Chapter Text
𝐈.𝐈. 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐤
It started the way most inconvenient and life altering things in Mingyu’s life started, which was to say that he did not see it coming, and he also did not prepare for it, and yet, somehow, he still walked straight into it with both arms open and a smile too big for his own good.
His literature professor had looked at him across the desk with that tired kind of patience that older men reserved for tall boys who clearly tried but not in the correct direction, and he had tapped the grade sheet once before saying that if Mingyu didn’t find someone to guide him through the midterm essays, he was going to fail the class. The professor even suggested a name, said that last year’s best student had agreed to help juniors occasionally, and that if Mingyu wanted to salvage his semester, he should talk to him.
Jeon Wonwoo.
The name was famous around campus, but it also made Mingyu feel like he had been living under a rock shaped suspiciously like his own ego. He had heard of him, of course. Everyone had. A senior who aced everything, who wrote essays professors quoted in lectures, who looked unfairly good in candid photos taken at club fairs even though he never actually joined anything; he didn’t go to parties, he didn’t accept invitations, and he didn’t show up in the kind of drunk group photos that filled social media on Friday nights. People joked that he was an urban legend, that he only existed in exam answer keys and department newsletters.
Which, in Mingyu’s defense, didn’t sound entirely untrue.
Soonyoung-hyung knew everyone, and if he didn’t know them personally, he knew their class schedules, what kind of coffee they drank and whether they had a secret hobby. So that was why Mingyu cornered him in the cafeteria with a tray balanced on one hand and desperation written all over his face.
“Hyung, I need a favor,” he said, setting the tray down with too much force so that the water in his cup sloshed dangerously.
Soonyoung looked up from his phone, squinted, then grinned. “This is about literature class, isn’t it?”
“How do you know everything?” Mingyu groaned.
“Because you have the expression of a man whose future depends on someone else’s goodwill.” The older guy leaned back. “You’re looking for Wonwoo.”
The way he said the name made it sound like he was talking about a rare artifact.
Mingyu nodded. “The professor told me to ask him for help. He said if I don’t, I’m done for. Hyung, if I fail, my mom is going to show up here personally.”
“She would,” Soonyoung said cheerfully. “Okay. He has Modern Poetry on Fridays at three. Same building as you, third floor. He leaves around four fifteen. Why are you smiling like that?”
“I’m not smiling like anything.”
“You’re planning something.”
Mingyu didn’t deny it.
By the time Friday afternoon rolled around, he was standing outside the lecture hall with four different coffees and two teas, because he had panicked in line and decided that guessing was too risky. He held the cardboard tray carefully as if he were delivering his entire sanity to someone else, which, in a way, he was, since this was either going to save his semester or humiliate him in front of a hallway full of seniors.
Students began spilling out of the classroom in clusters, talking about assignments and weekend plans. Mingyu straightened his jacket and scanned faces, and it took him less than three seconds to know which one was Jeon Wonwoo.
He had heard the descriptions before, and still none of them felt accurate enough. It was not just that he was handsome, that was way too easy. It was the way he moved through the crowd without pushing because people stepped aside for him without being asked. He wore glasses that framed his face in a way that made Mingyu think of book covers and library corners, and that also made him think that the guy was extremely hot.
The first thought that crossed Mingyu’s mind was it's genuinely unfair.
The second was how did I never see him before.
The only explanation he could come up with was that the universe had been saving this for a moment when he was already stressed and holding too many drinks.
He stepped forward before he could overthink it.
“Wonwoo-Hyung,” he called, and the word came out a little too eager.
Wonwoo paused and turned his head, eyes settling on Mingyu, then shifting to the tray in his hands.
“Yes?”
Up close, he looked even better, which felt like a personal attack.
“I’m Kim Mingyu,” he said, adjusting his grip so the cups didn’t tilt. “I’m a junior in the literature program. Professor Lee told me to find you before I ruin my academic career.”
Wonwoo blinked once, processing.
He held up the tray slightly. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I bought, uh, everything. Well, not everything, just what the last coffee shop on the corner had that looked drinkable.”
A tiny, really tiny smile appeared on Wonwoo's mouth. “That place is terrible.”
“I know,” Mingyu said immediately, relieved that he had said something right. “But I figured if you were going to reject me, at least you’d reject me with options.”
That earned him a soft huff that might have been a laugh.
“Which ones are those?” Wonwoo asked, nodding toward the cups.
“Two americanos, one latte, one caramel macchiato, and then black tea and green tea. I thought statistically speaking I had a decent chance.”
Wonwoo considered the selection for a moment, then reached out and took the black tea. “This is fine.”
Mingyu nearly glowed.
They stepped aside so the hallway could clear, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of how tall he was and how that probably looked when hovering over someone.
“Professor Lee said you helped a few juniors last year,” he began. “And I really, really need help. I’m not bad at reading, I promise, I just write like I’m explaining things to my dog.”
Wonwoo raised an eyebrow. “You explain literature to your dog?”
“He’s very supportive.”
There was a pause, where Wonwoo only sipped his tea, eyes still on Mingyu in a way that felt assessing but not unkind.
“What do you need help with exactly?”
“Essay structure. And analysis. And maybe how to not panic when I see the word thesis.” Mingyu ran a hand through his hair. “If I fail this class, I’ll have to retake it next year, and my mom will never let me forget it. She already thinks I spend too much time cooking instead of studying.”
“You cook?”
“Yes. I mean, not as a career. Just because I like feeding people. It makes me feel useful.”
That slipped out without planning, and Mingyu felt heat creep up his neck.
Wonwoo smiled again before saying with a pleased voice, “That’s useful.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
The hallway had emptied almost completely by then, and Mingyu realized with a jolt that this conversation was going better than he had dared to imagine. He had prepared himself to beg, to offer to carry books for a month, to promise to do all the printing and coffee runs. Instead, Wonwoo stood there calmly drinking the tea he had chosen.
“I know you’re probably busy,” Mingyu said quickly, because he didn’t want to take advantage of the moment. “Seniors have a lot going on, and I don’t want to be annoying. I just need someone to tell me when I’m making no sense.”
“That seems to happen often,” Wonwoo said.
“With me or in general?”
“With you, I guess."
Mingyu laughed, a little louder than intended, and then covered his mouth like that might undo it. “That was fair.”
Another sip of tea. A brief look at Mingyu’s face, then at the tray, then back again.
“Okay,” Wonwoo said.
Mingyu blinked. “Okay?”
“Give me your number.”
It took a second to register.
“You mean... Like to schedule something.”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” He almost dropped the tray. “Right. Yes. Of course.”
Balancing everything on one hand, he fumbled for his phone with the other, nearly unlocking the camera instead of the contacts app because his brain had chosen this exact moment to malfunction.
“I didn’t think it would be this easy,” he blurted before he could stop himself.
Wonwoo tilted his head before asking, “Easy?”
“I mean, not easy. Not you. Just the agreeing part. You seem very, I don't know, selective?”
“Selective?”
“That came out wrong,” Mingyu said quickly, face burning. “I just heard you don’t usually do this.”
“I don’t.”
The honesty only made him blush even harder.
“So why me?” Mingyu asked before he could reconsider, then immediately regretted it.
Wonwoo studied him for a beat. “You brought six drinks.”
Kill me now, Mingyu thought, feeling his cheeks only getting warmer.
They exchanged numbers, and he typed carefully to make sure he did not accidentally save himself as Kim Mingyoo or something equally humiliating.
“I’ll text you,” Wonwoo said. “Send me your latest essay.”
“Are you going to read it?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to judge it?”
“I will.”
Mingyu let out a long breath. “Okay. I accept my fate.”
Wonwoo’s mouth curved again, more visible this time. “Don’t dramatize.”
“I’m not dramatic,” Mingyu protested.
“You bought six drinks.”
“That was strategy.”
“I can tell it was panic.”
He couldn’t even argue with that.
As they began walking toward the stairs together, Mingyu shifted the tray so he could offer one of the coffees again.
“You’re sure you don’t want a backup,” he asked. “In case the tea disappoints you?”
“I can handle disappointment.”
“That feels like something a literature major would say.”
“I am a literature major.”
“Right. I forgot who I was talking to.”
They reached the landing, and Mingyu realized that he didn’t want this to end at the bottom of the stairs. The idea of going back to his dorm and staring at his half written essay felt unbearable now that he had something else to think about.
He slowed his steps without meaning to, adjusting the cardboard tray even though he no longer needed to. Students moved around them in loose clusters, laughter echoing faintly from below, but all of Mingyu’s focus stayed fixed on the person walking beside him.
“So,” he began, aiming for casualness and landing somewhere closer to transparent, “Sunday afternoon works for me. I can go to the library around two? Or earlier. Or later. I’m very flexible. Academically desperate people usually are.”
Wonwoo glanced at him, eyes briefly skimming over his face before returning to the stairs. “Is your dorm quiet on Sundays?”
The question caught him off guard. “Mine?”
“Yes.”
“I mean... Mostly. My roommate usually goes home for the weekend. His girlfriend lives twenty minutes away and he’s very committed.” Mingyu paused, then added quickly, “Platonically committed. I think.”
The other guy smiled once again, probably finding it funny the way Mingyu kept fumbling with his own words.
“It’s quiet,” he continued. “There’s a small common area, and my room’s not a disaster or anything. I clean. Regularly. Sometimes.”
“Then I’ll come to yours.”
“You’ll... Come to mine?” Mingyu repeated, just to make sure his brain had not invented it.
“Yes.”
“That’s fine,” he said immediately, a little too quickly. “That’s great. I’ll, um, make sure it looks like a place where studying happens.”
“It already doesn’t?”
“I mean it does. Sometimes. When I remember that I’m enrolled here.”
They reached the last few steps, and Mingyu could feel warmth creeping up his neck again. There was something about the idea of Wonwoo in his space that made his thoughts scatter. He pictured him sitting at his desk, glasses slipping down his nose while he read, maybe pushing aside the framed photo of Mingyu and his family to make room for notebooks.
“Send me the address,” Wonwoo said.
“It’s on campus.”
“I know. But I need to know your building and room number.”
“Oh. That. Right.” Mingyu nodded, feeling like a fool. “I will. And I’ll get snacks. Not from the last shitty coffee shop, I promise.”
“You don’t have to bribe me.”
“It’s not bribery. It’s hospitality.”
They stepped out into the courtyard, and Mingyu shifted his weight, reluctant to let the moment dissolve into separate directions.
“Two o’clock?” He asked.
“Two is fine.”
“Okay.”
Wonwoo studied him for a second, gaze thoughtful in a way that made him feel like he was being read line by line.
“You’re really that worried about failing?”
“Yes,” he answered honestly. “But not just because of the grade. I hate doing things badly. If I’m going to fail, I want it to be after I’ve tried everything.”
Another small pause, and then Wonwoo gave a nod that felt almost approving.
“Good,” he said. “Then we’ll fix it.”
The confidence in the way he said it did something strange to Mingyu’s heart. Instead of thump-thump, pause, thump-thump, pause, thump-thump, his heart went thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.
“Thank you,” he said again, softer this time.
Wonwoo adjusted his bag on his shoulder. “Make sure your essay is printed.”
“I will.”
They stood there for one more second, sunlight catching faintly on the frames of Wonwoo’s glasses, making Mingyu wonder if he was staring too obviously and if he should look away and pretend to check his phone instead.
“Also,” Wonwoo added, almost as an afterthought, “try not to look at me like that on Sunday.”
Mingyu’s brain short circuited. “Like what?”
“Like I’m going to grade you personally.”
Heat flooded his face so fast he was sure it was visible from space.
“I’m not,” he protested weakly.
“You are.”
“I’m just nervous.”
“Then relax,” Wonwoo said, and this time the hint of a smile was unmistakable. “It’s only studying.”
With that, he turned and started walking across the courtyard, leaving Mingyu standing there with too many drinks, an address to send, and a face that felt impossibly warm.
𝐈.𝐈𝐈. 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝/𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭
It wasn’t that Mingyu was gay, per se. That would have been too easy, too conveniently labeled for someone who had spent most of his teenage years saying yes to experiences just because they were there and because he liked people in general.
Yes, he had kissed boys before. A few times, actually, usually after a couple of sojus at house parties where the music was too loud and everyone was pretending not to look at each other too closely. There had been that one night in high school when someone had dared him, and he had laughed and leaned in and thought, well, this is not so different. And then there was the Brazilian guy during freshman year, all tanned skin and easy smiles at some friend of a friend’s barbecue, who had called him bonito and pulled him into a cramped Airbnb bedroom with terrible wallpaper and even worse air circulation. That had been messy and clumsy, and Mingyu had walked back to campus the next morning with a grin and no walk of shame.
It didn’t feel like a crisis back then. It felt like curiosity, and he had always been curious.
Girls had never been a question either. His first girlfriend in high school had been kind and bright and patient with him, and he had loved the way she would lean into his side when they walked home together. He remembered her laugh, remembered the careful way she used to trace patterns on his palm while they talked about nothing important. She had been his first love, and he would never deny that. After her, there had been other girls, different personalities, different stories, and he had liked them in ways that were real and uncomplicated.
So if he liked both, then what did that make him?
He lay flat on the living room floor, staring up at the ceiling as if it might offer clarity, and replayed the last forty eight hours in his head. The problem was not that he had suddenly discovered attraction to men, nope. The problem was that one specific man had made him rethink everything in the span of a single staircase.
Jeon Wonwoo had taken a black tea and said he would come over on Sunday, and somehow that had been enough to send Mingyu into a spiral he hadn’t experienced at sixteen, at eighteen, or even at nineteen when he had stumbled out of that Airbnb trying not to smile too much.
At twenty one, he was losing his mind because a senior with glasses had looked at him for half a second too long.
He groaned into his hands and rolled onto his side.
On the sofa, Minghao lay sprawled across the cushions, one leg hanging off the edge, phone held above his face while he typed something with alarming focus. Probably texting Jieqiong. Or sending her another photo of the plant he insisted was dying even though it was perfectly healthy.
“I think I’m bisexual,” Mingyu announced to the ceiling.
“Congratulations,” his roommate replied without even glancing up.
Mingyu lifted his head. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
That earned him a proper look. Minghao lowered his phone and pushed himself into a sitting position, crossing his legs neatly like he always did.
“Why are you saying it like it’s breaking news?”
“Because it feels like breaking news.”
"Well, it’s not.”
Mingyu sat up too, back against the couch, knees pulled close to his chest. “It kind of is. I’m twenty one. Shouldn’t I have figured this out earlier?”
“You figured it out when you were making out with that theater major sophomore year.”
“That was experimental.”
“You experimented for three full semesters.”
He winced. “Okay, but still. I never labeled it.”
“You don’t have to label it if you don’t want to,” Minghao said, shrugging. “But don’t act like this is new information.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then paused, because the truth was inconveniently simple. Minghao had seen him kiss both genders over the past three years. Had seen him flirt shamelessly at parties regardless of who stood in front of him. Had watched him come home with lipstick on his collar once and someone else’s cologne the next week.
“I don’t know why I’m freaking out now,” Mingyu admitted, running a hand through his hair. “It never bothered me before.”
Minghao studied him for a moment. “What changed?”
There it was.
He hesitated, then said it anyway. “There’s this guy.”
Minghao smirked. “There’s always a guy.”
“No, this is different.”
“How?”
“He’s not just some party situation,” Mingyu said. “He’s real. And he’s smart. And he still agreed to come over on Sunday.”
“To fuck?”
“No!” Mingyu threw a cushion at him and tried to hide his blush covering his face with one hand.
Minghao waited.
“And he’s really pretty,” Mingyu added quietly. “Like. Really pretty.”
“Ah.”
That single syllable carried too much understanding.
Mingyu leaned his head back against the couch. “I didn’t even panic when I kissed boys before. It was just fun, you know? But now I’m overthinking everything. Like, does this mean I’m actually gay and I just didn’t want to admit it? Or am I bi? Or am I just overreacting?”
“You are definitely overreacting,” Minghao said.
“Thank you for the support.”
“I’m being honest.”
Minghao picked up his phone again, typed something, then set it down on the coffee table.
“Listen,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “You like who you like. You’ve always liked people first and then figured out the details later. That hasn’t changed.”
Mingyu frowned thoughtfully. “Okay?”
“You don’t have to solve your entire identity because one senior is attractive.”
“He’s not just attractive.”
“Of course he isn’t.”
A sigh escaped him, shoulders lowering as if he had been holding himself upright for too long.
“I just don’t want it to be a big deal,” he said. “Not for me. Not for anyone.”
“It isn’t,” Minghao replied simply. “And if someone tries to make it one, you come to me.”
Mingyu looked at him, blinking. “Come to you?”
“Yes.”
“And what will you do?”
A small, almost innocent smile appeared on Minghao’s face, the kind that usually preceded trouble. “I know some people.”
“Some people,” Mingyu repeated.
“The less you know the better.”
He stared at him for a second, then laughed despite himself. “That’s slightly terrifying.”
“It’s meant to be reassuring.”
“It is,” he admitted, and then he whispered, “Thank you, Hao.”
Minghao waved a hand as if swatting away a fly, already reaching for his phone again. “Stop overthinking and clean your room. If this senior is coming over, at least pretend you’re organized.”
He rolled his eyes, but he stood anyway, stretching his arms above his head as if preparing for battle.
Maybe he was bisexual. Maybe he was something else. Maybe the only thing that mattered was that on Sunday at two o’clock, someone he had an itty-bitty crush on was going to sit at his desk and read his essay.
Maybe he was freaking out.
(okay, he was definitely freaking out.)
Maybe he should just drop college and move countries. That was a great option, wasn't it?
𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈. 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭
The problem was not that Jeon Wonwoo was in his bedroom.
The problem was that Jeon Wonwoo was in his bedroom and sitting on his bed, back resting against the headboard, one knee slightly bent, Mingyu’s printed essay balanced neatly on his thigh while he read with the kind of focus that made Mingyu feel like a specimen under examination.
He had cleaned. He had vacuumed. He had even hidden the laundry basket in the closet and aligned his books in a way that suggested academic discipline. None of that prepared him for the sight of Wonwoo in his space, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just like he imagined a thousand times before while he skimmed through paragraph three.
Mingyu sat at his desk pretending to type, fingers tapping random keys on a blank document because opening a new file felt more productive than staring openly at the senior reading his academic weaknesses in Times New Roman.
He knew Wonwoo knew.
It was impossible not to know. Every time Mingyu risked a glance over his shoulder, he found him still reading, expression unreadable, and the lack of visible reaction somehow made it worse.
Ten minutes might have passed. Or five. Or twenty. Time felt unreliable.
A page flipped.
Mingyu bit his nail before remembering he had promised himself he would stop doing that in stressful situations. He dropped his hand, wiped it on his jeans, then forced himself to type a full sentence that read: I will not fail literature because of a man sitting on my bed.
“Kim Mingyu.”
He jumped and swiveled his chair around.
“Yes?”
Wonwoo looked up from the essay, eyes on him in a way that felt direct without being harsh.
“What do you understand about colonialism and postcolonial identity?”
“Uh,” was his answer, which wasn’t representative of his actual knowledge but very representative of his current state of mind.
Wonwoo watched him, waiting.
The answer was there. He had read about it. He had underlined passages with a purple marker pen that he stole from Jeonghan-hyung two years before. He had even enjoyed some of the material, but being asked while Jeon Wonwoo sat cross legged on his bed made his brain short circuit.
“Did you ChatGPT your essay?” Wonwoo asked.
Well, the ground could've opened up and swallowed him right there, because no insult could have been worse than that one.
“Of course not,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Do you think I’m that lazy?”
“I think this reads like someone who knows the terms but doesn’t understand the argument.”
Mingyu stood up from his chair before he could think better of it, pacing once in the small space between desk and bed as if movement would rearrange his thoughts into coherence.
“I didn’t use ChatGPT,” he insisted. “I read the articles. I know what colonialism is.”
“Then explain it.”
There was no mockery in the request, but he was clearly waiting for Mingyu to prove a point.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled, and then let himself fall into what he actually knew instead of what he thought sounded impressive on paper.
“Colonialism isn’t just about territory,” he began. “It’s about control over language, culture, and identity. It’s when one power decides not only how another country should be governed but also how it should see itself.”
Wonwoo stayed quieted, paying attention.
“And postcolonial identity is what happens after that. It’s the struggle to rebuild a sense of self when your language has been suppressed or your history rewritten. It’s not just political independence. It’s psychological independence.”
The words flowed easier once they started.
“In Korean literature under Japanese occupation, for example, you see writers navigating censorship while still trying to preserve Korean identity. Some of them wrote in Japanese because they had to, but they embedded Korean themes and resistance inside the structure. Language itself became a battlefield.”
He gestured with his hands as he spoke, forgetting for a moment that he was being evaluated.
“And in Indian literature, someone like Rabindranath Tagore is complicated because he wrote in both Bengali and English. He was critical of nationalism but also deeply invested in cultural identity. His work reflects this hybridity, this negotiation between colonial influence and indigenous tradition.”
Wonwoo made a sound that was probably surprise, but that didn’t stop Mingyu now that hell’s gates, his own mouth, had opened.
“Vietnamese war literature also deals with trauma and national memory,” he went on, stepping fully into his argument now. “The war wasn’t just a military conflict, you know? It shaped how the country saw itself. Writers explore how collective trauma becomes part of identity, how memory is passed down even when the official narrative tries to simplify it. Like, in Filipino and Malaysian literature, there’s also this tension between languages introduced by colonizers and local languages. Choosing to write in English can be both practical and political. It gives access to global readership, but it also carries the legacy of colonial education systems. So authors often play with code switching or cultural references to assert their own perspective.”
Wonwoo lowered the paper and blinked reeeally slowly in his direction.
“And language as resistance is everywhere,” Mingyu added, pacing once more. “When writers refuse to erase their mother tongue, when they incorporate indigenous myths or local idioms, they’re pushing back against the idea that colonial culture is superior. Cultural hybridity isn’t just mixing influences, it’s negotiating them, sometimes resisting them, sometimes reclaiming them.”
He paused only to take a breath before continuing.
“Postcolonial identity isn’t stable, it would be too strange if it was. It’s layered. You see trauma in how nations remember occupation or war, and you see it in characters who feel split between histories. National memory becomes both a source of pride and a source of pain.”
Mingyu realized he had moved close enough that he was standing near the edge of the bed, and he probably looked crazy just like he sounded crazy, so he stopped talking.
Wonwoo looked at him for a long moment, then glanced down at the essay again, then back up.
“If you know all that,” he said calmly, “why can’t you put this on the paper?”
Mingyu stared at him.
“I did put it on the paper,” he protested weakly.
“No, you listed terms and summarized readings, but you didn’t argue.” He tapped the essay lightly. “You just did more analysis in three minutes than in five pages.”
Well, fuck me, Mingyu thought, scrambling for some clever counterargument to prove that maybe his senior wasn’t as right as he sounded, but when he replayed the essay in his head, the one he had spent nearly two-freaking-weeks writing, polishing, and rearranging sentence by sentence, he slowly brought a hand up to his mouth.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” Wonwoo gave him a gentle smile. “Oh.”
“I think too much about sounding academic,” Mingyu admitted. “Like I have to use complicated sentences so the professor takes me seriously.”
“You know you are allowed to think clearly, right? Clarity is not the same as simplicity.”
He shifted, making space without explicitly inviting him to sit, but the gesture was obvious enough that Mingyu lowered himself onto the edge of the bed.
“Your ideas are good,” Wonwoo continued. “But you hide them under quotations.”
“I thought that was safe.”
“Well, it's safe, but it's also very boring.”
A small laugh escaped his mouth before he said, “You’re very blunt, hyung.”
“I don’t have time not to be.”
He glanced at the essay again.
“When you talk about Korean literature under occupation, you summarize the historical context, which is fine. But you never state what you think the author is doing with that context. Are they resisting? Are they internalizing colonial values? Are they critiquing both?”
“I didn’t want to assume.”
“You're not assuming if you argue with evidence.”
Mingyu looked at the printed pages, then back at him.
“So I just say it.”
“You say it and then prove it.”
“That sounds easy when you say it.”
“It’s easy.”
“It’s not,” Mingyu insisted.
Wonwoo met his gaze without flinching. “But you just did it.”
And, okay, there was no room to deny that.
“So you don't think I'm dumb?”
“I never said you were.”
“You implied it when you asked if I used ChatGPT.”
“That was a question.”
“No, hyung, that was an attack.” He sighed loudly and looked at his own hands. “Okay,” he conceded. “Maybe I panic when I write because it feels permanent. Like once it’s on paper, I can’t explain myself.”
“You can revise.”
“That’s not the same as explaining in real time.”
Wonwoo studied him thoughtfully.
“You think better out loud,” he said.
“I talk a lot.”
“You can use that in your favor.”
“So what do you suggest?” Mingyu asked. “Record myself explaining and then transcribe it?”
“That's actually a great idea.” Wonwoo once again smiled, but this time was at him, and Mingyu could feel his heart onomatopoeing again. “Rewrite your introduction,” he instructed, handing him the essay. “Start with your argument about language as resistance. Not with the textbook definition.”
He took the pages carefully, fingers brushing briefly against Wonwoo’s hand in the exchange, and tried very hard not to react like that meant anything.
Sitting back at his desk, he opened the document again, this time not to pretend. He began typing, speaking quietly as he formed the sentences.
“In postcolonial Korean literature under Japanese occupation, language functions not merely as a medium of expression but as a site of resistance,” he read aloud as he wrote. “Authors negotiate imposed linguistic structures while embedding cultural memory and national identity within constrained forms.”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Like that?”
Wonwoo nodded once, so he nodded back as if accepting a challenge, fingers hovering over the keyboard before they began moving again.
“Okay,” he said, half to himself and half to the person sitting behind him on his bed. “So if I start with language as resistance, then I need to frame colonialism not only as political domination but as epistemological control, because that’s what gives weight to the argument.”
He typed as he spoke, words appearing on the screen in a fast rhythm that matched his thoughts instead of tripping over them.
“In colonial contexts, imposed language policies functioned as instruments of assimilation,” he read aloud while writing, “and therefore postcolonial literature frequently reclaims suppressed linguistic forms as a strategy of cultural survival.”
He paused only to glance at Wonwoo over his shoulder.
“That’s clearer, right?”
“Yes,” came the simple reply.
Encouraged, he continued.
“In Korean literature under Japanese occupation, writers were forced to navigate restrictions that sought to erase Korean linguistic identity. Yet even within texts written in Japanese, traces of Korean cultural memory persisted, whether through thematic emphasis on rural life, coded allegory, or the subtle preservation of indigenous narrative structures.”
The sentences felt less like decoration and more like architecture. He began structuring paragraphs consciously, connecting each example back to the main thesis rather than stacking them loosely.
“And then I move to Tagore,” he said after a few minutes, fingers still moving. “Because he complicates the idea of resistance.”
He inhaled lightly, gathering the thread of his argument.
“Rabindranath Tagore wrote both in Bengali and English, and his engagement with colonial modernity reveals the ambivalence inherent in postcolonial identity. His critique of nationalism doesn’t negate his commitment to cultural autonomy. Instead, it illustrates how hybridity becomes a space of negotiation rather than simple opposition.”
He turned in his chair, animated by his own momentum.
“So it’s not just colonizer versus colonized. It’s about how individuals navigate that in between space. Cultural hybridity isn't a weakness. It’s a strategy.”
Wonwoo had shifted at some point, no longer reclining but standing behind him now, one hand resting on the back of the chair as he leaned in to read the screen. Mingyu noticed the movement only when the presence felt closer, when the space around him seemed narrower.
“Keep tying it back to identity,” Wonwoo said quietly.
“Right.”
He refocused on the screen.
“In Vietnamese war literature, the legacy of colonialism intersects with the trauma of prolonged conflict. National memory becomes fragmented, shaped by both foreign intervention and internal ideological struggles. Authors grapple with how to represent collective suffering without reducing it to propaganda, and in doing so, they reconstruct a postcolonial identity that acknowledges trauma as foundational rather than incidental.”
He swallowed, feeling the senior getting even closer to the screen.
“And in Filipino and Malaysian contexts,” he continued, “English often functions as both a colonial inheritance and a tool of global participation. Writers manipulate this tension by incorporating local idioms, oral traditions, and regional histories into English texts, thereby transforming the language into something distinctly their own.”
The cursor blinked at the end of the paragraph, waiting.
He read through what he had written so far, adjusting phrasing, tightening transitions.
“So my conclusion,” he said, thinking out loud again, “should emphasize that postcolonial identity is not about returning to some pure precolonial state, because that’s unrealistic. It’s about negotiating layered histories and using literature to assert agency within that complexity.”
His fingers moved again.
“Rather than seeking a singular authentic identity, postcolonial literature foregrounds multiplicity, revealing how language, memory, and hybridity operate as both scars of colonial violence and instruments of cultural reclamation.”
He stopped typing.
He scrolled back to the top, reading through the introduction, adjusting one sentence, then another. Less than twenty minutes had passed, and yet the document looked entirely new.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
Wonwoo leaned closer once more, reading even though he had just heard most of it aloud. His hand remained on the back of the chair, and Mingyu became acutely aware of the proximity when fingertips brushed lightly against the fabric of his shirt and then, inadvertently or not, against the small stretch of skin at his lower back.
It was brief and it was clearly nothing.
(It was every-freaking-thing!)
He didn’t react. At least not visibly. He kept his eyes on the screen while Wonwoo’s presence hovered just behind his shoulder.
“This is way better,” the other guy said after finishing the last paragraph. “The argument is clear. You’re not hiding behind terminology anymore.”
Relief washed through him so quickly that he almost laughed.
“Really?”
“Yes. We can still make some improvements, but focusing on structural adjustments. Maybe clarify the transition between Tagore and Vietnam. But this is an essay.”
He turned in his chair then, meaning only to face him properly, and found himself closer than expected. Wonwoo had leaned down to read, and now their faces were at the same level, separated by way less space than he was prepared for.
For a second, he forgot what he had intended to say.
“Thanks, hyung,” he managed, smiling automatically.
Wonwoo smiled back.
“No need to thank me,” he said. “You did all this by yourself.”
The compliment made him feel warmer than any high praise usually did. Heat crept into his cheeks before he could stop it, and he hated that his body insisted on betraying him at every opportunity.
“It helped that you asked the right questions,” he replied, trying to sound composed.
“I asked one question.”
“It was a good one.”
Wonwoo’s gaze remained on him, close enough that he could see the slight curve at the corner of his mouth before it fully formed.
“You should stop thinking and pretending that you're incompetent,” he said.
“I don’t pretend,” Mingyu protested weakly. “I just panic. Panicking’s like my biggest personality trait.”
“That’s a habit that you should try changing.” The senior smiled again. “You’re very competent.”
Their knees brushed as he shifted in the chair, and he was intensely aware of the hand still resting at the back of the chair, close enough that he could feel warmth through the fabric of his shirt.
He wanted to say something witty and charming, but he just found himself staring for a second too long.
“I can cook,” he blurted suddenly, because offering food was easier than processing whatever this tension was. “As a thank you for saving my academic future.”
“I didn’t save it,” Wonwoo replied. “You rewrote it.”
“Still. I owe you dinner.”
He imagined making pasta, or maybe something more impressive. Stir fry. Stew. Anything that would justify the fact that Jeon Wonwoo had spent his Sunday afternoon in his bedroom, reading his essay more than one single time and standing close enough to touch.
The hand shifted again, fingers grazing his back again before withdrawing as Wonwoo straightened up.
“Well,” he said casually, glancing once more at the screen. “Now that’s basically finished.”
Mingyu nodded, heart doing something strange in his chest that he refused to label. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
A slow smile curved over Wonwoo’s mouth, and as if he weren’t about to turn Mingyu’s entire world upside down, he asked in the most casual and sexy voice he had ever heard,
“So, wanna fuck?”