang getting more attached, Dejun eventually moving onto the fairytale romance he’s always wanted, and Yangyang, like… he’s not sure how he’d react to that, actually, and he’d like to avoid finding out.

Yangyang isn’t thinking with his brain, though, so he blurts, “No, yeah, sure. Like—like now?” Dejun shrugs again. It’s beginning to seem a little twitchy. He looks about two wrong moves from walking out of the dorm and giving up on this altogether, so instead of asking again Yangyang says, “Then c’mere.”

Dejun glances up at him—at the bed—and away. “Why am I the one who has to move,” he mutters, but he does—hops off the couch and walks all of one and a half meters to where Yangyang is, settling across from him. There’s still a respectable distance between them, so it feels like any other day: like he’ll turn to the side and they’ll just put on a movie. Dick around while Yangyang pretends to understand third year-level music theory coursework until Dejun trudges back to his dorm.

Yangyang doesn’t want this to feel like any other day. He shifts closer, puts his hand to Dejun’s jaw, lets his thumb rest at the corner of his mouth. Dejun’s eyelids flutter shut. His lips part. He’s so gorgeous Yangyang has to take a moment to just look at him—the way his head’s tilted just barely upward, expectant, his hands fisted into the sheets like he’s only halfway managing to keep them to himself.

“Are you planning to get started anytime soon?” he asks. His eyes are still shut, but he’s raising a judgmental eyebrow. It makes him look a little stupid. Yangyang’s heart is beating in his throat.

“Patience is a virtue,” he replies, and before Dejun can pull back and smack him, he leans in and presses his mouth to his, chaste and—and soft, really, sweeter than it should be. Dejun exhales just a bit. Tilts his head. Grazes Yangyang’s bottom lip with his teeth, light enough to barely be a suggestion before it gets a little harder.

Yangyang lets his mouth fall open in response, slipping his tongue into Dejun’s mouth and letting out a quiet groan when Dejun gasps. Today he still tastes overwhelmingly like mint but a little bit like the green tea chocolates he always gets after classes, and Yangyang’s half trying to memorize it and half reveling at the feeling of their tongues curled together, Dejun’s mouth pliant and warm. He blindly reaches for the collar of Dejun’s shirt and pulls him in closer—and then even closer, so that Dejun’s on his lap again, surging up into him, nipping at his lip.

“You… you’re,” he says, not so much pulling away this time as leaning back just enough that his lips aren’t on Yangyang’s, that they’re barely a centimeter apart. “You like having me here that much? You did this last time, too.”

It takes a second for Yangyang to realize he’s referring to the position they’re in. He tries to think of something to say that doesn’t completely give him away and comes up blank, so he just manages, “Feels nice.”

“Mm,” Dejun replies. Yangyang can’t tell if he’s agreeing or not, but it doesn’t really matter because he’s kissing him again, sloppier now, his hands running through Yangyang’s hair and catching on the shorter strands at the nape of his neck. He fits one hand around the back of Yangyang’s throat, rubbing up and down in a way that makes him shudder and keep shuddering.

Yangyang tries to do what he did last time—to feel content with running his hands along Dejun’s sides, over his sweater—but the stupid thing is too baggy. “D’you—do you mind if I—” he gasps, barely biting back a moan when Dejun takes the opportunity to drop his mouth to Yangyang’s jaw, sucking at the juncture where it meets his neck. “If I,” he tries again, sliding his hands under his sweater, against his bare waist.

Dejun freezes.

Yangyang’s about to apologize, but before he can Dejun pulls back and stares at him. His eyes are all pupil and hazy. He’s already sweating but so is Yangyang, so he can’t make fun. “I don’t mind,” he says, his voice low and rough and hungry. Kissed out. Yangyang wonders how he’d sound fucked out, then, and puts it out of his mind before it can spiral into something dangerous.

“Okay,” says Yangyang, his own voice rougher than he wants it, unsteady, and then again: “Okay.” He returns Dejun’s earlier favor, drops kisses along his jaw and down his throat, biting at a spot that makes Dejun whimper and soothing it with his tongue, watching it bloom a pretty red before he keeps going.

It’s further than he should take it for practice. It’s further than what lets him keep pretending it’s casual. It’s further than he can get without hurting himself when Dejun doesn’t want him—when Dejun just wants to be the best he can be at this like he wants to be the best at everything, and Yangyang’s collateral damage—but he memorizes every noise anyway, plucks them out of him until they’re nearly a melody.

“Yangyang,” Dejun chokes out. Instead of answering Yangyang runs his hand up his stomach, feeling his muscles twitch under him, then to his chest. Experimentally, he brushes his thumb against a nipple and watches as Dejun’s breath hitches—as he pushes into Yangyang’s hand and drags him up for a kiss, heady and openmouthed and hard enough that he tips them over.

It’s not the first time Yangyang’s seen Dejun like this—straddling him while he’s flat on his back—but they’re not wrestling now, and nobody’s laughing, and he’s slipping his hands under Yangyang’s hoodie. Yangyang’s so hard it should be life-ruining but Dejun’s hard, too; he can feel it against his hip. It’s way too far; it’s getting ridiculous; it’s so exhilarating that Yangyang curves up desperately for another kiss and moans into Dejun’s mouth when he meets him halfway.

When Dejun pulls back he’s panting, the rise and fall of his chest obvious against Yangyang’s hand. His hair’s in his face and his eyes are half-lidded and his mouth is red, bruise-dark and bitten raw. Calling him beautiful is too revealing, but when Yangyang thinks about the reaction he might get it doesn’t seem too bad, so he compromises. “You’re so pretty,” he breathes.

Dejun flushes, makes a noise from the back of his throat like he’s struggling not to make a louder one. Yangyang makes a note to do that again. “Don’t make fun of me,” he says, and before Yangyang can say he’s not; are you kidding, Dejun adds, “You—you said you didn’t wanna go too far with me, right?”

Yangyang’s going to go back in time and club past Yangyang over the head.

“Uh,” he says aloud. He swallows. Dejun’s eyes drop to track the movement.“I did say that, huh?”

Dejun’s smile fades, but only for a second before it settles into something a little smaller. “Then let’s stop,” he says. He leans forward and presses one more kiss to Yangyang’s lips like a stamp, a hard peck, and then he clambers off him and straightens out his clothes. They’re pretty full-coverage but his neck is still littered with bruises, and Yangyang knows that if he goes to the twenty-four hour studio after this, which he will, and runs into Ten, which he will, neither of them will ever hear the end of it.

“You wanna stay over? You’re kind of, like.” He gestures at his throat.

Dejun squints at him and pulls out his phone camera. Yangyang starts counting silently and manages to get to five before Dejun yelps, “Were you trying to maul me ?”

“I, uh,” says Yangyang, trying to think of an excuse that isn’t just I thought it looked nice, “got caught up in the moment?” When Dejun glares at him, he defensively adds, “You did it first.”

“I didn’t leave a mark.” He stares for a second. Coughs. “I only left a small mark,” he amends.

“You could’ve left more,” Yangyang replies, distracted by the shape of a hickey disappearing halfway under Dejun’s collar. His brain catches up to his mouth and he freezes.

Dejun stares at him: for a moment, then two, then three, and then smiles, sly and small. It’s the kind he uses when he’s onstage—when he’s trying to seduce the audience. Knife’s-edge sharp. Honed for maximum impact. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. Before Yangyang can figure out what the hell to do with that, Dejun wiggles his eyebrows comically and dissolves into laughter, and it’s so loud Yangyang starts laughing too.

“I’m being for real, though,” says Yangyang after they calm down. “Um. About staying over. Or, like. I could lend you a hoodie.” He and Dejun are almost exactly the same size, so it’s not exactly the big boyfriend shirt thing everyone’s obsessed with, but Dejun still looks—nice, in his clothes. At home. Or something.

Dejun wrinkles his nose. “It’s late,” he says. “If I’m not recording, I’ll just stay here.” He starts tossing cushions off the couch.

Yangyang squints. “What’re you doing?”

“Making room,” says Dejun, slowly, like Yangyang’s some kind of idiot. “So I can sleep. Your couch is small and I’m tired.”

“Just sleep here.” Yangyang pats the spot beside him. When Dejun’s ears flare red he takes a moment to reconsider. “I—I mean. It’s not like you haven’t before.” Which is true: Dejun’s dorm is all the way across campus, and at three in the morning it’s easier to just pass out in Yangyang’s bed than to make the walk and risk waking up his roommate. It’s a tight fit. They’ve both woken up to awkward cuddling more than once, but it’s a convenient enough arrangement that they’ve solved that part by just silently agreeing never to mention it.

Though he guesses that rule sort of goes out of the window once they’ve made out. “It doesn’t have to be weird,” he tries. “Like. We’re friends, so… yeah.” It’s always a bit weird for him—blinking awake and registering Dejun’s face buried in the crook of his neck, his hair tickling his chin, his legs haphazardly thrown over Yangyang’s own. But if it gets weird for Dejun it’ll never happen again, and he’s—selfish. He’s too selfish to let it go.

“Friends,” Dejun repeats. His expression is entirely blank, which is unnerving; he’s always been startlingly easy to read. He sighs after a moment and runs a hand through his hair. “If it’s all right with you…”

“It’s cool, dude.” Yangyang throws him a double thumbs up. Dejun snorts before mumbling something about brushing his teeth, then, and trudging to the bathroom.

That was the last time, Yangyang thinks as he finishes brushing his own teeth a few minutes later. There’s no way Dejun needs extra practice; he’d have to be an idiot to think he did, and if Yangyang asks again he’ll just look desperate. That was it. It was—enough. He knows now.

It still makes his heart do a funny little flip in his chest when he sees Dejun curled up in his bed like he belongs there, already halfway asleep. He’s got the blanket wrapped all the way around him like a cocoon, which is objectively annoying and doubly so when Yangyang knows it’s a defensive gesture because he’s a blanket hog—but it’s endearing. “Night,” he mumbles as Yangyang settles next to him, hand curling into a lazy wave before it falls by his side.

Yangyang swallows: hears his own throat click. He knows now, he reminds himself. He knows now, and it’s over. “Night,” he replies, and then he pulls out his phone and shoots a quick text to Ten.

while you’re telling everyone to get back out there… you should introduce me to someone cute lol

+ + +

“I think red would be good on you,” says Ten decisively. He pauses. “Actually, maybe pink.”

“Whatever you say,” replies Yangyang, trying and failing to imagine himself with pink hair. “And that’s the only way you’ll let me meet—”

“I’m not letting you meet anyone; I’m not your mom.” Ten emerges from below his bathroom sink with pink box dye in one hand and bleach in the other. “But yeah, it’s the only way I’m giving you Jaeminnie’s number. So if you really want to…”

Jaemin, from the little Ten’s shown him, is… okay, so he knows almost nothing about Jaemin other than that he’s pretty hot, but that’s about all he has to know. He’s a second-year. He likes photography. He has a pretty smile—about a million pointed teeth. Yangyang had asked Kun about him and gotten a long, thoughtful pause and a well, he’s eccentric in response, which is basically Kun-speak for fucking weirdo, and Renjun had straight-up called him a fucking weirdo, but Yangyang’s not exactly looking for a deep connection here, so it’s cool.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do. Okay. Pink rocks.”

Ten cocks an eyebrow. “Hmm.”

“Hmm?” Yangyang replies, aiming for clueless even though Ten’s getting the look he always gets when he’s about to ask several uncomfortable questions. “What? Do you think it’ll look bad?”

“You know you’ll look gorgeous; don’t try it,” Ten chastises. Yangyang did not, in fact, know that, but he stays silent. “I just think… you really want to go on a date all of a sudden, aren’t you?”

“Uhhh,” says Yangyang, intelligently. “I guess. It’s just—been a while.”

“And you only asked when I told Dejunnie to get back out there.”

“Reminded me that it’s been a while.”

“Hmm,” Ten repeats. Yangyang smiles his toothiest smile. Ten looks unconvinced but pinches his cheek anyway. “Whatever you say. Stay here while I get the bowls.”

Yangyang emerges several hours later with pink hair, a date with Jaemin scheduled for next week, and a lengthy list of instructions from Ten about upkeep he knows he’ll forget to follow. He looks better than he thought he would. He’d go as far as to say he looks really cool, honestly, though half of that is probably the way Ten had styled his hair after. Still, he’s happy about it—happy enough that he’s practically whistling as he makes his way to the studio, hoping to get an hour or so of practice in. Happy enough that he forgets Dejun makes the studio his second home in the weeks leading up to each end-of-term showcase until he sees him.

Dejun doesn’t seem to spot him at first. Yangyang doesn’t want to throw him off, so he just stays still and watches. For the last two terms he’s performed ballads, but this time it’s something different: slow, but sultry, his voice soaring across clear falsettos and curling around lyrics about getting closer, closer, closer still. He’s eyeing himself in the mirror, adjusting his expression bit by bit until he’s managed the perfect stare—eyes sharp underneath a smear of dark lashes, half-lidded he finishes out the last notes.

Yangyang almost trips but catches himself at the last second. “That was really good,” he says. His voice is a little hoarse. Dejun’s eyes snap to his reflection and then widen as he whirls all the way around to stare in earnest.

“You’re,” he begins. His mouth opens and closes, and he gestures at Yangyang’s hair. “When—?”

Yangyang lifts his hand to it, suddenly self-conscious. “Ten-hyung did it for me today.” He just barely musters the self-control to avoid asking if it looks all right—he has a date with Ten’s weird friend-of-a-friend Jaemin, he reminds himself, who has a pretty smile and isn’t his best friend he has no chance with, so it doesn’t matter either way.

Dejun’s silent for so long Yangyang begins to worry. When he’s about to clear his throat and move on, Dejun finally says: “It suits you.” He pauses. Pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Takes a step toward him, then another, then another, until they’re barely half a meter apart. “Looks good. You look—good.”

“Oh,” says Yangyang, feeling a little like the air’s been punched out of his lungs. “Uh. Thanks.”

“Since when have you wanted to dye your hair?” Dejun’s voice sounds stilted, a little strained. Yangyang can’t imagine why; he’s not the one that just spent four minutes gaping like an idiot.

“Since Ten-hyung said I had to.” Yangyang shrugs. Casual, he thinks, though he’s not even sure why he’s so nervous—if anything, Dejun’s just going to snicker about him putting their practice to use so quickly. “To get this guy’s number. I kind of like it, though; I might go red later.”

Dejun doesn’t snicker. Instead he takes a step back and blinks. “To—that’s, um,” he says. His face is completely blank again. Yangyang wonders when he stopped being able to read him and how he can learn again. “That’s cool. What’s his name?”

“Jaemin? He’s, uh,” Yangyang squints at his phone, “majoring in something sciencey, I think. Second-year, like me.”

“That’s cool,” repeats Dejun, managing to smile in a way that’s somehow equally blank. “I think I know him. He’s—pretty cute. Good for you.”

It is not reasonable, Yangyang thinks, to get jealous of his own date because Dejun complimented him. “He is,” he agrees. Why is this so awkward? It’s not supposed to be awkward. “That’s kind of why I, uh.” He gestures at his hair.

“Right. Yeah.” Dejun glances at it again, his smile fading. “Sorry,” he begins, and before Yangyang can ask what for, he’s pulling him into a kiss, bruising. Yangyang should be too baffled to kiss back—is baffled—but he works on instinct, opening his mouth and letting Dejun sink his teeth into his lip, swallowing the noise Dejun makes as he wraps his free arm around his waist.

It’s over too fast for him to register what’s going on. Dejun flashes him a grin, but it’s three degrees off from its usual. “Thought you might need a little last-minute practice,” he says. He lifts two fingers in a wave as he picks up his backpack. “Good luck with Jaemin. Text me about it.”

“What the fuck,” Yangyang manages, but by the time he does Dejun’s long out the door.

+ + +

The date with Jaemin is a bust, which Yangyang more or less expected, but it’s so much of a bust that Yangyang doesn’t even get a kiss out of it, let alone a hookup, which… if he’s being honest, he also expected, but he was hoping for something a little better. Kun and Renjun were right—he’s a fucking weirdo—but he’s funny and hot, so Yangyang would be willing to go with it were it not for the huge, Dejun-shaped question bouncing all over his mind.

“Oh, Dejun? Like the singer?” Jaemin asks when the name comes up. He grins. Everything about him is slow: his smile, his voice, the way his fingers run against the table. It’s the complete opposite of Dejun’s constant restless energy. Yangyang should probably quit comparing the two of them if he’s trying to get over everything. “Love him. I think I kind of freak him out.”

“You probably don’t,” says Yangyang honestly, because very few people are capable of freaking Dejun out for longer than a day.

“If you say so.” Jaemin tilts his head, crossing one leg over the other and steepling his fingers under his chin. “He’s cute when he’s freaked, though. So it’s all right either way.”

Yangyang stiffens—tries for a smile, easy. “You’re calling other guys cute on a date? Bad practice.”

“Not like that,” Jaemin says with a shrug. “But if I was, a cute guy is still a cute guy.” His stare is a little unnerving. Yangyang can’t figure out if he’s into it or not; he keeps remembering the way Dejun looks at him with his stupid huge eyes, so expressive it’s almost too much to bear.

He thinks he might be going insane. It’s fine. “Not as cute as me, though,” he says, and he cocks his head in the way that always gets Ten to coo. “Right?”

Jaemin raises his eyebrows like it’s a ridiculous question before snorting. “You want an honest answer?”

“Dude,” says Yangyang, too affronted to remember that’s probably not good date etiquette. “C’mon. I’m so cute.”

“You’re not bad, I guess,” Jaemin replies, shrugging, and they get wrapped up in an argument that’s both a million times friendlier and less awkward than anything they’d wasted time talking about for the last half hour.

Keyword: friendlier. Jaemin’s cool, and it’ll be nice to have someone to hang out with who’s not basically quarantined in the music building at this time of year, but talking to him feels like talking to anyone else, he’s apparently wrapped up in some kind of four-way situationship Yangyang isn’t even sure how to begin dissecting, and Yangyang can’t tell if he was joking about thinking Dejun was cuter, so it’s not worth it anyway.

Yangyang remembers Dejun told him to text him about the date, which is also when he remembers Dejun kissed him and he’s not an idiot; that didn’t seem like it was just for practice but he can’t—it can’t mean what he thinks it might, either. And Dejun’s both good-natured and misguided enough to think he’s doing Yangyang a solid, probably, which lands him back at—he’s just not going to think about it. It’s not his problem.

He tries texting him, but it feels a little pathetic letting him know the date went terribly, and he keeps having to fight the urge to ask why he kissed him in every draft, so he gives up. Instead he spends the next week holed up in his dorm studying. There are still three weeks until finals, and his courseload is pretty light, but he doesn’t really have anything better to do: Guanheng and Sicheng are attending some conference for a club Guanheng joined at three in the morning while drunk a few months ago, and Kun, Ten, and Dejun are all preparing for the winter showcase to the point of driving themselves and everyone around them insane.

Dejun would probably hang out with him if he asked. Honestly, with how he gets, Dejun probably needs the break. But Yangyang isn’t sure how to ask him to come over without getting weird about it, so he just… waits the feeling out. Waits until he can think of Dejun without the word KISS blaring in his head like the most useless siren in the world.

As soon as he manages it about fifty percent of the time, he texts him something about coming over and getting on Street Fighter 6. Cool. They do that all the time, anyway, so it’s, like, fine. The most normal way to jump back into a normal friendship where they don’t make out and Yangyang doesn’t think about it all the time.

He gets a response around ten minutes later: Maybe tomorrow? I have a date in half an hour.

Yangyang stares for a moment at his phone. Texts back on autopilot: whoa lol finally??, and then, cringing, good luck. He debates adding a thumbs up emoji and decides against it, feels stupid about thinking it through that hard at all.

Dejun’s typing bubble appears, then disappears, then appears again. Thanks :).

Yangyang frowns—usually Dejun would reply with half-joking suspicion at Yangyang ever wishing him well. He must be really nervous about this date. It’s none of Yangyang’s business, so he decides he’ll forget about it; if Dejun chooses to tell him about it, that’s fine, and if he doesn’t, that’s fine. He’ll just study a bit more. Not worry about who his friend’s seeing. Normal things.

He manages to make it ten minutes going over his notes before he gives up and video calls Guanheng. “Dude,” he says upon picking up. “I could’ve been presenting right now.”

“You literally sent me your schedule.” Yangyang squints. “Why are you sitting like that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Guanheng, smiling and angling his phone so that his face is the only thing in frame. Yangyang kind of wants to worry about it—his legs are splayed out on either arm of his chair like some kind of bizarre flexibility exercise—but he has bigger priorities.

“Whatever, man. Have you, um,” he shrugs, aiming for casual and landing about a meter to the left, “talked to Dejun recently?”

Guanheng’s eyes fly up below his bangs. “Just a couple hours ago,” he replies, his expression turning sly for reasons Yangyang pretends not to understand. “Why? He say anything to you?”

“Just that he’s going on a date.” Yangyang shrugs. “Like, not that it’s important or whatever; I was just wondering if you knew too, since we should keep each other in the loop—”

“You want me to tell you who.”

The look on Guanheng’s face is about thirty times too pleased to be normal. Yangyang stares at him suspiciously. “Maybe,” he says, cautious. “A little bit.”

“You should just ask him instead of going to someone else; he’d reply.” Guanheng tilts his head. “But since you’re my favorite didi,” he ignores Yangyang’s instinctual noise of disgust, “ge will do you a solid. You know Jeong Jaehyun?”

“Uh,” says Yangyang. “No?”

“The basketball player. Ten-hyung used to hang out with him all the time.”

“Uh,” repeats Yangyang. Theoretically, that should narrow it down; it’s not like most of Ten’s friend group is the college athlete type, but he’s still drawing a blank. Maybe because he doesn’t hang with most of Ten’s friends—they’re all so old.

Which means Dejun’s probably seeing a fourth-year. Or a grad student, since he could be an ex-basketball player. That’s fine. Obviously. A cool older guy is awesome.

Guanheng clicks his tongue against his teeth. “I’ll send you his Instagram.” He wags an admonishing finger even though Yangyang hasn’t done anything. “No freaking out, though.”

“Why would I freak out?” Yangyang asks. His voice comes out about half an octave too high, and he clears his throat. “Nothing to freak out about. ‘M just curious. And I’m not even that curious, so. Like, if you don’t send it that’s fine too—”

“Sent it to you,” Guanheng reports. He steeples his fingers under his chin. “You’re gonna be so annoying about this.”

“I won’t be annoying,” says Yangyang. “I’m not even going to—like—I don’t even care. So..”

“Sure,” says Guanheng skeptically. He strikes a peace sign. “Don’t wanna stick around for that either way. Seriously, don’t worry about it, though. Like, there’s really no reason to—”

“Not worrying about it. Go back to your dumb conference,” Yangyang says as he hangs up. He eyes the handle with trepidation: _jeongjaehyun is completely nondescript, though he guesses he’s not really sure what a handle could say about someone. (Dejun’s is djxiao_888, a remnant of a nickname he tried for about a week when he’d first transferred. Yangyang still hasn’t let it go.)

He types it in and stares at the profile and—Jeong Jaehyun is startlingly hot in a way that would probably complement Dejun perfectly, tall with ridiculous abs and a nice smile and an actual Valentine’s Day birthday, which is the kind of stupid shit Dejun would eat up. Yangyang’s always thought he had a nice smile, but he doesn’t have any dimples at all, let alone two perfectly symmetrical ones. Which is cool. Everyone has different strengths. Yangyang can’t think of any he has compared to this guy, but he’s sure he’s missing something.

It’s fine. Dejun will be happy with a tall hot fourth-year who treats him well, and once they have their fairytale wedding where woodland creatures actually start singing to them or some shit Yangyang will handle it gracefully because he’ll have long moved on, or at least pretended to. It’s cool. He’s—he’s already over it, basically.

He turns his phone off, puts it away, and goes to sleep at eight in the evening. When he dreams about Dejun he tries to forget it by the time he wakes up, and it almost works.

+ + +

Yangyang doesn’t know why he has to fight the urge to clean his room before Dejun comes over. It’s pretty clean right now to begin with—not, like, spotless, but livable, and definitely more habitable than what he’s seen of Dejun’s room at its worst. And Dejun’s seen his room at its worst, too; one time he came over, took one look at the state of it, and said, “Let’s go see a movie today. I don’t know how you live here.”

But he’s still spending his time spraying air freshener everywhere and vacuuming because—he doesn’t know. He has too much energy and nowhere to put it. He’s considering dusting off his dresser when he hears a knock on the door: swings it open to see Dejun, who sniffs the air and squints suspiciously at him, slipping past him to squint more suspiciously at his room.

“Hello to you too,” says Yangyang. “You know I was expecting like, wow, we haven’t hung out for a week; isn’t that crazy; I really missed you—”

“A week isn’t that long,” replies Dejun flatly, still scrutinizing the floor. The apples of his cheeks are red. “Is Jaemin a neat freak or something?”

“What?” Yangyang blinks. “I don’t know. Why?”

Dejun looks at him like he’s an idiot. “You’re cleaning.”

“I clean all the time,” says Yangyang defensively. Dejun keeps staring. “I clean sometimes,” he amends. “I just wanted to do something other than study. What’s Jaemin got to…”

Ah, he realizes. He never told Dejun the date sucked. And he kind of still doesn’t want to—if Dejun has a hot boyfriend now and all Yangyang has to share is news about striking out, he’ll… he doesn’t know. Feel pretty bad. But Dejun’s still studying him expectantly, eyebrows raised in the way that makes him look kind of like a cartoon: pinched together, arched upward. The longer Yangyang stays quiet the weirder it gets and the dumber Dejun looks, which is funny but not enough for him to avoid saying, “We’re not—it didn’t work out.”

Dejun’s face goes through at least three different shifts: his brows knit down, confused, then his lips part, then his mouth twitches upward—downward—upward again. “That’s,” he says, then, smoothing his expression out again: “That sucks, man; I’m sorry.”

Ah, Yangyang thinks again, his heart sparking with realization. Something feels weird about the way Dejun’s looking at him—something feels weird in a very familiar way, but he can’t let himself read into it. “Doesn’t suck that much,” he says aloud with a shrug. “I mean. I wasn’t, like, super into him or anything, so, yeah.” He clears his throat. “How was—your thing? With Jaehyun?”

Dejun smiles properly then, his eyebrows still knitted together. “Did I tell you his name?”

“Guanheng mentioned it. When we called.” Yangyang cringes—that doesn’t really make him sound less insane. But Dejun doesn’t call him on it, even though he looks like he really wants to.

Instead he says, “It was nice. I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again, though; he’s not really who I’m looking for.”

“Oh,” says Yangyang. He doesn’t ask who Dejun’s looking for because he’s afraid of the answer. “That’s—um. I’m sorry to hear that.”

At that, Dejun laughs: cackles, really, high-pitched and wheezing. He’s so stupid. Yangyang can’t stop looking at him. “Since when do you talk like that,” he says, still grinning as he takes a seat on Yangyang’s bed—on his bed, not the couch where they always sit when they’re playing something. “Feels like I’m talking to customer service.”

“Shut up,” Yangyang breathes a moment late, his brain still stuck on Dejun on his bed. Yangyang’s seen him like this a million times before, on a million different nights. He’s leaning back against his forearms, his face open and bright. He looks like he always does here: comfortable. Kissable. Yangyang could curve down and take his mouth just like that, until he’s lying flat on the bed and moaning, until Yangyang can slide a hand between between his thighs and—

“Uh,” he says out loud, scrambling for any excuse. “You—like, since things didn’t work out for either of us. Probably means we haven’t… practiced enough. Right?”

Dejun’s smile falters. “Since things didn’t work out?” he asks. He seems… hurt, maybe, his mouth dipping into a real frown for a moment, though Yangyang can’t imagine why; even if he was misreading the signals, surely he hasn’t become so gross over the last week and a half that Dejun’s insulted at even the thought of touching him. He fights the urge to run to the bathroom mirror and make sure.

“We don’t—have to,” he says, haltingly, after a few more seconds of silence. “I was just—I didn’t—”

“No,” interrupts Dejun hastily, and Yangyang’s heart drops, but then he adds: “We can. We should.”

Yangyang stares like an idiot. Dejun raises his eyebrows. The uncertainty from before is gone, replaced by the same half-lidded look he wore in the practice room. “Well,” he says, his voice low and liquid smooth. Another performance, Yangyang realizes, though he’s not sure how to transform it into something real and he’s—sort of still really affected, anyway. “Do you want to or not?”

“Yes. Yeah,” says Yangyang, almost tripping over his feet in the four steps it takes to get to his bed. Dejun snickers, but it melts into silence as soon as Yangyang cups his cheek—presses his thumb against his bottom lip. It’s pushing it for practice kissing but Dejun doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are wide now, pupils dilating already, and before Yangyang can so much as think about teasing, Dejun opens his mouth and lets his thumb slip inside, goes at it with little kitten licks until Yangyang curses and replaces it with two fingers.

He’s messy and showy, hollowing his cheeks, letting spit coat Yangyang’s fingers as he gazes up at him through his lashes, whining maybe a little sooner than he needs to when Yangyang presses them in deeper. “You—you’re so,” says Yangyang, trying to come up with words, and then he gives up and pulls his fingers away—has a minor aneurysm as Dejun sways upward to chase them—leans in for a real kiss, finally, Dejun’s mouth sweet and open and waiting for him, for him.

It’s stupid how little they need the practice. Yangyang feels like he knows the map of Dejun’s mouth by heart, now, like he’d recognize it blind. He falls onto the bed and only barely manages to avoid crushing Dejun. Brackets his shoulders between his forearms. Slips his knee between his thighs. Kisses him so desperately it’s embarrassing, too bruising, too eager, except Dejun’s kissing back just as hard. Their teeth clack together. It hurts him, so it should hurt Dejun, but instead of complaining Dejun just laughs and tilts Yangyang’s jaw to fix it and Yangyang feels something electric shoot up his spine.

They make it what might be minutes or hours or days kissing just like that, neither of them moving further than hands wandering under shirts and mouths pressing against jawlines, throats, back up to each other’s. Dejun’s making good on his promise from last time, sucking bruises along the line of Yangyang’s throat, dipping down to his collarbone and then to a spot under his ear that makes him melt. Yangyang could probably do this for another few years, memorizing the way Dejun arches toward him every time he so much as grazes his pec, but when he shifts he feels Dejun’s bulge against his thigh—hears Dejun make a strangled, high noise.

“Ah,” Yangyang breathes, pulling back. Dejun looks somewhere between wanting and panicked. His lower lip is caught between his teeth, and when he lets it go it’s a dark red.

“Just—you can ignore it,” he says, “you don’t have to—we can stop—”

Yangyang worms his hand down between them and palms Dejun’s front—hisses when Dejun whimpers, bucks up and then away. “Like this?” He presses his hand down again, tentatively at first and then a little harder. Starts moving it, slowly. “Is this good?”

Dejun rocks against him. He’s shuddering already. Yangyang wonders if he’s always this sensitive and hopes, impossibly, that it’s just for him. “Yangyang,” he says, and it’s obviously meant to be a warning but it comes out as a needy thing.

“If you don’t want to,” Yangyang says, his hand slipping under Dejun’s shirt, to his navel, down a little lower. His mouth catches the shell of Dejun’s ear. He feels Dejun’s choked off moan more than he hears it. “If you don’t want to, I’ll stop. Do you—do you want to?”

Dejun wrenches his head away. “I—I want—you don’t have to,” he says, helpless, which is enough of an answer on its own.

He’s staying carefully still now. Yangyang can’t stand it, so he lets his hand slip even lower: under the elastic of Dejun’s briefs to hear him inhale, sharp. “It’s okay,” Yangyang murmurs, dropping his head, scraping his teeth against Dejun’s neck, feeling him shiver against him, “let me, I want to, please. You want it too, right?”

“Shut up,” Dejun breathes, but he’s flushed all the way down his throat. He’s so pretty. Yangyang sort of feels like he’s dreaming. “Let—let me—” He yanks down Yangyang’s sweatpants with one hand, clumsily pulls down his boxers, too. Spits onto his hand and then fits it around Yangyang’s dick. Breathes out a short laugh when Yangyang buries his face into the crook of Dejun’s shoulder—another one when he twists his hand on the downstroke, starts running it along his length, quick and precise, and Yangyang makes a sound like he’s dying. Dejun’s hand is so small around him; he didn’t even know that was a turn-on until now. “Good?”

Dejun could snap his dick off and Yangyang would probably still think it was the best thing he’d ever experienced. Instead of saying that he just replies, his voice low, shaking, revealing, “Yeah—s’good, s’perfect, you’re—fuck—” He barely manages to take Dejun in his hand and start stroking him, too, until Dejun’s movements get sloppy, until he’s tipping his head back against the pillow, until he’s letting out high, breathy noises that Yangyang swallows in another kiss.

This is the most he’ll ever get but he’s still greedy enough to want more. He wants—Dejun’s pants all the way off, his briefs gone with his too-baggy sweater, his body bare for Yangyang to hold. He wants to be in Dejun’s mouth. He wants Dejun in his mouth. He wants to take his time with him, until Dejun’s tearing up, until he’s begging; he wants everything now, impatient and dirty and quick. He wants to curl up around him, fall asleep together instead of next to each other, kiss him awake the next day.

He stops thinking about it—rucks Dejun’s shirt up, uses his free hand to thumb at one nipple and then the other until Dejun’s chanting his name. They’re thrusting into each other’s hands more than anything else now, uncoordinated and messy. They’re not kissing so much as panting into each other’s mouths. It’s probably the hottest thing Yangyang’s done in his life. “I think I’m,” Dejun gasps, “I’m close, ‘m gonna—”

“Me too,” says Yangyang. He sounds humiliatingly wrecked from a handjob, but Dejun doesn’t sound much better, so it’s fine. “I—Dejun—”

“C’mon,” Dejun says, like he’s not as far gone, rutting up against Yangyang’s hand, his thigh, the jut of his hip. He presses a kiss to Yangyang’s cheek, slightly off-center and just sweet enough to make him delusionally hopeful. “I got you, baby, c’mon.”

The pet name is all it takes. Yangyang muffles his cry against Dejun’s shoulder, biting down hard enough that the bruise will last for days. His come splatters over their exposed stomachs, catches on Dejun’s sweater, Yangyang’s shirt. Before he can regain his bearings and realize that’s gross Dejun’s coming too: eyes screwed shut, eyelashes damp, lips parted into a perfect shape. Yangyang wishes he could take a picture. He wishes he knew how to paint so he could fucking—hang it on the walls somewhere. Put it in a museum.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says as soon as he catches his breath, his brain still apparently kilometers behind his mouth. “When you come. You’re just so…”

Dejun doesn’t preen this time. Instead his face shutters, and he rolls out and away from Yangyang. “I’m gonna clean up,” he says. His voice is flat like it always is when he’s trying not to raise it. Yangyang fucks up a lot, but he can’t begin to figure out how he did this time. “Do you mind if I use your restroom?”

“Since when have you asked?” Yangyang asks. He frowns. “Why are you—” Before he can finish his question Dejun’s disappeared into the bathroom.

Dejun’s been annoyed at him before—Dejun spends as much time at least mildly annoyed at him as he spends not annoyed, honestly—but usually he’s an open book. If he isn’t directly complaining about exactly what Yangyang did wrong he’s gesturing around it, making a face Yangyang can figure out within seconds. He was never as unreadable as he has been since they first kissed, but since then it’s like Yangyang doesn’t know him at all.

Yangyang closes his eyes—spends ten minutes wiping himself down and wondering if he’s lost his best friend, if he’s been losing his best friend for weeks and not noticing because—because he wanted a quick fuck. Because he wanted at all. Because he’s wanted more than he could ever get forever now.

By the time Dejun emerges Yangyang still isn’t sure what to say. Everything’s too honest in a way that there’s no coming back from: sorry, this was all a dumb excuse so I could kiss you once. Sorry, I’m probably in love with you, so that’s why I’ve been weird. We can just move on, though; it’s cool.

He doesn’t have to say any of it, though, because Dejun perches on the couch, just like usual. Stares at the floor, his entire face trembling, and now he’s easy to read but in a way that hurts to look at—shoulders hunched inward, hands clasped in his lap, mouth set in an unsteady line like he’s not sure whether to cry or yell. Finally, he says, “I know this isn’t serious for you, but you don’t have to make fun of me.”

Yangyang says, his voice cracking halfway through: “What?”

“It’s mean,” Dejun continues. He’s still staring at the floor. It takes all of Yangyang’s self-control not to walk over and start shaking him by the shoulders. “And it’s confusing. Sometimes you really sound like you mean it and it’s fucking with me; it’s not fair; this isn’t like anything else where you can just—just joke around like that—”

“What,” says Yangyang again. Dejun’s eyes snap to him. “What was I… what kind of shit do you think I’m joking about? Why would I even joke about—”

“You joke about complimenting me all the time—and you said,” Dejun says, his voice rising now, and Yangyang feels a hot flash of relief because at least this is familiar, “you didn’t want to go that far. With me. Just practice. And I guess that changed because—because it’s really been awhile or something and you’re desperate now—”

“You think I’d just use you like—”

“You said you’d just use me like that,” Dejun interrupts. “Because it’s not a huge deal. Because we’re bros. And because I’m—I’m not important, like that. So sorry for reading into what you said out loud.”

Yangyang gapes at him like a fish. You are the most important person in my life is definitely way too intense and also, like, not exactly true, because his mom probably ranks a bit higher, but it’s all he can come up with right now. And Yangyang might have been less than totally honest, but if everything honest he can say sounds like that, what other choice did he have? Shouldn’t Dejun trust that he’s not totally fucking around with him, anyway? Doesn’t he know him better than that?

He’s good at expressing his emotions when he’s frustrated with anyone else. He’s good at breaking it down methodically, at sending a long message explaining what exactly he’s annoyed about and how they can move forward if it’s serious, at not letting his temper get the best of him in the moment. He’s even-keeled even at the worst of times; it’s served him well for years.

Except with Dejun, who gets under his skin without even trying, who makes him impulsive and irrational when he is. Which is why Yangyang ends up snapping, “If you think I’m joking about even thinking you look nice, why do you keep coming back anyway? That’s—that’s just pathetic.”

Dejun’s mouth snaps shut.

He doesn’t lunge at Yangyang like he half-expects him to—like he wants him to, so they can just fight it out and make up and stop being weird. He doesn’t even yell back. Instead he retreats into his sleeves. He blinks furiously; he always does when he’s trying not to cry. Yangyang deflates instantly, but before he can apologize, Dejun begins, “I just wanted…”

He shakes his head: once, twice. “I was being stupid,” he says. “I guess I hoped—I misunderstood a few things, too. Sorry.” One time Yangyang had been outside Dejun’s classroom while a particularly harsh professor tore into his composition. The tone Dejun had used in response—quiet, chastened, defeated instead of earnestly apologetic—was so unlike him it had scared Yangyang a little; he’d called Kun up to encourage Dejun just to make sure it stopped.

It’s the same tone he’s using now. Yangyang says, feebly, “You don’t have to say sorry,” which isn’t the right thing to say at all, isn’t even close to enough, but I’m in love with you keeps trying to claw its way out of his throat and this is all that’s stopping it.

Dejun smiles: a twitchy, halfhearted thing. “Okay. I’m gonna—go. See you later.”

“Dejun,” blurts Yangyang as he’s about to leave. Dejun turns around, cocking his head. His hair’s falling into his eyes. Yangyang wants to brush it away so badly he has to curl his hands into fists, dig his nails into the meat of his palm. “I—I really wasn’t joking. About thinking you looked…” The word beautiful catches on his tongue, threatens to choke him. “About thinking you looked good.” I love you, he thinks, I’m in love with you; I love you; I’m acting like this because I can’t tell you I love you—

“Sure,” says Dejun, gently, as if he’s placating a child. Putting up with a white lie. He lets the door fall shut behind him. Yangyang stares after him until his eyes start to hurt.

+ + +

“You’re an idiot,” says Renjun.

“Hey.”

“If you wanted someone to be nice about it, you should’ve asked Kun-ge.” Yangyang can’t really argue with that: he did consider asking Kun for advice, but Kun’s really close to Dejun, which means he probably already knows, and even if he’d make an honest effort to stay neutral Yangyang’s sure he’d be quietly disappointed in him, which is more than he can handle right now.

So he’s eating shitty cafeteria lunch between classes with Renjun, who’s openly disappointed in him instead. “I, like,” he begins. “All I could think of saying was that I was in love with him, which is—it’s not—you can’t just say that.”

“Have you met him?” Renjun asks, dead serious. “Have you seen the movies he watches? If you said you were in love with him during a fight he’d probably propose to you on the spot.”

Yangyang pauses and considers it. It is sort of the most cliche romance drama move out there. He’s pretty sure he’s seen Dejun sniffling to that exact type of scene at least twenty times before. “Oh,” he says, imagining a world where he’d caught Dejun by the wrist, said you don’t understand; I’m in love with you, and then they’d tumbled into bed together in a way that mattered this time, Dejun’s eyes shining like they always do when Yangyang says something sentimental enough to catch him off-guard.

“Um,” he says. “I didn’t do that. So.” He drums his fingers against the table. “And I don’t even know that he… likes me, or whatever. So if it freaked him out, then he wouldn’t want to talk to me, and I really can’t—”

“Oh my god,” says Renjun. “You’re actually an idiot.”

“Hey.”

“You said you jerked each other off,” he says. Yangyang’s ears burn.

“I know he, like, probably thinks I’m hot,” here, he ignores Renjun’s incredulous scoff of probably, “but it’s not the same as like. You know. Like if it’s just casual for him and it’s not for me I can’t—I can’t do that.”

Renjun picks at his food for twenty seconds in silence. “When,” he asks, his face contorted like it’s paining him that he even has to, “has Dejun ever done anything casually?”

Yangyang opens and closes his mouth. “Maybe this was the first time?” he tries. Renjun hurls a piece of beef at him, and he only narrowly dodges. “I mean—I was the one who started it. And he was going on dates after we’d, like…”

“So were you.”

“That’s different.”

“You are so stupid,” says Renjun. “It’s kind of impressive.” He pinches his nose. “He’s been turning people down since you guys met. He only agreed to go out with Jaehyun after you went out with Jaemin—which was dumb, by the way, and I would’ve told you it was if you asked me—and he kissed you before your date .”

Oh. Right. Yangyang’s still having trouble rationalizing that one.

“If he liked me, he should’ve just told me,” he mumbles. Renjun doesn’t even dignify this with a response. “Not like it matters now, anyway; he’s not even talking to me.” It’s been a week and a half since they’ve seen each other, which isn’t that long, but even during the week Yangyang spent basically just going to classes and studying, he’d caught Dejun for a minute here and there around campus. The college of business is right by the college of music, and Yangyang’s usually in one of the music buildings half the time anyway—for meaningful exploits like dance crew, violin practice, and dicking around until Kun shoos him out of there—so it’s practically impossible to not run into each other.

Unless he’s being actively avoided. Which he is. Which is fine.

“You’ve barely been in the music building this week,” Renjun points out when he explains it. “Have you tried to talk to him?”

Yangyang stays silent. Renjun flicks another piece of beef at him.

“Idiot,” he says for what must be the eightieth time. “Someone has to make the first move. You know that.”

“I know; I just—” Usually Dejun’s meaner during arguments, but he’s also the first to fix it. The last time they fought—really, really fought—they hadn’t spoken for three days, and then Dejun had texted him asking if he wanted to watch a shitty horror movie he wasn’t brave enough to watch on his own, and that was it.

Yangyang was meaner this time, though. And this probably warrants, like, a talk, at least. So he just stares at his hands and repeats, “I know.”

Renjun makes a displeased little noise—leans forward and pats Yangyang’s shoulder twice, awkwardly. “You’re unbelievably stupid,” he says, and Yangyang frowns before he adds, “but it’ll be fine. It’s only Dejun. He’s probably just embarrassed. Just—you know. Talk it out. And be honest this time so it doesn’t spiral into… whatever this is.”

Yangyang considers being honest—actually honest, I’ve wanted you forever and I was just making up excuses so we could make out honest—and sort of feels like dying.

Then he considers never talking to Dejun again and feels more like dying. So he steels himself, makes a silent promise to actually follow through no matter how much he wants to pass out when he does, and says, “Yeah. I will.” He nods, twice. “I will,” he says again, with more force, and stands up with his tray. “Right now. Thanks, man. I’ll see you at the showcase?”

“I’m pretty sure Dejun has a study group right now,” replies Renjun, but Yangyang’s already on his way out.

+ + +

Dejun does have a study group. Yangyang hangs around the lounge trying to be discreet for around fifteen minutes before he loses his nerve and heads out. Then he thinks: he’ll text him, obviously, and they’ll meet up tomorrow for coffee or something, and he’ll confess and it’ll either all be fine forever or it’ll be about the same level of not fine it is now.

Then he doesn’t text him. Or meet up for coffee. Instead he remembers finals are next week and he has about a million assignments he’s somehow managed to leave until the last minute even with his full week of Dejun-induced study lockdown, and he forgets about friends and romance and the sounds Dejun made when he was under him altogether. Mostly. Kind of. He tries, for maximum efficiency.

He emerges on the other side of finals victorious—or with an okay to pretty good final transcript and a that was an excellent presentation from one professor, which is close enough that he’ll count it. And now that it’s over, he can call Dejun and—

“Yangyang,” says Ten sweetly, throwing an arm around him as soon as he steps into the courtyard. “You haven’t been to the studio in a bit, have you?”

“Um,” Yangyang replies. He remembers the three missed dance practices and the showcase in three days, then begins to feel like Ten might be a horror movie demon. “I got… distracted? By my grades? Haha. Finals week. You know how it gets.”

“I know something happened with you and Dejun,” Ten says, ignoring the way Yangyang chokes on his spit, “and I’ll ask for details in three days, but I really could not care less right now. We’re spending today, tomorrow, and the day after in the practice room. If you do well I’ll buy you dinner; if you don’t we’re staying until midnight. Sound good?”

Yangyang knows how Ten gets, which means they’re staying until midnight either way. He doesn’t really have the leverage to point that out, though, and skipping out on practice this close to the showcase is a huge dick move even if he has the choreo down, so he just swallows, says, “Yeah. Got it,” and does his best to put Dejun out of his mind again.

It works for around six hours—three of them the group practice, where Yangyang mercifully manages to pull his weight, and three more individual practice with Ten, whose eye is sharp enough to catch every minor misstep and make Yangyang redo it until he legitimately can’t think about anything except his footwork during the sixth eight count. Then they hit the seventh hour and Ten says, “Okay, break. I’ll order food.” Yangyang slumps onto the floor, boneless. Ten snorts and lies down alongside him.

“So,” says Ten after five minutes of silence, right when Yangyang thinks he’s becoming one with the floor. “I know I said I’d wait three days, but now I’m bored.”

“Did Kun-ge tell you?”

“Kun knows?” Ten asks. “Bastard.” He pauses. “Wait, you told Kun before me? Bastard.”

“No,” says Yangyang hastily, because if Kun and Ten get into another passive-aggressive non-argument it’ll complicate an already unsalvageable situation. “Only—I only told Renjun. I just thought Dejun would probably tell him, and you asked me about it, so.”

“Oh,” says Ten, placated. “No, baby, I just have eyes. You guys are attached at the hip and suddenly you’re not talking for three weeks?”

“Not a baby,” Yangyang replies automatically, and then he remembers Dejun calling him that and flushes. When he looks over Ten’s eyes are gleaming. “Don’t say whatever you’re about to say. Please.”

“I’ve known you would fuck since last year,” he says, and Yangyang groans. “Everyone did. It’s better that you’re hearing it from me. I thought you did a couple months ago, though; you were always staring at each other.”

Yangyang sits up. “He was staring at me, too?” Ten’s smile is turning a little too amused, so he clears his throat and lies back down. “I mean. We didn’t. And—and we haven’t.”

Ten hums. “You’ve done something, though?”

“Kissed a couple times.” Yangyang glances up at the ceiling. “A little more. I thought—he thought it was casual.”

“Since when—”

“Has Dejun done anything casually, I know; Renjun said so too.” He fidgets with his sleeve. “He said he didn’t really have anyone he was looking for, though, like, romantically, so I just thought… like. He was just bored and horny. Or whatever. Because I—I said it was practice. So it was cool. But last time I called him beautiful and he, like, totally freaked out on me, and it’s not like he doesn’t know he looks good; it’s Dejun; it’s just the fact that I said he was pretty that’s like, totally off-limits or something because he always thinks I’m making fun of him even when I’m not—”

“You do make fun of him a lot,” says Ten, maybe the president of the Let’s Make Fun of Dejun Club. When Yangyang glares, he grins. “I’m not trying to get into his pants, so it’s different, and I call him pretty all the time; you don’t. So obviously he’d think it was weird. You said—it was practice?”

“Like,” Yangyang replies, sitting up for real this time if only so he can gesture more as he defends himself, “you know. To hone our technique for when we meet other people. And want to kiss them for real.”

“Uh huh,” Ten says, slowly. “And you said that instead of just telling him you liked him.” This is rich, Yangyang thinks, coming from the guy who never talks about his feelings and seems to exclusively flirt through psychological warfare, but he’s a little scared that if he says this out loud Ten will make him dance again.

“If I said I liked him, he might—not like me,” he mumbles instead. It always sounds so stupid to say out loud, but it’s true: even with Renjun’s dubious assurance, there’s a chance Dejun might not like him, especially not as much as Yangyang likes him, and if he’s scared of how much Yangyang does it could ruin everything. It already has ruined everything. “And then it would all get fucked up. But I had to… I just wanted… like, just once. You know?”

Ten’s gaze softens. He sits up and knocks Yangyang over the head, not unkindly. “Silly baby,” he says. “Dejunnie’s head over heels for you; everyone knows that.”

Yangyang reddens again. “I don’t know that.”

“Even if he weren’t,” Ten continues, “it’s not like he’d ever stop talking to you. When’s the last time he stopped talking to anyone?”

“Nobody else…” Yangyang begins, but he stops. It’s not like nobody else has ever confessed to Dejun before. Yangyang was literally there when Dejun rejected Mark from his accounting class, and they still hang out all the time.

The truth is: nobody else is as close to Dejun as Yangyang. Definitely not Mark from his accounting class, but also not Renjun, not Kun, not even Guanheng. Rejecting a confession from a guy you play basketball with sometimes is different from rejecting your best friend. Knowing the guy you play basketball with sometimes thinks you’re hot is different from knowing your best friend’s in love with you.

“Nobody else is me,” he finishes, finally, and he hopes Ten gets it instead of calling him an egomaniac.

“That,” says Ten, “is a point in your favor, because he likes you.” He pinches Yangyang’s ear, laughing when Yangyang bats him away. “I’m gonna sound old like Kun for a second, okay? Just hear me out anyway.” Yangyang wisely avoids saying Ten is kind of old like Kun. “I know… it’s easy to run away from things. Or avoid a problem until it goes away. But that doesn’t help anything, you know, it’s ruined a million relationships for me, and—you know how Dejun is. He likes when you’re direct. Sometimes if you don’t tell him exactly how it is, he’ll miss it.”

“I did tell him exactly how it was,” says Yangyang miserably, remembering how Dejun had looked when he’d called him beautiful: completely blank, then hurt. “And he still missed it.”

“You were lying to each other for months before that,” replies Ten. “I don’t have to tell you that doesn’t count.” He stands up: claps Yangyang on the back and then helps him to his feet. “Let’s practice for just another hour and then we’ll head out, all right?”

“No,” says Yangyang. He dusts off his sweatpants. “Don’t go easy on me because you, like, feel bad. We’ll stay until midnight.”

Ten grins at him, then, and says, “If you brought some of this work ethic to your relationships…”

He ducks away when Yangyang swats at him. It still makes him feel better.

+ + +

Yangyang is absolutely not supposed to spend the hours leading up to the winter showcase freaking out about Dejun, but in his defense, he can hear him singing in the next room and it’s really not helping his nerves. Ten bangs on the wall. “The walls are thinner than you think they are,” he calls. “Your voice is gorgeous, but you’re not really working at our tempo.”

A swear. A cough. “Uh—I—” Dejun stutters out, and that’s the first time Yangyang’s heard his speaking voice in weeks . His heart thrums. He thinks he’s losing his mind. “Sorry. I’m pretty much done, anyway; I’ll just go do my makeup.”

“Oh, we’re heading backstage in twenty,” Ten says. “We’ll see you there?”

“Uh,” says Dejun again. For a moment, there’s silence, and then: “Yeah, I’ll see you. Sorry!”

As soon as they hear the door in the next room click shut, Yangyang begins: “I can—”

“No, you’re not getting extra practice in alone,” Ten interrupts before he can finish. “One more group run-through, then one solo run for you and one for Sicheng, then we’ll leave before you tire yourself out.”

Yangyang resists the urge to kick at the floor because he’s not a child and he’s supposed to stop running away from things. “Fine.”

“Fine,” replies Ten with a smile. Sicheng throws him a look that’s frankly not at all as bewildered as he’d like it to be. Yangyang pretends not to see it.

The group practice goes smoothly. Yangyang’s solo goes even more smoothly; Ten’s gone from approving nods to joking wolf-whistles, which is consistently how he knows he’s stage ready. Sicheng does well, too, executing some kind of insane flip that makes his head spin a little, but Yangyang’s too busy being anxious about around eighty-four things to really pay attention to anything. He sends him a silent apology as they all stand up and get ready to leave, Ten counting heads like he’s leading a kindergarten field trip and not a group of adults.

On the walk to the auditorium, Sicheng gently jostles him. “Nervous?”

“No,” Yangyang says, but it comes out shaky. He tries again. “Not really. Just, like. You know. It’s a big fucking showcase, and it’s my first solo, or whatever.”

Yangyang knows Sicheng’s not talking about the showcase—knows that Sicheng knows he knows—but he’s banking on him not pushing it, which he doesn’t. Instead he just looks at him, which is maybe worse, because now he feels guilty for dodging the question. “You’ll be fine,” says Sicheng after a minute. He slings an arm around Yangyang. “And you’re probably overthinking it, so there’s no need to look like you’re gonna throw up.”

Yangyang tries to school his face into a smile. Sicheng snorts but doesn’t say anything else, which leaves Yangyang to silently wonder since when literally everybody in his immediate circle found out and how much they know. Has he been that obvious? Has—has Dejun been obvious?

“Still look like you’re gonna throw up,” says Sicheng as they head backstage.

“Shut up; no I don’t,” says Yangyang, but he catches himself in the mirror and—he sort of does, really, pale, wide-eyed, with his mouth strung into a tight line. “Um. I’ll do a couple breathing exercises or something.”

“Wow,” says Renjun, looking over from where he’s doing Mark from accounting’s makeup. “You look awful.”

“No I don’t,” Yangyang repeats. He shrugs off his shirt and buttons on their stage outfit—loose-sleeved, white and shimmering—and he gets wrapped up enough in checking his angles as Renjun heckles him that he forgets he’s anxious until he hears a familiar voice.

“Who are we booing?” asks Dejun curiously. He glances at Yangyang—stills, just for a moment, wearing that strange, blank expression. His eyes drop from his face to his chest and then fly back up. He’s got something flowy and dark on, and for a second Yangyang thinks we look like a matching set before remembering he literally is part of a matching set with eight other guys, none of them Dejun.

He has to get it together. “Me,” he says. Casual, he thinks, and it’s so ridiculous it almost makes him laugh. “But obviously it’s because Renjun’s jealous of my swag.”

“Stop saying stuff like that,” Renjun groans.

Dejun’s mouth quirks into a smile, tentative. He’s wearing some kind of gloss. Yangyang feels like his brain’s melting out of his ears a little. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

“Hey,” Yangyang complains, and they’re already slipping back into an easy rhythm. “C’mon. I look good.”

“You look fine,” Dejun admits, rolling his eyes, and then his face twists in a peculiar way and he looks away. “You guys are up first, right? Break a leg.”

Yangyang knows Dejun’s had the entire program memorized since the day it was finalized, but he allows him the false uncertainty. “Yeah,” he says. “And you’re last?” Which means Yangyang can’t talk to him—really talk to him, anyway—until after the showcase, probably until after the post-showcase afterparty they’ll all be attending, maybe until the next morning, since Dejun’s prone to overestimating how good he is at holding his liquor.

He realizes he’s been silent for too long. “Um. You too. I’ll—be watching.” Which is a stupid thing to say because everyone will be watching; they’ll all be parked in their assigned seats until the show is over, but Dejun’s eyes are still wide and a little nervous.

“I’m glad,” he says. Then an opening: “Ten won’t mind if I tag along with you guys to the afterparty, right? Donghyuck was my ride, but he’s skipping it.”

“Yes,” blurts Yangyang. He cringes. “I mean—no. He totally won’t mind. We have a little extra space, anyway; you can sit with me. Us.” He’s sure if he turns around he’ll see Renjun making a face, so he doesn’t.

“Okay,” says Dejun, and he laughs. “I’m gonna go, um. Talk to Guanheng. I’ll see you.”

“Uh—see you,” Yangyang calls, a second late.

Renjun’s back to touching up Mark’s eyelids now, but without looking up he says, “He didn’t sound mad, so you can stop shitting yourself.”

Yangyang fidgets with his sleeve. “Do you think he wants to just, uh.” He glances over at Mark and hopes he hasn’t picked up any Mandarin. “Do you think he wants to pretend nothing happened?” He was half-expecting—well, mostly expecting—Dejun to still be angry or to avoid him altogether or to at least pull him aside to talk, like Yangyang was planning. Something big. This is just the usual. Or: would be the usual if Yangyang could act like a normal person.

“I’m not a mind reader,” Renjun replies unhelpfully, backing up from Mark and clicking his tongue against his teeth. “If you want to ignore it, ignore it. If you don’t, don’t.”

“Thanks,” says Yangyang flatly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but ignore it,” says Ten. One day Yangyang’s going to ask how he always manages to pop up out of thin air. “At least until after our stage. Then you can stop. Soundcheck’s in five, but I think I can handle that alone, so there’s no need to come with.”

Yangyang does not hypothesize that Ten wants to go alone because Kun leads the tech crew because he’s being polite. Instead he says, “Yeah, cool. I’ll sit with everyone else, then.”

“Perfect,” Ten says with his brightest smile, and then he disappears again—how does he do that?

Whatever. There are bigger issues to deal with right now, like studiously not thinking about Dejun and if he does or doesn’t want to talk about anything. He mentally runs through his routine five times, fucks around with Sicheng for ten minutes, and then sort of just… sits there. Not thinking about anything. If Dejun’s wide eyes and smiling mouth pop into his head a few times he puts them out of his mind.

Ten gives them some kind of pep talk while they’re rallied behind the curtain. It’s probably really inspiring; even Sicheng looks a little misty. Yangyang barely hears a word until Ten claps him on the back and says, “You’ll be fine. Focus for now.”

Yangyang clears his head. Nods. Gets into formation, turns his brain off, and lets muscle memory take over as the cheers begin.

He’s not, like, dedicating his entire life to performance like Ten or Dejun, but he still does really, really like being onstage. Enough that he forgets about everything else while he’s there: focuses on what expressions to wear at which times, at keeping his moves precise and clean. Dimly, he hears the crowd hush at the right time, erupt into cheers when Ten does something crazy in the center, but it’s secondary.

Until it’s him alone, Ten shooting him twin thumbs up and mouthing you got this before he and everyone else disappear behind the curtains. He can’t see the crowd properly through the blinding spotlights in his eyes, but he knows everyone’s watching—he can hear whistles and hollers, probably from Guanheng, and then a harsh shh, probably from Renjun.

The music begins, slow, mostly bass, and then rolls into something quicker. Yangyang keeps time easily. Keeps it simple: remembers his routine, counts the beats like he practiced, lets himself feel it in earnest as it approaches the climax. Closes his eyes when he has to, opens them to look out at the crowd, gaze dark and heated like he worked on for weeks.

It’s good. He knows it’s good because the audience barely waits until the music’s tapered off to erupt into cheers, thunderous. He’s flushed with pride and exertion: does a dramatic, deep bow and then practically skips offstage, hurries into the audience so that he can catch Sicheng’s solo in time.

“You did amazing,” Ten whispers as Yangyang settles in beside him. It’s rare to get praise so direct from him. Yangyang tries to look cool about it, but he can feel how wide his smile is. Ten throws him a look so fond it embarrasses him a little and ruffles his hair.

After Sicheng’s performance, Yangyang looks around to see where Dejun’s sitting—one row ahead on the other side of the auditorium. He’s mouthing along to the lyrics, face tipped up toward the stage, fully focused like he always is on everything.

“Dude,” says Ten as Kim Doyoung from the program Yangyang keeps checking on smiles and bows. “Just wait three hours.”

“I—I’m not,” Yangyang stammers. Ten raises his eyebrows, and Yangyang gives up. “Okay. Yeah.” He manages to sit still and pay attention. Mostly. Sort of. Okay, so he’s kind of just thinking about what the hell to say to get Dejun to—he doesn’t know. To go out with him feels childish and to love him feels insane but they’re all that comes to mind.

Dejun likes honesty. Dejun likes being spoiled. Dejun likes stupid gestures straight out of romance movies. Yangyang is, on a good day, capable of one of these things, and usually it’s just by paying for his meals like he pays for everyone else’s meals, but—he has to try, right?

Right. As soon as the lights go back up and INTERMISSION gets projected in big white letters over the curtains, Yangyang stands up. “I’m gonna—run to the store super quick,” he says, ducking out before Ten can do more than say what.

It’s a five minute jog to the grocery store, which means it’s a three minute sprint. It would probably be more romantic or whatever to get, like, an actual bouquet from a florist, but he’s working on extremely limited time here, so he picks out something white and green and yellow that smells pretty (he doesn’t know his flowers super well; sue him) and a box of mint chocolates to go with it.

“Um,” he says, putting both items down on the counter. “Could I—both of these. Please. Thanks.” He’s probably sweat most of his stage makeup off, and if the cashier’s extremely judgmental once-over is any indication, he definitely looks like a mess, but it’s cool.

He makes it back just as the lights dim again. Ten catches his eye and shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “When I said you should talk to him, I meant, like, a regular conversation,” he says as Yangyang sits down. “He was looking for you during the intermission.”

“What?” Yangyang asks sharply. His head snaps toward Dejun, but his eyes are already trained intently on the stage again.

“One more hour,” Ten hums. “Calm down.”

“I’m calm. Shut up.” Yangyang looks away: tries his best to pay attention to each performance. Only sees it out of the corner of his eye when Dejun slips out of his seat, hurries backstage.

“And our last piece is by Xiao Dejun, a third-year in the vocal performance program,” says Mark, clapping furiously as Dejun steps out from behind the curtains. He blinks twice as the spotlights focus in on him, gives an introductory spiel about who he is, what his piece is: all the talking Ten had thankfully done for them before their routine.

Then he starts singing. It’s always kind of jarring to see the shift—Dejun, the guy who trips over thin air and ate dog food several times, disappears, replaced by Dejun, the performer. His eyes sharpen. His tongue runs over his bottom lip during a rest, once. Calculated. Gorgeous. His voice is rich and deep and stronger every time Yangyang hears it, the fruit of insane hours in the studio and a care routine bordering on superstition.

He’s beautiful. Everything about him is so beautiful it’s ridiculous. Yangyang doesn’t know how Dejun heard him say it and thought it was a lie; every time he thinks so he feels like his chest is being torn open with the simple truth of it.

Dejun closes out on a sweet note, the music fading out behind him, gripping the microphone with his eyes closed. Even from the audience, Yangyang can see the way his lashes fan over his cheeks.

By the time he opens his eyes the audience is on their feet, cheering. Guanheng’s gotten up on his chair to roar. Yangyang knows Dejun can’t see anything through the stage lights but for a second his eyes drift to him and Yangyang lets himself believe, just for now, that they’re sharing something special.

“Don’t make that face; it’s depressing me,” says Ten. “The show’s over, you know.”

“Yeah,” says Yangyang, and then, blinking: “Right. Yeah. I’ll—um—I’ll see you in a minute.”

He ignores Ten’s laugh as he practically bolts backstage, somehow managing to juggle the absurdly large bouquet he brought—why didn’t he just go with a single rose? Has he completely lost his mind?—and the box of chocolates as he ducks around crew and lingering performers. Dejun’s laughing with Guanheng in a secluded corner of the dressing room, breathless. He looks really happy and also kind of busy. Maybe Yangyang should just—

“Hm,” says Guanheng, wearing the most maniacally shit-eating grin Yangyang’s seen from him in a while, which is saying something. “I think I hear Kun-ge calling; I should go.”

“Kun-ge’s, like, thirty meters too high for you to…” Dejun begins, but he trails off as he sees Yangyang. Guanheng laughs a hyena's laugh and claps Yangyang on the back before he makes his way out.

“Uh,” Yangyang says, all his nerve immediately leaving him. “Hi. I…”

“Are—” Dejun stares at the bouquet for what feels like ten minutes. “Are those,” he tries again, but he can’t seem to manage to get the whole question out.

“You were… like, incredible,” says Yangyang with a shaky laugh after about ten seconds of Dejun’s baffled staring. “But I knew you would be. Because you always are—and I’m being serious, so don’t ask. So I got these. Um, for you.”

Dejun glances at the floor and then back up. He’s blushing so hard he’s almost glowing. “Yangyang,” he begins.

“I mean,” Yangyang continues, because if he doesn’t get it all out right now, he’s going to backtrack and then probably combust in four days. “I didn’t get them just because you were incredible; I got them because—I wanted…” He swallows. Dejun’s mouth is parted in a way that makes him look kind of like an idiot, brows pinched incredulously. Yangyang’s heart is about to burst. Honesty, he thinks. Honesty, honesty, honesty.

“Because I like you,” he says. “Like, a lot. And it’s super embarrassing. And I get if you don’t like me, but I didn’t want—the last time, you thought I was fucking around with you, and I didn’t—like—I could never—” He forces out a laugh. It comes out short and ugly. “I asked to kiss you the first time because I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The practice thing was the only way I could figure out how. So I was just really—I was so confused that you thought I couldn’t want you, because I always have, and I think I’ve been really obvious about it because literally everyone else knows, so… yeah.”

Dejun’s eyes are practically bulging out of his head. He’s silent for a long, long moment. Yangyang’s beginning to think this might have been the worst idea in the world when he says: “If you wanted to kiss me, you should’ve just told me.”

“Ah?” replies Yangyang eloquently.

He takes a cautious step closer. “This is sweet,” he says, and part of Yangyang is still bracing for impact, the but I’m not into you like that, I’m sorry, but he continues, “but you’re so—you literally could’ve just kissed me without making up an excuse. I would’ve kissed back. And it would’ve saved a lot of time.”

“Ah?” Yangyang repeats.

Dejun rolls his eyes. “Don’t be stupid,” he says, and now he’s close enough that he has to tilt his head up a little to look him in the eye, that the only thing separating them is the bouquet. He plucks it and the chocolates out of Yangyang’s hands and sets them down on a nearby chair. “I’ve been really obvious about liking you; everyone says so.”

Yangyang’s only saved from saying ah? for the third time by Dejun’s lips against his. He’s a little hesitant this time, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Yangyang’s head and just resting there, twitching nervously. Yangyang figures the last thing he should be doing right now is letting Dejun feel nervous, so he kisses back—rests his hand against the side of Dejun’s face, tilts it so that they’re working with a better angle.

It’s unhurried, gentle. Yangyang doesn’t have to try to get as much as he can now; he has all the time in the world later. He relaxes into it. Doesn’t try to take it further, only partially because they’re still backstage. Just—kisses him to kiss him. Strokes his cheekbone with his thumb and grins like an idiot when Dejun sighs into his mouth.

When Dejun pulls back his eyes are glimmering. “This was all so,” he says, and Yangyang’s expecting something like romantic, or unreal, or perfect; also I love you, but instead he finishes with, “dramatic. I was just gonna talk to you about it in the car.”

“In the car?” Yangyang squeaks. “There’ll be like seven other people there.”

Dejun’s brows scrunch together like this is the first time the thought has occurred to him. “Oh. Right.” He blinks. “Then at the afterparty or something.” He runs his finger along the bouquet’s plastic casing, then delicately over the petal of a flower, a small smile flickering across his face. “So dumb.”

“Shut up; you love it.”

“Maybe a little,” Dejun admits. Yangyang beams so wide his cheeks ache. Dejun glances at him and ducks his head, but not before beaming back, and it’s so cute of a gesture that Yangyang’s struck with the urge to kiss him again—so he does. A quick peck. The first of millions, probably, because the more Yangyang looks at him the more he’s pretty sure he won’t have the self-control to not kiss him, like, all the time.

Dejun looks a little stunned when Yangyang pulls away. Then he leans in and kisses him back, lingering and sweet and then a little more, until Yangyang’s forgetting that they’re in public, that they have to go in five minutes, that he can’t just press Dejun against the wall until they’re both satisfied. He still does a little—pushes him back and mouths along his jaw, his throat, the sensitive spot by his ear until Dejun’s squirming away, just for a moment.

“You know,” he says, looking up at him through his lashes. “We could always just skip the afterparty.”

“Yeah?” Yangyang asks, sounding embarrassingly winded. He clears his throat. “Yeah. Let’s—let’s go to my place, then?” He wiggles his eyebrows obnoxiously. “Get a little more practice?”

“Not funny,” Dejun says, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile, but when Yangyang takes his hand, he follows.