He
Title: He
Pairing: Chanyeol/Kai
Rating: very soft R
Genre: angst. yup. also highschool!au
Length: ~17k
Summary: It’s a horrible cliché, but that doesn’t stop Jongin from wanting.
Written while listening to this and this and this and this and this depending on how the story was going (in case anyone wants to know...)
Jongin didn’t use to believe in love.
He’d wanted to, he’d always been a hopeless romantic, had devoured the romantic storyline of every book he’d read. Even made up a few where none existed because everything was so much easier to explain, easier to rationalize, with a forbidden love coloring every bit of dialogue and stretch of plot exposition.
Jongin’s read a lot of books.
But he’d never quite believed in the belly-swooping, head-spinning, hands-tingling type of love, a spontaneous, whirling, dazzling, desperate-to-feel, longing-to-know, aching-to-touch, type of love.
Until Chanyeol.
He’d never believed until Chanyeol.
Chanyeol, who is bright where Jongin is dark, who is loud where Jongin is quiet, who is steady when Jongin trembles.
“I am so fucked for this class,” are the first words Chanyeol ever says to Jongin, when they’re both sitting in freshman biology, Jongin jumping slightly at the words, coming from a complete stranger in a completely strange school. Jongin laughs, because it feels like he should, and brushes his bangs out of his eyes.
They don’t really talk for the rest of the year.
“Hey, did you cut your hair?” Byun Baekhyun asks, during the biology final exam, leaning forward so his breath curls obnoxiously against Jongin’s ear.
“No, he dyed the ends invisible,” Chanyeol snorts from where he’s sitting next to Baekhyun-his friend, Jongin knows they’re friends, good friends-and Baekhyun reaches over to playfully slap Chanyeol’s arm.
“Quiet, please, the exam is starting,” the teacher says from the front of the room, and Jongin ducks his head to hide the small smile spreading across his face.
The next time he talks to Chanyeol is junior year.
Jongin’s sitting on the ground, cross-legged, eagerly devouring a book from the school library, happy to let the lunchtime sounds of hundreds of students fade into a background buzz.
“Hey!” Jongin hears, and at first he ignores it, assuming the words were directed towards the rowdy gaggle of boys sitting on the steps beside him. But then Chanyeol’s in front of him, leaning against the railing Jongin’s sitting behind, an eager smile splayed across his face.
“Hi,” Jongin replies with a slightly nervous smile, not quite sure what Chanyeol wants. They’re not friends, not like Baekhyun and Chanyeol are friends, not like Yifan and Chanyeol are friends, not like Sehun and Chanyeol are friends.
“What are you reading?” Chanyeol asks, tilting his head curiously to the side, and Jongin wants to laugh because he looks like a giant puppy when he does that.
“It’s called A Moveable Feast,” he replies, lifting the book so Chanyeol can see the cover. “Hemingway.”
“Sounds boring,” Chanyeol makes a face, and Jongin laughs. “How is it?”
“Good,” Jongin says, because it’s true. There’s nothing like Paris in the springtime, even if you’re just a kid and have never been to Paris.
“Hmm,” Chanyeol hums, as if not quite convinced. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in history next period!”
“Yeah,” Jongin murmurs, watching Chanyeol skip off, towards where his friends are lounging against the brick wall of the library, soaking up the autumn sunshine. As soon as Chanyeol rejoins their little group, broad back slipping seamlessly into the gap they’ve left for him, Jongin sees heads turning in his direction, and he looks quickly back at his book, pretending that he can’t feel their eyes from halfway across the quad.
He looks up a few seconds later. Just in time to catch Chanyeol turning back to face Baekhyun, small smile he’d been directing in Jongin’s direction broadening as Baekhyun laughs.
They’re seated next to each other in history, a small square in the front left corner of the room-Kyungsoo, Jongin, Chanyeol, Yifan.
“I’m Chanyeol,” Chanyeol introduces himself enthusiastically, as Kyungsoo looks him up and down critically.
“Kyungsoo,” Kyungsoo replies, apparently deciding Chanyeol’s worthy of notice. Jongin can’t help the grin that spreads across his face when Chanyeol starts babbling to Yifan about some basketball game and Kyungsoo meets Jongin’s eyes, shakes his head in amusement.
“Gonna be an interesting year,” Kyungsoo says, flicking a small paper airplane in Jongin’s direction. Jongin unfolds it and discovers it’s made of the top half of the class syllabus.
“Interesting is good,” Jongin replies airily, though he’s never been the type to go looking for interesting. He’s never been the type to hope that interesting finds him.
They talk.
First, in class, when they’re supposed to be working on group projects or boring worksheets. Chanyeol tells stories that has them all in stitches, Kyungsoo adding in sarcastic commentary that only serves to make everything funnier as Yifan tries to remind them to keep it down while stifling his own laughter. By the middle of the year, Jongin’s telling stories as well. By the spring, he’s being almost as sarcastic as Kyungsoo-he’s being more himself.
Sometimes he wonders if Chanyeol notices.
Chanyeol, who is always so poised and excited. Chanyeol, who is involved in everything and with everyone, who never stays in one place long enough to get pinned down.
Chanyeol, who Jongin sees one day sitting at the top of the stairs on the second floor, head in his hands, crumpled papers littering the floor around him.
Chanyeol, who doesn’t even look up when Jongin walks over to him, sits down next to him, a few centimeters away, and tilts his head to listen.
“It’s nothing,” Chanyeol mutters, though Jongin can see that his eyes are hard and unyielding. “I’m just having a hard time in history. And every fucking time I go talk to the teacher, she acts like it’s my fault, like I’m just too fucking stupid to understand and there’s nothing she can do to fix that.”
“I’m sorry,” Jongin says mechanically, because he doesn’t know what else he can say. “You can do it, I know you can.”
“I guess,” Chanyeol sighs, sitting up and starting to gather up the fallen papers, looking mildly surprised when Jongin hands him a stack of all of them. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Jongin replies with a quick smile, and he rises as Chanyeol rises, but he stays standing on the stairs until Chanyeol has walked out of sight, back down the corridor. He stays standing on the stairs until Chanyeol has walked into an empty classroom and Jongin’s left alone in the quiet stairwell.
The next fall, when Jongin’s still reeling from the fact that they’re seniors now, that they have to worry about college applications, about everything being the last, he feels a sharp rush of pleasure when he walks into his English classroom and sees Chanyeol sitting in the last row, beckoning enthusiastically to Jongin and indicating the seat across from him.
“We’re seniors now!” Chanyeol practically shouts, reaching over to slap Jongin’s arm excitedly. “Whoo!”
“Yeah, but being seniors means a lot of work,” Jongin reminds him, to which Chanyeol just rolls his eyes and leans across his desk, shirt crumpling against the hard metal.
“We can do it, right?” Chanyeol says, and Jongin nods, corner of his mouth lifting at the rare solemnity of Chanyeol’s expression. “Yeah.”
It’s only a week before Jongin’s interrupted as he sits by the shady wall of the science building, eyes scanning the pages of Snow Country. It’s his father’s favorite, and he’s not sure if he likes it, but everything is so surreal, so strange to read about empty, snow-dampened streets on a sunny fall day, that Jongin easily gets lost in the words, the characters, the crisp, cold mountains.
“Hey!” Chanyeol shouts, and this time Jongin knows he’s talking to him.
“What?” Jongin asks, closing his book with a snap and looking up at Chanyeol towering over him. His shirt’s come untucked, just like it always somehow does, and he’s twirling his cell phone carelessly between his fingers, like it’s not the middle of the school day with teachers constantly passing by on their way to and from lunch. Like there’s not a very good chance he’ll get caught.
“You can’t just sit there and read every day,” Chanyeol sighs, as if it should be obvious. As he leans against the metal railing, shirt pulling tight against his stomach, Jongin can see the shift of muscle against the cold steel.
“I did for the past year, and you never bothered me then,” Jongin points out, but he’s already getting to his feet, already admitting defeat.
“Well, I’m bothering you now,” Chanyeol laughs, grabbing Jongin’s arm and hauling him across the quad, to where Baekhyun, Sehun, and Yifan are standing in a circle laughing at something Baekhyun’s said.
“Oh, hey, Jongin,” Baekhyun says good-naturedly as Jongin slides shyly over, not quite sure what to do, who to talk to, where to stand. Chanyeol pushes Yifan a bit to the right and slots Jongin into the gap that opens up. Jongin stands there for the rest of lunchtime, letting the conversation wash over him, occasionally offering up a few phrases of his own when Chanyeol nudges him pointedly.
It’s nice, Jongin thinks, as Chanyeol walks beside him to English, their shoulders brushing as they fight through the tide of moving students. It’s nice to have friends. It’s nice to be wanted.
It’s three weeks before Jongin’s interrupted as he sits at an outside table after school, working on a tricky math problem set. He’s got his tongue pinned between his teeth, thin fingers curled around a pencil as his other hand types numbers into his calculator.
“I just-I can’t-I’m not good at history!” Chanyeol gasps, falling heavily into the chair across from Jongin, and it takes Jongin a few seconds to figure out why his voice sounds so strange, why he’s covering his face with his hands.
“It’s okay,” Jongin pleads, as Chanyeol yanks his glasses off his face to wipe angrily at the tears staining his eyes red, dripping dully down his cheeks.
“It’s fucking not,” Chanyeol chokes, sniffing wetly, and Jongin is torn. He wants to get up, he wants to gather Chanyeol into his arms and rock him back and forth and assure him that it’s going to be okay, that Chanyeol is strong, that Chanyeol is determined, that Jongin will help him. But he can’t, he feels like he’s frozen in place, because Jongin’s never been the type to touch, never been the type to initiate contact, and he doesn’t even know if that’s what Chanyeol wants right now. He doesn’t know what Chanyeol wants.
In the time it takes for Jongin to decide, in the time it takes for Jongin to scoot his chair minutely backwards, ball up his fists and try to control his breathing as he pictures every move he’s about to make-stand, move to where Chanyeol’s sitting, place arms around him, hold, embrace, comfort, Baekhyun runs up, face tight with worry.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he whispers, sliding into the chair besides Chanyeol and wrapping his arms tightly around Chanyeol’s shoulders. He makes it look so easy, Jongin thinks, and he feels a sharp jerk of something like jealousy stir in his gut.
“I’m so stupid,” Chanyeol sputters, muffling his sobs in Baekhyun’s shirt as his whole body shivers once, twice.
“Shh, you’re not, that teacher’s just a bitch because he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else,” Baekhyun snorts, and when Chanyeol giggles weakly in response Jongin’s gut tightens even more. “It’s okay, you’re smart, you’re gonna get through this.”
“Thanks,” Chanyeol sniffs, shoving Baekhyun off and wiping his eyes again and again with his sweatshirt sleeve. The sweatshirt’s a bit too big for him, and Jongin likes the way it falls softly over his hands, the way it makes Chanyeol look so delicate. “Sorry. I’m just. Wow. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Jongin says uselessly, and he can barely bring himself to return Baekhyun’s wan smile. “It’s okay.”
When Jongin falls, he falls hard.
But it doesn’t happen the way he expects.
The first time he wants to kiss a boy, Jongin’s sitting in the stands at a football game, clutching his clarinet tightly to his body as the crowd around him erupts into cheers.
The band rises, plays a celebratory smattering of pop riffs, and then sits down again. Someone sitting at the back-one of the tubas, probably-starts throwing candies down at the rest of the band, everyone scrambling to grab one, stuff one into their mouths before the band director turns around and realizes that they’re breaking the rules and eating in uniform.
Kyungsoo laughs triumphantly, shoving a pink candy into his mouth, and offers Jongin a yellow one he’d managed to wrest from some poor freshman. Jongin takes it with a grin, enjoying the way the sugar feels melting against his tongue, and shivers in the chilly night air. He can see his breath. His fingers are almost too stiff to play.
It’s late, later in the game, later in the night, when the band hasn’t been called to play in a while and everyone’s huddling together for warmth, instruments abandoned to the floor and free spaces on the bleachers. It’s the time when people talk like no one can hear them, letting the icy air swallow nighttime confessions, evening worries, twilight hopes.
“I hope we lose,” Kyungsoo grumbles, burrowing further into Jongin’s side as a particularly frigid breeze slices right through their wool uniforms. “I do not want to have to go to the championship game. It’ll probably rain again, just like it did last year.”
He’s so close, close enough that Jongin can smell the artificial sweetness coating his teeth, and Jongin suddenly wants to know what it would taste like on his own tongue. Kyungsoo is so close-so close and so warm-and Jongin has to physically drag himself away, haul himself upright, away from Kyungsoo plush lips and inviting mouth.
Jongin is terrified.
He’s never watched porn, never felt the need to clear his browser history-partly because his parents have given him his own laptop but mostly because he’s never had anything to hide.
But as Jongin sits, folded up on his bed, thumb pressing hard against his teeth as he types dangerous words into the innocently blinking search bar, he can’t stop himself from jumping at the slightest sound. As he scans through webpage after webpage, clicking links that lead to links that lead to links, he can feel a blush flooding his cheeks. But he also feels a strange sort of warmth spreading through his chest.
He’s not alone.
He’s not.
When Jongin clicks every tab closed, clears his history, snaps his laptop shut, he leans back against the wall and sighs heavily. His eyes hurt and his back is aching from being in such an uncomfortable position for so long.
It’s painful, but nothing he can’t handle.
“What do you think happens to us when we die?” Chanyeol asks, as they’re walking to their lockers after English, and Jongin looks up, surprised by the question.
“I’m not sure,” Jongin says, because he really isn’t. He’s never been religious, never felt like he needed to believe in some higher being looking after him. If he’s honest with himself, the idea scares him, the idea that he might not be the one in control of his life. Jongin needs to be in control. “What do you think?”
“I think people’s souls leave their bodies and just kind of float around for a while,” Chanyeol muses, stopping to twist his combination lock thoughtfully. “And then they find a kid who’s about to be born and they get absorbed into their body, so they get reborn.”
“Is this your way of telling me you’re an old soul?” Jongin smiles, and Chanyeol smirks back. “Because I’m not sure I believe that.”
“It’s nice to think about, though, isn’t it?” Chanyeol sighs, slamming his locker door shut and then slamming Jongin’s shut as well, guffawing loudly when Jongin turns to him with an annoyed expression and exasperated sigh. “That we don’t just disappear when we die. When I die, I want to be cremated, and my ashes spread somewhere beautiful, up in the mountains.”
“Well, that won’t be for a while,” Jongin huffs, suddenly uncomfortable with the way the conversation’s going. He can’t say he’s a fan of talking about death.
“Still, I think you should know, just in case,” Chanyeol winks, turning and walking off before Jongin has a chance to think of a response.
Just as well. He never does think of one.
“So,” Kyungsoo mutters slyly, as the bus slips silently through the night-darkened hills, shuttling a hundred tired band kids home from a competition. Jongin leans his head against the rain-glazed window and closes his eyes against the streetlights, the neon signs, the headlights of passing cars. “Who do you have a crush on?”
“Hmm?” Jongin hums tiredly, looking up at Kyungsoo’s pretty, pretty face and wondering again what it would feel like to kiss him. “No one.”
“Oh, please,” Kyungsoo hisses, poking Jongin in the leg. Jongin bites down a flash of irritation. Isn’t what he’s feeling love? Doesn’t he love Kyungsoo? Aren’t you not supposed to get irritated at the people you love? “You must like somebody. Tell me!”
“Nobody,” Jongin repeats, trying to turn his head and go back to his half-sleeping state, but Kyungsoo keeps talking.
“Has it changed over the years? Or have you been pining after the same boy forever, like Liyin?” he snickers, as they both glance over at the seat beside them, where Jongdae’s sitting, stoically staring out the window even as Liyin’s sleeping head bobs against his shoulder. “Okay, well, obviously you wouldn’t have pined after the same boy for four years but…”
Jongin feels his throat tighten, and he squeezes his eyes shut to keep a strange rush of tears from slipping out the corners of his eyes.
“Or…or maybe, you know. That’d be okay, too,” Kyungsoo murmurs, twisting to try to get a better look at Jongin’s face. But Jongin knows that it’s too dark to see, and he’s glad of that. He’s not sure what expression he has on his face right now, but he knows he doesn’t want Kyungsoo to see it.
Chanyeol is a leader.
Everyone who knows him says so, and he’s proven himself time and time again. Editor of the school newspaper, speech and debate captain, MC for every event put on by the school’s international club.
Jongin’s been on the newspaper staff every year-most of that spent working on the front page, the most important, he likes to remind everyone. The only page most people read.
It’s different when Chanyeol gets the job Jongin applies for, the job Jongin desperately wanted. It’s different when Chanyeol is made editor, and Jongin has to bring his page to him twice every week to get error-checked.
It’s different because Jongin still feels those familiar stabs of irritation from someone critiquing his work, even if he knows it’s good for him, that he needs it. But he also feels an unexpected, strange sort of sadness. Like Chanyeol is rejecting him with each red slash across the page. Like Jongin has left a tiny piece of himself in each of those misspelled words, missing captions, extra spaces, and when Chanyeol marks them he’s scraping lines across Jongin’s fragile ink-and-paper body, tearing it apart.
It’s different when Jongin sees Chanyeol pacing back and forth outside a classroom late in the afternoon-after most students have gone home. Jongin has to wait for his father to be done with work to come pick him up, so he always stays late, but Chanyeol, who can drive himself, usually leaves right after school. Jongin should know, he sometimes watches from his locker on the second floor, just to make sure. Just to draw out the goodbye.
It’s different because Chanyeol is urgently repeating words under his breath, stopping every now and then and growling angrily when he forgets a phrase or gets something wrong. And when Jongin stops, asks if Chanyeol wants to practice with him, give Jongin his speech, Chanyeol shakes his head, stepping back away from Jongin, and it hurts, just a little.
“I can’t,” he says, almost apologetically, like he’s sorry Jongin isn’t good enough to be involved in this part of his life. “Sorry.”
“It’s-don’t worry about it,” Jongin says quickly, before Chanyeol can say anything else. “Hey, good luck on your speech, okay?”
“Thanks,” Chanyeol gulps, but Jongin can take a hint. Jongin can see that it’s time for him to keep walking.
It’s different when Jongin’s standing backstage, fidgeting up and down as he listens to Yixing give his last minute pep talk before they start their set, and he hears Chanyeol’s voice booming through the mic, welcoming the crowd to the annual International Dance Showcase.
It’s different because Jongin never feels small when he’s dancing. He always feels huge, huge as the universe, expanding into every corner of the galaxy as he bends and twists and ripples and smirks and soaks up the applause like a sponge. But after hearing Chanyeol’s voice over the loudspeakers, laughing at a terrible joke one of the other MCs has just made, Jongin feels just a little smaller. Just a little bit less expansive. He’s just a dancer, one of many, one of the many dancers Chanyeol is so excited to see tonight, ladies and gentlemen.
But maybe Chanyeol almost makes up for it when he runs to Jongin after the performance, wrapping him in a huge bear hug that crushes the air from his lungs and brings a grin bubbling to the surface.
“You were amazing!” Chanyeol gushes, not seeming to mind Jongin’s sweaty body pressing against his nice, clean button-down. “Wow, I wish I could dance, everyone was fantastic, you were fantastic!”
“Thanks, you weren’t half bad yourself,” Jongin jokes, reaching up to ruffle Chanyeol’s hair because he knows how much he hates that.
“Hey!” Chanyeol gasps in a mock-offended tone, reaching up to flatten his hair back into place. Jongin’s about to say something more, wants to say something more even if he doesn’t quite know what, when Chanyeol’s being pulled into the crowd, Baekhyun’s head already bobbing at his shoulder as Sehun and Yifan follow close behind, the two of them having also been part of the Showcase. Jongin had seen them.
They dance well.
When Jongin falls, he falls hard.
They’re putting together bags of candy for a school fundraiser, and since Chanyeol can drive he’s sent to buy more candy when they run out. He’s nervous, as nervous as Chanyeol ever seems to get, since he’s not quite sure what candy to buy or where to go.
“It’s not that hard,” one of the kids in charge-a quick, efficient, but slightly disorganized boy named Minseok-says distractedly, pressing an enormous roll of small bills into Chanyeol’s hands and practically shoving him out the door. “Give me a call if you need help!”
But Chanyeol doesn’t call Minseok.
Chanyeol calls Jongin.
Jongin’s dropping chocolate bars in what seems to be an endless number of bags when he sees his phone vibrating on the desk he’d left it on. He picks it up, swipes to answer the call, and suddenly feels like the bottom has dropped out of his heart.
“Okay, so can you ask Minseok how much I’m allowed to spend?” Chanyeol babbles worriedly, and Jongin can hear crinkling in the background as Chanyeol shifts bags around on the grocery shelf. “Because he gave me like a ton of money but I don’t think I should use it all? But I don’t want us to run out again? And I don’t know what type of candy to buy, should I get these little chocolates or maybe these gummy worms-”
And Jongin answers him coherently, asks Minseok the right questions, relays the right information to Chanyeol, but inside he feels like he’s floating, and when he hangs up the phone, he feels numb. Everything is just…empty.
Actually, that’s wrong, Jongin thinks. He’s full, he’s so, so, so full and he’s full of Chanyeol.
Chanyeol.
Chanyeol, who is beautiful, inside and out, even though sometimes he thinks he isn’t either. Chanyeol, who makes Jongin feel like he’s coming home, like he’s walking into a warm room after a run through a frigid wind. Jongin can feel Chanyeol’s hug in his smile, and his smile is blinding. Jongin loves Chanyeol, he loves him, he loves him, he loves him, in a crazy, loud, quiet, secret, proud kind of way.
When Chanyeol returns, he’s too flustered to stay long. He’d apparently taken a wrong turn on the way back and gotten trapped for fifteen minutes in a maze of one-way streets that had taken a toll on his already limited reserves of energy. It’s been a long week.
“I’m heading out,” Chanyeol sighs, shouldering his backpack and waving to Jongin from across the room.
And maybe it’s because of Jongin’s new revelation, or just a random rush of courage, or maybe Jongin’s eaten one too many chocolates. But, whatever the reason, Jongin’s suddenly bounding out of the classroom, catching Chanyeol just as he reaches the end of the hallway.
“Have a good weekend,” Jongin says, and then before he can stop himself he’s leaning forward and wrapping his arms around Chanyeol.
It’s brief-much briefer than Jongin wants, so much less than he wants-but Jongin can feel the bravery seeping away as quickly as it had come, and by the time he pulls back he’s prepared to flee if Chanyeol looks offended or disgusted.
But Chanyeol just looks surprised.
“Jongin?” he laughs, running a hand through his hair and letting the other settle on his hip. “You have feelings? You care about me?”
“Oh, shush,” Jongin smirks, because maybe it’s a joke among them all that Jongin’s practically a robot, doesn’t have any feelings at all, but what Jongin feels right now is definitely not a joke. “See you later.”
“See you around,” Chanyeol says with a broad grin. “Wait until I tell everyone I got a hug from Kim Jongin! They’re gonna think I’m dying or something.”
Chanyeol is brave, and friendly and kind and endearing and gorgeous and affectionate and passionate and intelligent and unique and perceptive and everything Jongin has always wanted to be, everything Jongin has always wanted in the person he loves.
This is when Jongin starts to want.
“So, I went to the parent meeting for the dance team last night,” Jongin mother says, spooning some soup into a bowl and handing it to Jongin to take to his father. Jongin returns, gets his own bowl, and sits at the table as his mother continues talking, one hand on her cocked hip. “And there was this girl there with her mom.”
“Mmhmm,” Jongin’s father grunts, turning a page in the newspaper, eyes flicking up to show his wife that he’s listening.
“But then, later, I was talking to a different woman who also introduced herself as that girl’s mother,” Jongin’s mother hisses, and Jongin suddenly feels very sick. “She had two moms.”
“Poor girl,” Jongin’s father tuts disapprovingly. “Think of the terrible example they must be setting for her. That’s how children…end up like that, you know. By having abusive, or just negligent parents. I read an article about it just the other day.”
“I’m not really hungry anymore,” Jongin says, abruptly pushing back his chair. Because it’s much easier to muffle his screams in his pillowcase than it is in the hard wood of the kitchen table. Because his sheets absorb his angry tears better than the thin napkins set by their bowls. Because, in his room, he can bite down on his comforter until he feels his teeth grinding together, and wish that maybe, if he just lets the pain build and build, he’ll disappear all together.
It’s always a little strange for Jongin to have Kyungsoo and Chanyeol together, talking to each other, because he keeps them so separate in his mind. Kyungsoo is his best friend, has always been his best friend, and Chanyeol is…Chanyeol.
But, in a way, it’s fascinating. Interesting to see what traits they share, what drew Jongin to both of them in different ways.
“Isn’t it so cute how Jongin doesn’t swear?” Kyungsoo coos sweetly as they’re standing outside preparing for another football game. Chanyeol had wandered over as they were tuning and for some reason that didn’t scare him away. Not that Jongin’s complaining. “Pretending to be all fucking innocent.”
“Now that you mention it,” Chanyeol snickers, as both of them turn to look at Jongin and ignore his glare. “Say, ‘fuck,’ Jongin.”
“Um, no thanks,” Jongin drawls, though he can’t stop a blush from spreading across his cheeks and he knows Chanyeol sees it when he laughs.
“Nah, but really I just keep him around because he’s fun to talk to,” Kyungsoo muses, punching Jongin cheerfully in the shoulder. “So weird.”
“That’s true,” Chanyeol practically cackles. “Everyone thinks I’m weird, but Jongin’s weirder than me, he’s just quieter about it.”
“Of course you guys like talking to Jongin,” Zitao sneers, sliding up from where he’d been sitting with a bunch of other trumpets making obnoxious and totally unnecessary noises. “Talking to him is basically like talking to yourself.”
Chanyeol and Kyungsoo both laugh, Kyungsoo already moving threateningly towards Zitao to get him to scurry back to his posse, but Jongin feels like a lead weight’s settled in his stomach.
Because Zitao’s right.
He loves Chanyeol. This is something he knows.
But Chanyeol could never love him. Because Jongin doesn’t even fucking know who he is, and Chanyeol could never love someone like that. Jongin doesn’t deserve Chanyeol.
Maybe he never will.
Jongin is humming to himself as he walks back from the bathroom. Class doesn’t start for a few minutes, so Jongin’s in no rush as he pushes open the door to the classroom.
The first thing he notices is Chanyeol standing in front of his desk. The second thing he notices is Chanyeol’s broad, practically maniacal grin as he turns and sees Jongin hovering in the doorway. Rushing over to his desk, Jongin rips Chanyeol away from his backpack just in time to stop him from opening the very last pocket.
All the rest of them have already been opened. And the contents dumped all over Jongin’s desk. Damn, Jongin never realized he carried so much junk in his backpack.
Chanyeol’s laughing so hard he can barely walk, as he stumbles back over to his desk and falls into it.
“I tried to stop him,” Krystal comments blandly from her seat next to Jongin. “If that means anything.”
“Thanks,” Jongin sighs sadly, giving Chanyeol an exasperated glance. “Really, Chanyeol? What is this, the third grade?”
“Your-face-” Chanyeol manages to gasp between cackling laughter that has half the class turning to look at them. Jongin can feel all the blood rushing to his face as he struggles to shove everything back into his backpack as quickly as possible. He still hates being the center of attention, especially when it involves him being embarrassed.
“Get a grip, Chanyeol,” Jongin hisses, and he’s almost surprised when Chanyeol immediately stops. But what he’s really surprised to see is the look on Chanyeol’s face. It’s changed from highly amused to almost guilty, almost worried.
“You…you’re not mad, right?” Chanyeol asks quietly, and now it’s Jongin who wants to laugh. Laugh so hard he starts to cry.
“You’re ridiculous,” is all Jongin says in response, but he’s glad to see that Chanyeol brightens considerably, chuckling when Jongin tries to shove his last few textbooks into his bag and ends up crumpling the handful of papers he’d tossed in earlier. “Stay away from my belongings, Park Chanyeol!”
All Jongin can think about, as the class starts and Chanyeol’s face turns serious, hand moving quickly to jot down everything the teacher says, is third graders pulling pigtails on the playground.
He knows he’s projecting, he knows. He knows that this doesn’t mean anything, that Chanyeol is just weird and likes playing weird pranks on people.
Jongin knows it’s his fault when he starts to hope.
He’s not supposed to hope.
Sometimes, Jongin thinks Chanyeol knows.
“Aww, come on,” Chanyeol whines, eyeing Jongin’s purple polo critically. “We get to wear whatever we want today and you’re still wearing a school-dress-code-appropriate shirt?”
“You’re technically supposed to be wearing something holiday-themed, aren’t you?” Jongin asks, giving Chanyeol and his Led Zeppelin shirt a pointed glance. “What holiday are you supporting, rock n’ roll appreciation day?”
“Whatever,” Chanyeol pouts, still staring at Jongin’s shirt. “Maybe you can still represent a holiday wearing that shirt. What holidays use the color purple?”
“Purple’s not really a holiday color,” Baekhyun points out, gesturing at Jongin with half a sandwich still clutched in his fist.
“Isn’t there some kind of gay thing that’s color is purple?” Chanyeol muses, and Jongin swears his heart stops for a full second.
“You’re thinking of rainbow, dumbass,” Baekhyun snorts, slapping Chanyeol in the back of the head, and Jongin only lets out the harsh sigh he’s been holding in when Chanyeol turns to knock Baekhyun’s sandwich out of his hand in retaliation.
“Hey, Jongin,” Chanyeol drawls one day as they’re sitting in the newspaper room putting the final touches on this week’s issue. There’s only a few people still working, and most of them are sitting across the room from where Jongin and Chanyeol are staring blankly at their computer screens.
“What, Chanyeol?” Jongin asks, playing along.
“Before you get married to someone, you should date her for three years, okay?” Chanyeol says, and Jongin jerks his head sideways so quickly he practically gives himself whiplash.
“Why three years?” Jongin asks, recovering and turning back to his screen. Chanyeol laughs quietly. Like this, with his dark hair falling into his eyes, so tired and so calm, Jongin thinks he looks achingly beautiful.
“I don’t know. It just sounds like a good number. And you have to make sure she’s worthy of you,” Chanyeol continues seriously, though Jongin just laughs darkly in response. “I’m serious! Oh! And you have to invite me to your wedding. I mean, I’m sure in college you’ll meet cooler people than me so I won’t be upset if I’m not your best man. But I had better get an invitation, okay?”
“Sure, sure,” Jongin replies, because it’s the only thing he can say without blurting out something stupid and dangerous like I just hope you don’t mind making the trip to somewhere I can actually legally get married. “And you better invite me to your wedding too, okay?”
“Pssh, I’m never getting married,” Chanyeol laughs, gesturing expansively to his body. “I don’t need any girl tying me down.”
“Oh, please, you must have had a girlfriend before,” Jongin says, though the more he thinks the less he can remember about Chanyeol ever mentioning dating or wanting to date. It’s strange.
“Nope,” Chanyeol replies, popping his ‘p’ in a way Jongin would find annoying if it were absolutely anyone else. Since it’s Chanyeol, it’s just adorable. Like everything he does.
“Okay, then,” Jongin says, turning back to his computer. “But if you ever do find yourself somehow getting married, I’d better be there.”
“Ha!” Chanyeol huffs, burying his head in his arms and groaning softly. “Damn, I’m so hungry.”
“Have you been eating?” Jongin suddenly asks, because he’s noticed Chanyeol’s shirts getting a little looser over the past few weeks, noticed his sweatshirts billowing around his body more than they had before. “You’re starting to look a little scrawny.”
“Hey, I’ve probably got more muscles in my little finger than you have in your entire body!” Chanyeol scoffs, but Jongin just looks at him.
“What?” Chanyeol says, meeting Jongin’s gaze and quickly looking away. “It’s nothing.”
“Mmhmm,” Jongin hums disbelievingly, and he can tell when Chanyeol relents by the way his shoulders slump.
“It’s my sister,” Chanyeol sighs, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “You know how she lives across the country? Well, she’s been having stomach problems, been in and out of the hospital for almost a month. And a few weeks ago, my parents flew out to be with her.”
“So you’ve been by yourself for almost a month?” Jongin gasps, immediately regretting the way he sounds so disbelieving, so pitying. He knows the last thing Chanyeol wants is pity.
“It’s not a problem, since I can drive and everything,” Chanyeol says with a weak grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just get really tired after school and everything, you know? And cooking is a real pain.”
“That settles it,” Jongin says firmly, itching to reach out and grab Chanyeol’s hand but resisting with every fiber of his being. He will not lose this friendship because of his stupid, stupid feelings. “I’m going to come over to your house and bring you half a million boxes of ramen.”
“Hey, I can take care of myself, you peasant!” Chanyeol laughs, and Jongin’s relieved to see that he’s looking a little more energized, a little less exhausted.
Jongin knows how much Chanyeol loves his sister. How much he idolizes her, how much he enjoys talking to her, how happy he gets after they get a chance to call or video chat. He knows how much this must be hurting Chanyeol.
Chanyeol is so strong.
Jongin isn’t.
“What are you singing?” Kyungsoo grumbles as they’re sitting in the library studying. Or, Kyungsoo is studying and Jongin’s staring out the window and playing with his pencil. “And can you stop? I’m kind of trying to work here.”
“Oh, sorry,” Jongin laughs, cocking his head to the side to try to read what Kyungsoo’s writing. “I didn’t realize my beautiful singing voice was less important than covalent bonds.”
“Well, it is,” Kyungsoo sniffs, shoving Jongin’s fingers away when they start inching towards Kyungsoo’s favorite eraser. He’s very possessive of that eraser. “But what song is it? It’s kind of catchy.”
“You know, I’m not actually sure,” Jongin frowns, remembering. “Chanyeol sings it a lot, though, so it’s stuck in my head.”
“Chanyeol sings?” Kyungsoo asks disbelievingly, and Jongin grins at the memory.
Chanyeol walking besides him, belting out the lyrics in that deep, velvety voice of his, completely uncaring of the people walking past them turning to stare, grabbing Jongin’s hand and trying to urge him to join in as Jongin jerks away and pretends to be annoyed, complaining loudly about Chanyeol’s lack of singing abilities.
“Yeah, he sings,” Jongin replies, and Kyungsoo looks interested.
“I think that kid deserves more credit than I give him sometimes,” Kyungsoo says. “He’s quite multitalented.”
“I guess, if you count being annoying and loud as talents,” Jongin sighs, as Kyungsoo grins and goes back to his books.
“Chanyeol?” the teacher calls, as Chanyeol sits nervously in his chair with his hand raised.
“Well, I think…that in this section of the book, the author might be trying to make a connection to the hero’s journey,” Chanyeol breathes quickly, as if afraid that someone is going to jump in and cut him off.
He always talks like that in class, Jongin’s found. Chanyeol’s braver than Jongin-offers his opinion more often, volunteers to answer questions that the teacher poses to the class while Jongin slumps down in his chair and fiddles with his pencil. But Chanyeol’s always afraid of saying the wrong thing, of being mocked, of being thought stupid.
“Hmm, in which way?” the teacher asks, and Jongin can see Chanyeol’s face fall, crumple, fold in on itself as he stammers, listing off page numbers desperately as if the more evidence he has, the better he can erase the dismissive remark from everyone’s minds.
“I think what Chanyeol’s trying to say,” Junmyeon pipes up from the front row, shooting Chanyeol a pitying look as he stumbles, trips over his explanation before sputtering to a halt altogether. “Is that the protagonist in this part of the book appears almost like a tragic hero, like the ones we talked about earlier this year.”
“Ah, good point,” the teacher smiles encouragingly, turning to Junmyeon as Jongin digs his nails into his palm and bites his tongue to keep from shouting an obscenity at the way Chanyeol looks so helpless, so anxious, so sad. Chanyeol shouldn’t ever look sad.
“That wasn’t what I was saying at all,” Chanyeol whispers, not meeting Jongin’s eyes, but Jongin knows he’s talking to him.
“I know you weren’t,” Jongin whispers back as soothingly as he can. I know, Chanyeol. “But I think your point made more sense.”
“No, it didn’t,” Chanyeol growls, kicking the leg of his desk hard, hard enough to rattle his pencil off the edge. Chanyeol swears softly before bending and picking it up.
He’s wearing a tight button-down today. Dark blue. Pretty. When he leans over, his muscles shift and ripple through the fabric and Jongin’s taken aback by a sudden intense desire to lick down the planes of Chanyeol’s chest, smooth his hands up Chanyeol’s sides and feel those muscles pulsing beneath his fingers. It makes Jongin feel aroused and guilty and angry all at once.
“Well, at least I’m still better than Junmyeon at real life skills, like drawing stick people,” Chanyeol jokes, re-emerging from beneath his desk and thankfully seeming not to notice Jongin’s too-red face. But Jongin doesn’t even have enough time to get really embarrassed before Jongdae turns in his nearby seat and gives Chanyeol an amused look.
“You’re really weird, you know that?” he says, and Jongin feels his heart plummet down to his toes.
“Yeah, Chanyeol can be pretty weird sometimes,” Krystal laughs, and Jongin nearly screams. “Secretly, I bet he’s high most of the time, right, Chanyeol?”
Chanyeol laughs with them, but it’s his fake laugh, accompanied by his fake too-broad smile, and Jongin wants to kill both of them.
Because Chanyeol likes being weird. He’d rather be weird than be boring. And he doesn’t mind being called weird sometimes, when Jongin or Sehun or Baekhyun says it-someone who knows him and cares about him and accompanies the words with an affectionate gesture or smile. But Chanyeol also cares too much about how other people see him. And though he wants to be weird, wants people to know him, he also cares far too much about what people think of him.
Jongin is ridiculously glad when the bell rings, when the stampede of students out of the classroom lets Jongin press close to Chanyeol, close enough to smell his cologne and fuck he smells so good.
“You’re not stupid or weird, you know,” Jongin says loudly, and he doesn’t meet Chanyeol’s eyes when the other boy snaps his head up in surprise. “Stop thinking about what they said.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking about?” Chanyeol grumbles, elbowing Jongin good-naturedly in the side as they head towards their lockers.
“Well, then, what were you thinking about?” Jongin asks with a smirk as Chanyeol groans.
“Okay, I was thinking about that,” Chanyeol says. “But whatever.”
“I’m serious, you’re one of the smartest people I know who thinks they’re stupid,” Jongin continues, surprised at his own bravery.
“You must not know many people then,” Chanyeol scoffs, slamming his locker door shut vindictively. But when he looks over at Jongin, Jongin can see that his eyes are lighter, brighter. “I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah, see you,” Jongin says, watching Chanyeol melt into the crowd of moving students.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t give himself a mental high-five for being so daring as he shuts his own locker decisively.
“Hey, I need help,” Chanyeol huffs out a staticky breath on the other end of the line and Jongin pauses on his way to his dad’s car in the parking lot, readjusting the books in his arms so he can carry his phone without dropping it.
“With what?” Jongin asks interestedly, not sure what Chanyeol could possibly need Jongin’s help for. Sure, Jongin sometimes reads over Chanyeol’s essays for him, but that’s only because Jongin loves English and Chanyeol struggles with it. And sometimes Jongin helps him review for math tests, but Jongin really only has a slightly better grasp on the material than Chanyeol does himself.
“I need to go see this Spanish film for my Film as Literature class,” Chanyeol whines, and Jongin grins because he can just see Chanyeol pouting. “But I don’t want to go all alone. Come with me?”
“Uh, sure?” Jongin says, as he slides into the passenger seat. “Let me just ask my dad.”
It’s dark in the theater, and quiet, and since the film they’re watching is pretty obscure there’s only two or three other people there.
“Whoa, can you imagine the energy they’re wasting running this theater for only what, like, five of us?” Chanyeol murmurs disapprovingly, picking seats right in the middle of the theater and dropping down into the cushiony chair with a sigh of contentment. “Killing the planet.”
“Hey, don’t get too comfortable,” Jongin warns him. “I’m not the one whose grade depends on writing about this movie, and, no, I will not give you a synopsis of the plot if you fall asleep halfway through.”
“Oh, please, what are friends for if not to give synopses of movies their friends have slept through?” Chanyeol smirks, but then he’s digging around in his backpack and popping back up clutching a plastic bag triumphantly in his fist. “Aha!”
“What’s that?” Jongin asks interestedly, trying to identify the dark objects in the dim light.
“Cookies,” Chanyeol whispers conspiratorially, and Jongin’s smile hurts his face. “Only suckers pay for concessions when watching artsy foreign films.”
“Nice,” Jongin hums, turning his attention to the screen as the movie starts to play.
Chanyeol, Jongin quickly realizes, cannot sit still.
Of course, this is possible to see even in the classroom-Chanyeol’s always playing with something, moving his chair, flicking his pen back and forth across his desk. But it’s even more pronounced here in the dark theater, where Jongin’s strangely hyperaware of every move Chanyeol makes. Chanyeol jiggles his foot and when he gets tired of that he pulls a pen out of his pocket and hits it again and again against his knee. His eyes dart everywhere but the screen, and Jongin can feel his face heat up every time they land on him. He’s so, so glad for the darkness of the room.
Eventually, Chanyeol slumps down in his chair and settles in for the rest of the movie. His knee is just brushing Jongin’s, and Jongin spends the next twenty minutes feeling like his leg is on fire. He just can’t bring himself to move an inch, break the contact.
When they’re walking out, Chanyeol stretching and groaning about what a boring movie it had been though Jongin argues that he liked it, Chanyeol suddenly suggests getting ice cream.
“Sure?” Jongin says, before letting out a sigh. “Ah. But I don’t have any money left.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, I’ll buy,” Chanyeol says, as they step into a small shop a short distance away from the theater.
Chanyeol gets mint chocolate chip and Jongin gets strawberry, and they sit in silence at a small table for a few minutes, gazing out at the fading sunlight and brightening city lights.
“You’re weirdly quiet,” Chanyeol says into the warm evening, and Jongin feels a brief pang of fear because it sounds almost like an insult.
“Sorry,” Jongin offers, not quite sure what Chanyeol expects of him. This is one of the first times they’ve hung out outside of school, and Jongin’s still sort of intoxicated by the experience.
“Are you tired?” Chanyeol prods, as if expecting Jongin to say yes. But he really isn’t, especially not when he accidentally looks up and see Chanyeol’s tongue poking out to lick the ice cream off his pink plastic spoon. Damn.
“Not really,” Jongin replies, and Chanyeol gives him a searching look that Jongin can’t quite identify.
“All right, then,” Chanyeol says, leaning back in his chair and spooning more ice cream into his mouth.
Jongin reminds himself that friends do these things. Friends go to the movies together. Friends get ice cream together. Friends do not imagine what their friend’s tongue would feel like licking up the underside of their cock, what their friend’s mouth would taste like as they kissed.
Jongin knows he can’t have Chanyeol, no matter how much he wants him, but damn if he won’t make Chanyeol want to stay his friend.
“I’m just so tired of working so damn hard and then not being good at anything,” Chanyeol moans, as they’re standing outside at lunchtime, surveying the quad. Sehun is retaking a test he missed. Yifan is sitting with his teammates, and Kyungsoo is out with a cold, so it’s just the two of them.
“What are you talking about?” Jongin asks, perplexed. “You’re great at lots of things! You’re a speech captain, editor of the newspaper, get good grades…”
“But I’m not smart, not like you,” Chanyeol sighs, giving Jongin a mock-accusatory look. “Teach me your ways!”
“I don’t have ways,” Jongin laughs. “I’m just as lost as you are.”
“Hmm,” Chanyeol huffs indignantly. “You know, in my language we have a saying.”
Here, he says something in Korean that Jongin doesn’t quite catch because after he started going to school the Korean he’d been taught at home had deteriorated rapidly. But it doesn’t matter because, god, Chanyeol speaking another language is just so hot. Jongin gulps and hopes Chanyeol doesn’t notice how red Jongin’s face suddenly is.
Or maybe it’s not just the Korean. Maybe it’s the possessive that Jongin likes hearing. My. Jongin wants so badly to be Chanyeol’s my.
To be Chanyeol’s.
“What’s that mean?” Jongin asks, clearing his throat in an effort to distract Chanyeol from any other responses his traitorous body might be causing.
“It means, some people are like turtles and even when they’ve fallen over they keep waving their legs in the air. It’s sort of supposed to be about perseverance.”
“I can see that,” Jongin says musingly. “Even if you get knocked over, you can still do something besides lie there and give up.”
“Yeah, but a turtle waving its legs in the air looks really stupid,” Chanyeol huffs, and Jongin has to laugh at the disgruntled expression on his face.
“True,” Jongin says.
The first time Jongin says it, really says it, out loud, he’s standing on the second floor of the history building, hand pressed against the glass of the window, as he watches Chanyeol’s car beetle out of the parking lot below.
He knows he shouldn’t be here. He knows that this is weird, that this is unhealthy, that Chanyeol doesn’t want him and Jongin doesn’t want to be a martyr to unrequited love like everyone in his books and stories.
It’s just so cliché, so horribly cliché.
The hallway is empty. It’s late, all the teachers have gone and most of the students left are clustered in the library or the quad, basking in the late-fall, late-afternoon sunshine.
“I am in love with Park Chanyeol,” Jongin says into the thick quiet.
It feels so strange, to say it. Makes everything suddenly feel so real. He doesn’t just like Park Chanyeol, he doesn’t just want Park Chanyeol to kiss him, or talk to him, or sit next to him at lunch or in class.
He loves him.
He wants to be Park Chanyeol’s everything. He would do anything to make him happy, to make him smile that gorgeous sunshine smile that melts Jongin’s heart a little bit more every time he sees it.
He knows he’s not enough for Park Chanyeol. Chanyeol is too flighty, spends most of lunch flitting from one group of friends to another until he gets bored and returns to Jongin’s side. But Jongin doesn’t mind. He just wants to be the person Chanyeol always feels comfortable returning to. The person who Chanyeol can trust will always be waiting for him at the end of the day-a friendly warmth, someone whose arms he can fall into when the world gets to be too much for him.
That’s what Jongin wants.
That’s what Jongin can’t have.
Two
Pairing: Chanyeol/Kai
Rating: very soft R
Genre: angst. yup. also highschool!au
Length: ~17k
Summary: It’s a horrible cliché, but that doesn’t stop Jongin from wanting.
Written while listening to this and this and this and this and this depending on how the story was going (in case anyone wants to know...)
Jongin didn’t use to believe in love.
He’d wanted to, he’d always been a hopeless romantic, had devoured the romantic storyline of every book he’d read. Even made up a few where none existed because everything was so much easier to explain, easier to rationalize, with a forbidden love coloring every bit of dialogue and stretch of plot exposition.
Jongin’s read a lot of books.
But he’d never quite believed in the belly-swooping, head-spinning, hands-tingling type of love, a spontaneous, whirling, dazzling, desperate-to-feel, longing-to-know, aching-to-touch, type of love.
Until Chanyeol.
He’d never believed until Chanyeol.
Chanyeol, who is bright where Jongin is dark, who is loud where Jongin is quiet, who is steady when Jongin trembles.
“I am so fucked for this class,” are the first words Chanyeol ever says to Jongin, when they’re both sitting in freshman biology, Jongin jumping slightly at the words, coming from a complete stranger in a completely strange school. Jongin laughs, because it feels like he should, and brushes his bangs out of his eyes.
They don’t really talk for the rest of the year.
“Hey, did you cut your hair?” Byun Baekhyun asks, during the biology final exam, leaning forward so his breath curls obnoxiously against Jongin’s ear.
“No, he dyed the ends invisible,” Chanyeol snorts from where he’s sitting next to Baekhyun-his friend, Jongin knows they’re friends, good friends-and Baekhyun reaches over to playfully slap Chanyeol’s arm.
“Quiet, please, the exam is starting,” the teacher says from the front of the room, and Jongin ducks his head to hide the small smile spreading across his face.
The next time he talks to Chanyeol is junior year.
Jongin’s sitting on the ground, cross-legged, eagerly devouring a book from the school library, happy to let the lunchtime sounds of hundreds of students fade into a background buzz.
“Hey!” Jongin hears, and at first he ignores it, assuming the words were directed towards the rowdy gaggle of boys sitting on the steps beside him. But then Chanyeol’s in front of him, leaning against the railing Jongin’s sitting behind, an eager smile splayed across his face.
“Hi,” Jongin replies with a slightly nervous smile, not quite sure what Chanyeol wants. They’re not friends, not like Baekhyun and Chanyeol are friends, not like Yifan and Chanyeol are friends, not like Sehun and Chanyeol are friends.
“What are you reading?” Chanyeol asks, tilting his head curiously to the side, and Jongin wants to laugh because he looks like a giant puppy when he does that.
“It’s called A Moveable Feast,” he replies, lifting the book so Chanyeol can see the cover. “Hemingway.”
“Sounds boring,” Chanyeol makes a face, and Jongin laughs. “How is it?”
“Good,” Jongin says, because it’s true. There’s nothing like Paris in the springtime, even if you’re just a kid and have never been to Paris.
“Hmm,” Chanyeol hums, as if not quite convinced. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in history next period!”
“Yeah,” Jongin murmurs, watching Chanyeol skip off, towards where his friends are lounging against the brick wall of the library, soaking up the autumn sunshine. As soon as Chanyeol rejoins their little group, broad back slipping seamlessly into the gap they’ve left for him, Jongin sees heads turning in his direction, and he looks quickly back at his book, pretending that he can’t feel their eyes from halfway across the quad.
He looks up a few seconds later. Just in time to catch Chanyeol turning back to face Baekhyun, small smile he’d been directing in Jongin’s direction broadening as Baekhyun laughs.
They’re seated next to each other in history, a small square in the front left corner of the room-Kyungsoo, Jongin, Chanyeol, Yifan.
“I’m Chanyeol,” Chanyeol introduces himself enthusiastically, as Kyungsoo looks him up and down critically.
“Kyungsoo,” Kyungsoo replies, apparently deciding Chanyeol’s worthy of notice. Jongin can’t help the grin that spreads across his face when Chanyeol starts babbling to Yifan about some basketball game and Kyungsoo meets Jongin’s eyes, shakes his head in amusement.
“Gonna be an interesting year,” Kyungsoo says, flicking a small paper airplane in Jongin’s direction. Jongin unfolds it and discovers it’s made of the top half of the class syllabus.
“Interesting is good,” Jongin replies airily, though he’s never been the type to go looking for interesting. He’s never been the type to hope that interesting finds him.
They talk.
First, in class, when they’re supposed to be working on group projects or boring worksheets. Chanyeol tells stories that has them all in stitches, Kyungsoo adding in sarcastic commentary that only serves to make everything funnier as Yifan tries to remind them to keep it down while stifling his own laughter. By the middle of the year, Jongin’s telling stories as well. By the spring, he’s being almost as sarcastic as Kyungsoo-he’s being more himself.
Sometimes he wonders if Chanyeol notices.
Chanyeol, who is always so poised and excited. Chanyeol, who is involved in everything and with everyone, who never stays in one place long enough to get pinned down.
Chanyeol, who Jongin sees one day sitting at the top of the stairs on the second floor, head in his hands, crumpled papers littering the floor around him.
Chanyeol, who doesn’t even look up when Jongin walks over to him, sits down next to him, a few centimeters away, and tilts his head to listen.
“It’s nothing,” Chanyeol mutters, though Jongin can see that his eyes are hard and unyielding. “I’m just having a hard time in history. And every fucking time I go talk to the teacher, she acts like it’s my fault, like I’m just too fucking stupid to understand and there’s nothing she can do to fix that.”
“I’m sorry,” Jongin says mechanically, because he doesn’t know what else he can say. “You can do it, I know you can.”
“I guess,” Chanyeol sighs, sitting up and starting to gather up the fallen papers, looking mildly surprised when Jongin hands him a stack of all of them. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Jongin replies with a quick smile, and he rises as Chanyeol rises, but he stays standing on the stairs until Chanyeol has walked out of sight, back down the corridor. He stays standing on the stairs until Chanyeol has walked into an empty classroom and Jongin’s left alone in the quiet stairwell.
The next fall, when Jongin’s still reeling from the fact that they’re seniors now, that they have to worry about college applications, about everything being the last, he feels a sharp rush of pleasure when he walks into his English classroom and sees Chanyeol sitting in the last row, beckoning enthusiastically to Jongin and indicating the seat across from him.
“We’re seniors now!” Chanyeol practically shouts, reaching over to slap Jongin’s arm excitedly. “Whoo!”
“Yeah, but being seniors means a lot of work,” Jongin reminds him, to which Chanyeol just rolls his eyes and leans across his desk, shirt crumpling against the hard metal.
“We can do it, right?” Chanyeol says, and Jongin nods, corner of his mouth lifting at the rare solemnity of Chanyeol’s expression. “Yeah.”
It’s only a week before Jongin’s interrupted as he sits by the shady wall of the science building, eyes scanning the pages of Snow Country. It’s his father’s favorite, and he’s not sure if he likes it, but everything is so surreal, so strange to read about empty, snow-dampened streets on a sunny fall day, that Jongin easily gets lost in the words, the characters, the crisp, cold mountains.
“Hey!” Chanyeol shouts, and this time Jongin knows he’s talking to him.
“What?” Jongin asks, closing his book with a snap and looking up at Chanyeol towering over him. His shirt’s come untucked, just like it always somehow does, and he’s twirling his cell phone carelessly between his fingers, like it’s not the middle of the school day with teachers constantly passing by on their way to and from lunch. Like there’s not a very good chance he’ll get caught.
“You can’t just sit there and read every day,” Chanyeol sighs, as if it should be obvious. As he leans against the metal railing, shirt pulling tight against his stomach, Jongin can see the shift of muscle against the cold steel.
“I did for the past year, and you never bothered me then,” Jongin points out, but he’s already getting to his feet, already admitting defeat.
“Well, I’m bothering you now,” Chanyeol laughs, grabbing Jongin’s arm and hauling him across the quad, to where Baekhyun, Sehun, and Yifan are standing in a circle laughing at something Baekhyun’s said.
“Oh, hey, Jongin,” Baekhyun says good-naturedly as Jongin slides shyly over, not quite sure what to do, who to talk to, where to stand. Chanyeol pushes Yifan a bit to the right and slots Jongin into the gap that opens up. Jongin stands there for the rest of lunchtime, letting the conversation wash over him, occasionally offering up a few phrases of his own when Chanyeol nudges him pointedly.
It’s nice, Jongin thinks, as Chanyeol walks beside him to English, their shoulders brushing as they fight through the tide of moving students. It’s nice to have friends. It’s nice to be wanted.
It’s three weeks before Jongin’s interrupted as he sits at an outside table after school, working on a tricky math problem set. He’s got his tongue pinned between his teeth, thin fingers curled around a pencil as his other hand types numbers into his calculator.
“I just-I can’t-I’m not good at history!” Chanyeol gasps, falling heavily into the chair across from Jongin, and it takes Jongin a few seconds to figure out why his voice sounds so strange, why he’s covering his face with his hands.
“It’s okay,” Jongin pleads, as Chanyeol yanks his glasses off his face to wipe angrily at the tears staining his eyes red, dripping dully down his cheeks.
“It’s fucking not,” Chanyeol chokes, sniffing wetly, and Jongin is torn. He wants to get up, he wants to gather Chanyeol into his arms and rock him back and forth and assure him that it’s going to be okay, that Chanyeol is strong, that Chanyeol is determined, that Jongin will help him. But he can’t, he feels like he’s frozen in place, because Jongin’s never been the type to touch, never been the type to initiate contact, and he doesn’t even know if that’s what Chanyeol wants right now. He doesn’t know what Chanyeol wants.
In the time it takes for Jongin to decide, in the time it takes for Jongin to scoot his chair minutely backwards, ball up his fists and try to control his breathing as he pictures every move he’s about to make-stand, move to where Chanyeol’s sitting, place arms around him, hold, embrace, comfort, Baekhyun runs up, face tight with worry.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he whispers, sliding into the chair besides Chanyeol and wrapping his arms tightly around Chanyeol’s shoulders. He makes it look so easy, Jongin thinks, and he feels a sharp jerk of something like jealousy stir in his gut.
“I’m so stupid,” Chanyeol sputters, muffling his sobs in Baekhyun’s shirt as his whole body shivers once, twice.
“Shh, you’re not, that teacher’s just a bitch because he thinks he’s smarter than everyone else,” Baekhyun snorts, and when Chanyeol giggles weakly in response Jongin’s gut tightens even more. “It’s okay, you’re smart, you’re gonna get through this.”
“Thanks,” Chanyeol sniffs, shoving Baekhyun off and wiping his eyes again and again with his sweatshirt sleeve. The sweatshirt’s a bit too big for him, and Jongin likes the way it falls softly over his hands, the way it makes Chanyeol look so delicate. “Sorry. I’m just. Wow. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Jongin says uselessly, and he can barely bring himself to return Baekhyun’s wan smile. “It’s okay.”
When Jongin falls, he falls hard.
But it doesn’t happen the way he expects.
The first time he wants to kiss a boy, Jongin’s sitting in the stands at a football game, clutching his clarinet tightly to his body as the crowd around him erupts into cheers.
The band rises, plays a celebratory smattering of pop riffs, and then sits down again. Someone sitting at the back-one of the tubas, probably-starts throwing candies down at the rest of the band, everyone scrambling to grab one, stuff one into their mouths before the band director turns around and realizes that they’re breaking the rules and eating in uniform.
Kyungsoo laughs triumphantly, shoving a pink candy into his mouth, and offers Jongin a yellow one he’d managed to wrest from some poor freshman. Jongin takes it with a grin, enjoying the way the sugar feels melting against his tongue, and shivers in the chilly night air. He can see his breath. His fingers are almost too stiff to play.
It’s late, later in the game, later in the night, when the band hasn’t been called to play in a while and everyone’s huddling together for warmth, instruments abandoned to the floor and free spaces on the bleachers. It’s the time when people talk like no one can hear them, letting the icy air swallow nighttime confessions, evening worries, twilight hopes.
“I hope we lose,” Kyungsoo grumbles, burrowing further into Jongin’s side as a particularly frigid breeze slices right through their wool uniforms. “I do not want to have to go to the championship game. It’ll probably rain again, just like it did last year.”
He’s so close, close enough that Jongin can smell the artificial sweetness coating his teeth, and Jongin suddenly wants to know what it would taste like on his own tongue. Kyungsoo is so close-so close and so warm-and Jongin has to physically drag himself away, haul himself upright, away from Kyungsoo plush lips and inviting mouth.
Jongin is terrified.
He’s never watched porn, never felt the need to clear his browser history-partly because his parents have given him his own laptop but mostly because he’s never had anything to hide.
But as Jongin sits, folded up on his bed, thumb pressing hard against his teeth as he types dangerous words into the innocently blinking search bar, he can’t stop himself from jumping at the slightest sound. As he scans through webpage after webpage, clicking links that lead to links that lead to links, he can feel a blush flooding his cheeks. But he also feels a strange sort of warmth spreading through his chest.
He’s not alone.
He’s not.
When Jongin clicks every tab closed, clears his history, snaps his laptop shut, he leans back against the wall and sighs heavily. His eyes hurt and his back is aching from being in such an uncomfortable position for so long.
It’s painful, but nothing he can’t handle.
“What do you think happens to us when we die?” Chanyeol asks, as they’re walking to their lockers after English, and Jongin looks up, surprised by the question.
“I’m not sure,” Jongin says, because he really isn’t. He’s never been religious, never felt like he needed to believe in some higher being looking after him. If he’s honest with himself, the idea scares him, the idea that he might not be the one in control of his life. Jongin needs to be in control. “What do you think?”
“I think people’s souls leave their bodies and just kind of float around for a while,” Chanyeol muses, stopping to twist his combination lock thoughtfully. “And then they find a kid who’s about to be born and they get absorbed into their body, so they get reborn.”
“Is this your way of telling me you’re an old soul?” Jongin smiles, and Chanyeol smirks back. “Because I’m not sure I believe that.”
“It’s nice to think about, though, isn’t it?” Chanyeol sighs, slamming his locker door shut and then slamming Jongin’s shut as well, guffawing loudly when Jongin turns to him with an annoyed expression and exasperated sigh. “That we don’t just disappear when we die. When I die, I want to be cremated, and my ashes spread somewhere beautiful, up in the mountains.”
“Well, that won’t be for a while,” Jongin huffs, suddenly uncomfortable with the way the conversation’s going. He can’t say he’s a fan of talking about death.
“Still, I think you should know, just in case,” Chanyeol winks, turning and walking off before Jongin has a chance to think of a response.
Just as well. He never does think of one.
“So,” Kyungsoo mutters slyly, as the bus slips silently through the night-darkened hills, shuttling a hundred tired band kids home from a competition. Jongin leans his head against the rain-glazed window and closes his eyes against the streetlights, the neon signs, the headlights of passing cars. “Who do you have a crush on?”
“Hmm?” Jongin hums tiredly, looking up at Kyungsoo’s pretty, pretty face and wondering again what it would feel like to kiss him. “No one.”
“Oh, please,” Kyungsoo hisses, poking Jongin in the leg. Jongin bites down a flash of irritation. Isn’t what he’s feeling love? Doesn’t he love Kyungsoo? Aren’t you not supposed to get irritated at the people you love? “You must like somebody. Tell me!”
“Nobody,” Jongin repeats, trying to turn his head and go back to his half-sleeping state, but Kyungsoo keeps talking.
“Has it changed over the years? Or have you been pining after the same boy forever, like Liyin?” he snickers, as they both glance over at the seat beside them, where Jongdae’s sitting, stoically staring out the window even as Liyin’s sleeping head bobs against his shoulder. “Okay, well, obviously you wouldn’t have pined after the same boy for four years but…”
Jongin feels his throat tighten, and he squeezes his eyes shut to keep a strange rush of tears from slipping out the corners of his eyes.
“Or…or maybe, you know. That’d be okay, too,” Kyungsoo murmurs, twisting to try to get a better look at Jongin’s face. But Jongin knows that it’s too dark to see, and he’s glad of that. He’s not sure what expression he has on his face right now, but he knows he doesn’t want Kyungsoo to see it.
Chanyeol is a leader.
Everyone who knows him says so, and he’s proven himself time and time again. Editor of the school newspaper, speech and debate captain, MC for every event put on by the school’s international club.
Jongin’s been on the newspaper staff every year-most of that spent working on the front page, the most important, he likes to remind everyone. The only page most people read.
It’s different when Chanyeol gets the job Jongin applies for, the job Jongin desperately wanted. It’s different when Chanyeol is made editor, and Jongin has to bring his page to him twice every week to get error-checked.
It’s different because Jongin still feels those familiar stabs of irritation from someone critiquing his work, even if he knows it’s good for him, that he needs it. But he also feels an unexpected, strange sort of sadness. Like Chanyeol is rejecting him with each red slash across the page. Like Jongin has left a tiny piece of himself in each of those misspelled words, missing captions, extra spaces, and when Chanyeol marks them he’s scraping lines across Jongin’s fragile ink-and-paper body, tearing it apart.
It’s different when Jongin sees Chanyeol pacing back and forth outside a classroom late in the afternoon-after most students have gone home. Jongin has to wait for his father to be done with work to come pick him up, so he always stays late, but Chanyeol, who can drive himself, usually leaves right after school. Jongin should know, he sometimes watches from his locker on the second floor, just to make sure. Just to draw out the goodbye.
It’s different because Chanyeol is urgently repeating words under his breath, stopping every now and then and growling angrily when he forgets a phrase or gets something wrong. And when Jongin stops, asks if Chanyeol wants to practice with him, give Jongin his speech, Chanyeol shakes his head, stepping back away from Jongin, and it hurts, just a little.
“I can’t,” he says, almost apologetically, like he’s sorry Jongin isn’t good enough to be involved in this part of his life. “Sorry.”
“It’s-don’t worry about it,” Jongin says quickly, before Chanyeol can say anything else. “Hey, good luck on your speech, okay?”
“Thanks,” Chanyeol gulps, but Jongin can take a hint. Jongin can see that it’s time for him to keep walking.
It’s different when Jongin’s standing backstage, fidgeting up and down as he listens to Yixing give his last minute pep talk before they start their set, and he hears Chanyeol’s voice booming through the mic, welcoming the crowd to the annual International Dance Showcase.
It’s different because Jongin never feels small when he’s dancing. He always feels huge, huge as the universe, expanding into every corner of the galaxy as he bends and twists and ripples and smirks and soaks up the applause like a sponge. But after hearing Chanyeol’s voice over the loudspeakers, laughing at a terrible joke one of the other MCs has just made, Jongin feels just a little smaller. Just a little bit less expansive. He’s just a dancer, one of many, one of the many dancers Chanyeol is so excited to see tonight, ladies and gentlemen.
But maybe Chanyeol almost makes up for it when he runs to Jongin after the performance, wrapping him in a huge bear hug that crushes the air from his lungs and brings a grin bubbling to the surface.
“You were amazing!” Chanyeol gushes, not seeming to mind Jongin’s sweaty body pressing against his nice, clean button-down. “Wow, I wish I could dance, everyone was fantastic, you were fantastic!”
“Thanks, you weren’t half bad yourself,” Jongin jokes, reaching up to ruffle Chanyeol’s hair because he knows how much he hates that.
“Hey!” Chanyeol gasps in a mock-offended tone, reaching up to flatten his hair back into place. Jongin’s about to say something more, wants to say something more even if he doesn’t quite know what, when Chanyeol’s being pulled into the crowd, Baekhyun’s head already bobbing at his shoulder as Sehun and Yifan follow close behind, the two of them having also been part of the Showcase. Jongin had seen them.
They dance well.
When Jongin falls, he falls hard.
They’re putting together bags of candy for a school fundraiser, and since Chanyeol can drive he’s sent to buy more candy when they run out. He’s nervous, as nervous as Chanyeol ever seems to get, since he’s not quite sure what candy to buy or where to go.
“It’s not that hard,” one of the kids in charge-a quick, efficient, but slightly disorganized boy named Minseok-says distractedly, pressing an enormous roll of small bills into Chanyeol’s hands and practically shoving him out the door. “Give me a call if you need help!”
But Chanyeol doesn’t call Minseok.
Chanyeol calls Jongin.
Jongin’s dropping chocolate bars in what seems to be an endless number of bags when he sees his phone vibrating on the desk he’d left it on. He picks it up, swipes to answer the call, and suddenly feels like the bottom has dropped out of his heart.
“Okay, so can you ask Minseok how much I’m allowed to spend?” Chanyeol babbles worriedly, and Jongin can hear crinkling in the background as Chanyeol shifts bags around on the grocery shelf. “Because he gave me like a ton of money but I don’t think I should use it all? But I don’t want us to run out again? And I don’t know what type of candy to buy, should I get these little chocolates or maybe these gummy worms-”
And Jongin answers him coherently, asks Minseok the right questions, relays the right information to Chanyeol, but inside he feels like he’s floating, and when he hangs up the phone, he feels numb. Everything is just…empty.
Actually, that’s wrong, Jongin thinks. He’s full, he’s so, so, so full and he’s full of Chanyeol.
Chanyeol.
Chanyeol, who is beautiful, inside and out, even though sometimes he thinks he isn’t either. Chanyeol, who makes Jongin feel like he’s coming home, like he’s walking into a warm room after a run through a frigid wind. Jongin can feel Chanyeol’s hug in his smile, and his smile is blinding. Jongin loves Chanyeol, he loves him, he loves him, he loves him, in a crazy, loud, quiet, secret, proud kind of way.
When Chanyeol returns, he’s too flustered to stay long. He’d apparently taken a wrong turn on the way back and gotten trapped for fifteen minutes in a maze of one-way streets that had taken a toll on his already limited reserves of energy. It’s been a long week.
“I’m heading out,” Chanyeol sighs, shouldering his backpack and waving to Jongin from across the room.
And maybe it’s because of Jongin’s new revelation, or just a random rush of courage, or maybe Jongin’s eaten one too many chocolates. But, whatever the reason, Jongin’s suddenly bounding out of the classroom, catching Chanyeol just as he reaches the end of the hallway.
“Have a good weekend,” Jongin says, and then before he can stop himself he’s leaning forward and wrapping his arms around Chanyeol.
It’s brief-much briefer than Jongin wants, so much less than he wants-but Jongin can feel the bravery seeping away as quickly as it had come, and by the time he pulls back he’s prepared to flee if Chanyeol looks offended or disgusted.
But Chanyeol just looks surprised.
“Jongin?” he laughs, running a hand through his hair and letting the other settle on his hip. “You have feelings? You care about me?”
“Oh, shush,” Jongin smirks, because maybe it’s a joke among them all that Jongin’s practically a robot, doesn’t have any feelings at all, but what Jongin feels right now is definitely not a joke. “See you later.”
“See you around,” Chanyeol says with a broad grin. “Wait until I tell everyone I got a hug from Kim Jongin! They’re gonna think I’m dying or something.”
Chanyeol is brave, and friendly and kind and endearing and gorgeous and affectionate and passionate and intelligent and unique and perceptive and everything Jongin has always wanted to be, everything Jongin has always wanted in the person he loves.
This is when Jongin starts to want.
“So, I went to the parent meeting for the dance team last night,” Jongin mother says, spooning some soup into a bowl and handing it to Jongin to take to his father. Jongin returns, gets his own bowl, and sits at the table as his mother continues talking, one hand on her cocked hip. “And there was this girl there with her mom.”
“Mmhmm,” Jongin’s father grunts, turning a page in the newspaper, eyes flicking up to show his wife that he’s listening.
“But then, later, I was talking to a different woman who also introduced herself as that girl’s mother,” Jongin’s mother hisses, and Jongin suddenly feels very sick. “She had two moms.”
“Poor girl,” Jongin’s father tuts disapprovingly. “Think of the terrible example they must be setting for her. That’s how children…end up like that, you know. By having abusive, or just negligent parents. I read an article about it just the other day.”
“I’m not really hungry anymore,” Jongin says, abruptly pushing back his chair. Because it’s much easier to muffle his screams in his pillowcase than it is in the hard wood of the kitchen table. Because his sheets absorb his angry tears better than the thin napkins set by their bowls. Because, in his room, he can bite down on his comforter until he feels his teeth grinding together, and wish that maybe, if he just lets the pain build and build, he’ll disappear all together.
It’s always a little strange for Jongin to have Kyungsoo and Chanyeol together, talking to each other, because he keeps them so separate in his mind. Kyungsoo is his best friend, has always been his best friend, and Chanyeol is…Chanyeol.
But, in a way, it’s fascinating. Interesting to see what traits they share, what drew Jongin to both of them in different ways.
“Isn’t it so cute how Jongin doesn’t swear?” Kyungsoo coos sweetly as they’re standing outside preparing for another football game. Chanyeol had wandered over as they were tuning and for some reason that didn’t scare him away. Not that Jongin’s complaining. “Pretending to be all fucking innocent.”
“Now that you mention it,” Chanyeol snickers, as both of them turn to look at Jongin and ignore his glare. “Say, ‘fuck,’ Jongin.”
“Um, no thanks,” Jongin drawls, though he can’t stop a blush from spreading across his cheeks and he knows Chanyeol sees it when he laughs.
“Nah, but really I just keep him around because he’s fun to talk to,” Kyungsoo muses, punching Jongin cheerfully in the shoulder. “So weird.”
“That’s true,” Chanyeol practically cackles. “Everyone thinks I’m weird, but Jongin’s weirder than me, he’s just quieter about it.”
“Of course you guys like talking to Jongin,” Zitao sneers, sliding up from where he’d been sitting with a bunch of other trumpets making obnoxious and totally unnecessary noises. “Talking to him is basically like talking to yourself.”
Chanyeol and Kyungsoo both laugh, Kyungsoo already moving threateningly towards Zitao to get him to scurry back to his posse, but Jongin feels like a lead weight’s settled in his stomach.
Because Zitao’s right.
He loves Chanyeol. This is something he knows.
But Chanyeol could never love him. Because Jongin doesn’t even fucking know who he is, and Chanyeol could never love someone like that. Jongin doesn’t deserve Chanyeol.
Maybe he never will.
Jongin is humming to himself as he walks back from the bathroom. Class doesn’t start for a few minutes, so Jongin’s in no rush as he pushes open the door to the classroom.
The first thing he notices is Chanyeol standing in front of his desk. The second thing he notices is Chanyeol’s broad, practically maniacal grin as he turns and sees Jongin hovering in the doorway. Rushing over to his desk, Jongin rips Chanyeol away from his backpack just in time to stop him from opening the very last pocket.
All the rest of them have already been opened. And the contents dumped all over Jongin’s desk. Damn, Jongin never realized he carried so much junk in his backpack.
Chanyeol’s laughing so hard he can barely walk, as he stumbles back over to his desk and falls into it.
“I tried to stop him,” Krystal comments blandly from her seat next to Jongin. “If that means anything.”
“Thanks,” Jongin sighs sadly, giving Chanyeol an exasperated glance. “Really, Chanyeol? What is this, the third grade?”
“Your-face-” Chanyeol manages to gasp between cackling laughter that has half the class turning to look at them. Jongin can feel all the blood rushing to his face as he struggles to shove everything back into his backpack as quickly as possible. He still hates being the center of attention, especially when it involves him being embarrassed.
“Get a grip, Chanyeol,” Jongin hisses, and he’s almost surprised when Chanyeol immediately stops. But what he’s really surprised to see is the look on Chanyeol’s face. It’s changed from highly amused to almost guilty, almost worried.
“You…you’re not mad, right?” Chanyeol asks quietly, and now it’s Jongin who wants to laugh. Laugh so hard he starts to cry.
“You’re ridiculous,” is all Jongin says in response, but he’s glad to see that Chanyeol brightens considerably, chuckling when Jongin tries to shove his last few textbooks into his bag and ends up crumpling the handful of papers he’d tossed in earlier. “Stay away from my belongings, Park Chanyeol!”
All Jongin can think about, as the class starts and Chanyeol’s face turns serious, hand moving quickly to jot down everything the teacher says, is third graders pulling pigtails on the playground.
He knows he’s projecting, he knows. He knows that this doesn’t mean anything, that Chanyeol is just weird and likes playing weird pranks on people.
Jongin knows it’s his fault when he starts to hope.
He’s not supposed to hope.
Sometimes, Jongin thinks Chanyeol knows.
“Aww, come on,” Chanyeol whines, eyeing Jongin’s purple polo critically. “We get to wear whatever we want today and you’re still wearing a school-dress-code-appropriate shirt?”
“You’re technically supposed to be wearing something holiday-themed, aren’t you?” Jongin asks, giving Chanyeol and his Led Zeppelin shirt a pointed glance. “What holiday are you supporting, rock n’ roll appreciation day?”
“Whatever,” Chanyeol pouts, still staring at Jongin’s shirt. “Maybe you can still represent a holiday wearing that shirt. What holidays use the color purple?”
“Purple’s not really a holiday color,” Baekhyun points out, gesturing at Jongin with half a sandwich still clutched in his fist.
“Isn’t there some kind of gay thing that’s color is purple?” Chanyeol muses, and Jongin swears his heart stops for a full second.
“You’re thinking of rainbow, dumbass,” Baekhyun snorts, slapping Chanyeol in the back of the head, and Jongin only lets out the harsh sigh he’s been holding in when Chanyeol turns to knock Baekhyun’s sandwich out of his hand in retaliation.
“Hey, Jongin,” Chanyeol drawls one day as they’re sitting in the newspaper room putting the final touches on this week’s issue. There’s only a few people still working, and most of them are sitting across the room from where Jongin and Chanyeol are staring blankly at their computer screens.
“What, Chanyeol?” Jongin asks, playing along.
“Before you get married to someone, you should date her for three years, okay?” Chanyeol says, and Jongin jerks his head sideways so quickly he practically gives himself whiplash.
“Why three years?” Jongin asks, recovering and turning back to his screen. Chanyeol laughs quietly. Like this, with his dark hair falling into his eyes, so tired and so calm, Jongin thinks he looks achingly beautiful.
“I don’t know. It just sounds like a good number. And you have to make sure she’s worthy of you,” Chanyeol continues seriously, though Jongin just laughs darkly in response. “I’m serious! Oh! And you have to invite me to your wedding. I mean, I’m sure in college you’ll meet cooler people than me so I won’t be upset if I’m not your best man. But I had better get an invitation, okay?”
“Sure, sure,” Jongin replies, because it’s the only thing he can say without blurting out something stupid and dangerous like I just hope you don’t mind making the trip to somewhere I can actually legally get married. “And you better invite me to your wedding too, okay?”
“Pssh, I’m never getting married,” Chanyeol laughs, gesturing expansively to his body. “I don’t need any girl tying me down.”
“Oh, please, you must have had a girlfriend before,” Jongin says, though the more he thinks the less he can remember about Chanyeol ever mentioning dating or wanting to date. It’s strange.
“Nope,” Chanyeol replies, popping his ‘p’ in a way Jongin would find annoying if it were absolutely anyone else. Since it’s Chanyeol, it’s just adorable. Like everything he does.
“Okay, then,” Jongin says, turning back to his computer. “But if you ever do find yourself somehow getting married, I’d better be there.”
“Ha!” Chanyeol huffs, burying his head in his arms and groaning softly. “Damn, I’m so hungry.”
“Have you been eating?” Jongin suddenly asks, because he’s noticed Chanyeol’s shirts getting a little looser over the past few weeks, noticed his sweatshirts billowing around his body more than they had before. “You’re starting to look a little scrawny.”
“Hey, I’ve probably got more muscles in my little finger than you have in your entire body!” Chanyeol scoffs, but Jongin just looks at him.
“What?” Chanyeol says, meeting Jongin’s gaze and quickly looking away. “It’s nothing.”
“Mmhmm,” Jongin hums disbelievingly, and he can tell when Chanyeol relents by the way his shoulders slump.
“It’s my sister,” Chanyeol sighs, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “You know how she lives across the country? Well, she’s been having stomach problems, been in and out of the hospital for almost a month. And a few weeks ago, my parents flew out to be with her.”
“So you’ve been by yourself for almost a month?” Jongin gasps, immediately regretting the way he sounds so disbelieving, so pitying. He knows the last thing Chanyeol wants is pity.
“It’s not a problem, since I can drive and everything,” Chanyeol says with a weak grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just get really tired after school and everything, you know? And cooking is a real pain.”
“That settles it,” Jongin says firmly, itching to reach out and grab Chanyeol’s hand but resisting with every fiber of his being. He will not lose this friendship because of his stupid, stupid feelings. “I’m going to come over to your house and bring you half a million boxes of ramen.”
“Hey, I can take care of myself, you peasant!” Chanyeol laughs, and Jongin’s relieved to see that he’s looking a little more energized, a little less exhausted.
Jongin knows how much Chanyeol loves his sister. How much he idolizes her, how much he enjoys talking to her, how happy he gets after they get a chance to call or video chat. He knows how much this must be hurting Chanyeol.
Chanyeol is so strong.
Jongin isn’t.
“What are you singing?” Kyungsoo grumbles as they’re sitting in the library studying. Or, Kyungsoo is studying and Jongin’s staring out the window and playing with his pencil. “And can you stop? I’m kind of trying to work here.”
“Oh, sorry,” Jongin laughs, cocking his head to the side to try to read what Kyungsoo’s writing. “I didn’t realize my beautiful singing voice was less important than covalent bonds.”
“Well, it is,” Kyungsoo sniffs, shoving Jongin’s fingers away when they start inching towards Kyungsoo’s favorite eraser. He’s very possessive of that eraser. “But what song is it? It’s kind of catchy.”
“You know, I’m not actually sure,” Jongin frowns, remembering. “Chanyeol sings it a lot, though, so it’s stuck in my head.”
“Chanyeol sings?” Kyungsoo asks disbelievingly, and Jongin grins at the memory.
Chanyeol walking besides him, belting out the lyrics in that deep, velvety voice of his, completely uncaring of the people walking past them turning to stare, grabbing Jongin’s hand and trying to urge him to join in as Jongin jerks away and pretends to be annoyed, complaining loudly about Chanyeol’s lack of singing abilities.
“Yeah, he sings,” Jongin replies, and Kyungsoo looks interested.
“I think that kid deserves more credit than I give him sometimes,” Kyungsoo says. “He’s quite multitalented.”
“I guess, if you count being annoying and loud as talents,” Jongin sighs, as Kyungsoo grins and goes back to his books.
“Chanyeol?” the teacher calls, as Chanyeol sits nervously in his chair with his hand raised.
“Well, I think…that in this section of the book, the author might be trying to make a connection to the hero’s journey,” Chanyeol breathes quickly, as if afraid that someone is going to jump in and cut him off.
He always talks like that in class, Jongin’s found. Chanyeol’s braver than Jongin-offers his opinion more often, volunteers to answer questions that the teacher poses to the class while Jongin slumps down in his chair and fiddles with his pencil. But Chanyeol’s always afraid of saying the wrong thing, of being mocked, of being thought stupid.
“Hmm, in which way?” the teacher asks, and Jongin can see Chanyeol’s face fall, crumple, fold in on itself as he stammers, listing off page numbers desperately as if the more evidence he has, the better he can erase the dismissive remark from everyone’s minds.
“I think what Chanyeol’s trying to say,” Junmyeon pipes up from the front row, shooting Chanyeol a pitying look as he stumbles, trips over his explanation before sputtering to a halt altogether. “Is that the protagonist in this part of the book appears almost like a tragic hero, like the ones we talked about earlier this year.”
“Ah, good point,” the teacher smiles encouragingly, turning to Junmyeon as Jongin digs his nails into his palm and bites his tongue to keep from shouting an obscenity at the way Chanyeol looks so helpless, so anxious, so sad. Chanyeol shouldn’t ever look sad.
“That wasn’t what I was saying at all,” Chanyeol whispers, not meeting Jongin’s eyes, but Jongin knows he’s talking to him.
“I know you weren’t,” Jongin whispers back as soothingly as he can. I know, Chanyeol. “But I think your point made more sense.”
“No, it didn’t,” Chanyeol growls, kicking the leg of his desk hard, hard enough to rattle his pencil off the edge. Chanyeol swears softly before bending and picking it up.
He’s wearing a tight button-down today. Dark blue. Pretty. When he leans over, his muscles shift and ripple through the fabric and Jongin’s taken aback by a sudden intense desire to lick down the planes of Chanyeol’s chest, smooth his hands up Chanyeol’s sides and feel those muscles pulsing beneath his fingers. It makes Jongin feel aroused and guilty and angry all at once.
“Well, at least I’m still better than Junmyeon at real life skills, like drawing stick people,” Chanyeol jokes, re-emerging from beneath his desk and thankfully seeming not to notice Jongin’s too-red face. But Jongin doesn’t even have enough time to get really embarrassed before Jongdae turns in his nearby seat and gives Chanyeol an amused look.
“You’re really weird, you know that?” he says, and Jongin feels his heart plummet down to his toes.
“Yeah, Chanyeol can be pretty weird sometimes,” Krystal laughs, and Jongin nearly screams. “Secretly, I bet he’s high most of the time, right, Chanyeol?”
Chanyeol laughs with them, but it’s his fake laugh, accompanied by his fake too-broad smile, and Jongin wants to kill both of them.
Because Chanyeol likes being weird. He’d rather be weird than be boring. And he doesn’t mind being called weird sometimes, when Jongin or Sehun or Baekhyun says it-someone who knows him and cares about him and accompanies the words with an affectionate gesture or smile. But Chanyeol also cares too much about how other people see him. And though he wants to be weird, wants people to know him, he also cares far too much about what people think of him.
Jongin is ridiculously glad when the bell rings, when the stampede of students out of the classroom lets Jongin press close to Chanyeol, close enough to smell his cologne and fuck he smells so good.
“You’re not stupid or weird, you know,” Jongin says loudly, and he doesn’t meet Chanyeol’s eyes when the other boy snaps his head up in surprise. “Stop thinking about what they said.”
“How do you know what I’m thinking about?” Chanyeol grumbles, elbowing Jongin good-naturedly in the side as they head towards their lockers.
“Well, then, what were you thinking about?” Jongin asks with a smirk as Chanyeol groans.
“Okay, I was thinking about that,” Chanyeol says. “But whatever.”
“I’m serious, you’re one of the smartest people I know who thinks they’re stupid,” Jongin continues, surprised at his own bravery.
“You must not know many people then,” Chanyeol scoffs, slamming his locker door shut vindictively. But when he looks over at Jongin, Jongin can see that his eyes are lighter, brighter. “I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah, see you,” Jongin says, watching Chanyeol melt into the crowd of moving students.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t give himself a mental high-five for being so daring as he shuts his own locker decisively.
“Hey, I need help,” Chanyeol huffs out a staticky breath on the other end of the line and Jongin pauses on his way to his dad’s car in the parking lot, readjusting the books in his arms so he can carry his phone without dropping it.
“With what?” Jongin asks interestedly, not sure what Chanyeol could possibly need Jongin’s help for. Sure, Jongin sometimes reads over Chanyeol’s essays for him, but that’s only because Jongin loves English and Chanyeol struggles with it. And sometimes Jongin helps him review for math tests, but Jongin really only has a slightly better grasp on the material than Chanyeol does himself.
“I need to go see this Spanish film for my Film as Literature class,” Chanyeol whines, and Jongin grins because he can just see Chanyeol pouting. “But I don’t want to go all alone. Come with me?”
“Uh, sure?” Jongin says, as he slides into the passenger seat. “Let me just ask my dad.”
It’s dark in the theater, and quiet, and since the film they’re watching is pretty obscure there’s only two or three other people there.
“Whoa, can you imagine the energy they’re wasting running this theater for only what, like, five of us?” Chanyeol murmurs disapprovingly, picking seats right in the middle of the theater and dropping down into the cushiony chair with a sigh of contentment. “Killing the planet.”
“Hey, don’t get too comfortable,” Jongin warns him. “I’m not the one whose grade depends on writing about this movie, and, no, I will not give you a synopsis of the plot if you fall asleep halfway through.”
“Oh, please, what are friends for if not to give synopses of movies their friends have slept through?” Chanyeol smirks, but then he’s digging around in his backpack and popping back up clutching a plastic bag triumphantly in his fist. “Aha!”
“What’s that?” Jongin asks interestedly, trying to identify the dark objects in the dim light.
“Cookies,” Chanyeol whispers conspiratorially, and Jongin’s smile hurts his face. “Only suckers pay for concessions when watching artsy foreign films.”
“Nice,” Jongin hums, turning his attention to the screen as the movie starts to play.
Chanyeol, Jongin quickly realizes, cannot sit still.
Of course, this is possible to see even in the classroom-Chanyeol’s always playing with something, moving his chair, flicking his pen back and forth across his desk. But it’s even more pronounced here in the dark theater, where Jongin’s strangely hyperaware of every move Chanyeol makes. Chanyeol jiggles his foot and when he gets tired of that he pulls a pen out of his pocket and hits it again and again against his knee. His eyes dart everywhere but the screen, and Jongin can feel his face heat up every time they land on him. He’s so, so glad for the darkness of the room.
Eventually, Chanyeol slumps down in his chair and settles in for the rest of the movie. His knee is just brushing Jongin’s, and Jongin spends the next twenty minutes feeling like his leg is on fire. He just can’t bring himself to move an inch, break the contact.
When they’re walking out, Chanyeol stretching and groaning about what a boring movie it had been though Jongin argues that he liked it, Chanyeol suddenly suggests getting ice cream.
“Sure?” Jongin says, before letting out a sigh. “Ah. But I don’t have any money left.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, I’ll buy,” Chanyeol says, as they step into a small shop a short distance away from the theater.
Chanyeol gets mint chocolate chip and Jongin gets strawberry, and they sit in silence at a small table for a few minutes, gazing out at the fading sunlight and brightening city lights.
“You’re weirdly quiet,” Chanyeol says into the warm evening, and Jongin feels a brief pang of fear because it sounds almost like an insult.
“Sorry,” Jongin offers, not quite sure what Chanyeol expects of him. This is one of the first times they’ve hung out outside of school, and Jongin’s still sort of intoxicated by the experience.
“Are you tired?” Chanyeol prods, as if expecting Jongin to say yes. But he really isn’t, especially not when he accidentally looks up and see Chanyeol’s tongue poking out to lick the ice cream off his pink plastic spoon. Damn.
“Not really,” Jongin replies, and Chanyeol gives him a searching look that Jongin can’t quite identify.
“All right, then,” Chanyeol says, leaning back in his chair and spooning more ice cream into his mouth.
Jongin reminds himself that friends do these things. Friends go to the movies together. Friends get ice cream together. Friends do not imagine what their friend’s tongue would feel like licking up the underside of their cock, what their friend’s mouth would taste like as they kissed.
Jongin knows he can’t have Chanyeol, no matter how much he wants him, but damn if he won’t make Chanyeol want to stay his friend.
“I’m just so tired of working so damn hard and then not being good at anything,” Chanyeol moans, as they’re standing outside at lunchtime, surveying the quad. Sehun is retaking a test he missed. Yifan is sitting with his teammates, and Kyungsoo is out with a cold, so it’s just the two of them.
“What are you talking about?” Jongin asks, perplexed. “You’re great at lots of things! You’re a speech captain, editor of the newspaper, get good grades…”
“But I’m not smart, not like you,” Chanyeol sighs, giving Jongin a mock-accusatory look. “Teach me your ways!”
“I don’t have ways,” Jongin laughs. “I’m just as lost as you are.”
“Hmm,” Chanyeol huffs indignantly. “You know, in my language we have a saying.”
Here, he says something in Korean that Jongin doesn’t quite catch because after he started going to school the Korean he’d been taught at home had deteriorated rapidly. But it doesn’t matter because, god, Chanyeol speaking another language is just so hot. Jongin gulps and hopes Chanyeol doesn’t notice how red Jongin’s face suddenly is.
Or maybe it’s not just the Korean. Maybe it’s the possessive that Jongin likes hearing. My. Jongin wants so badly to be Chanyeol’s my.
To be Chanyeol’s.
“What’s that mean?” Jongin asks, clearing his throat in an effort to distract Chanyeol from any other responses his traitorous body might be causing.
“It means, some people are like turtles and even when they’ve fallen over they keep waving their legs in the air. It’s sort of supposed to be about perseverance.”
“I can see that,” Jongin says musingly. “Even if you get knocked over, you can still do something besides lie there and give up.”
“Yeah, but a turtle waving its legs in the air looks really stupid,” Chanyeol huffs, and Jongin has to laugh at the disgruntled expression on his face.
“True,” Jongin says.
The first time Jongin says it, really says it, out loud, he’s standing on the second floor of the history building, hand pressed against the glass of the window, as he watches Chanyeol’s car beetle out of the parking lot below.
He knows he shouldn’t be here. He knows that this is weird, that this is unhealthy, that Chanyeol doesn’t want him and Jongin doesn’t want to be a martyr to unrequited love like everyone in his books and stories.
It’s just so cliché, so horribly cliché.
The hallway is empty. It’s late, all the teachers have gone and most of the students left are clustered in the library or the quad, basking in the late-fall, late-afternoon sunshine.
“I am in love with Park Chanyeol,” Jongin says into the thick quiet.
It feels so strange, to say it. Makes everything suddenly feel so real. He doesn’t just like Park Chanyeol, he doesn’t just want Park Chanyeol to kiss him, or talk to him, or sit next to him at lunch or in class.
He loves him.
He wants to be Park Chanyeol’s everything. He would do anything to make him happy, to make him smile that gorgeous sunshine smile that melts Jongin’s heart a little bit more every time he sees it.
He knows he’s not enough for Park Chanyeol. Chanyeol is too flighty, spends most of lunch flitting from one group of friends to another until he gets bored and returns to Jongin’s side. But Jongin doesn’t mind. He just wants to be the person Chanyeol always feels comfortable returning to. The person who Chanyeol can trust will always be waiting for him at the end of the day-a friendly warmth, someone whose arms he can fall into when the world gets to be too much for him.
That’s what Jongin wants.
That’s what Jongin can’t have.
Two