youngblood ↠ lee minho
◦ genre: college!au, best friends to lovers!au; angst, fluff
◦ pairings: reader x minho
◦ word count: 17.4k
◦ description: lee minho crashes at your apartment four out of seven days in a week, but you’re the crashing for him.
◦ warnings: explicit language, mentions of alcohol, suggestive, slow af burn
◦ a/n: hello after 4 months of not writing !!! self-quarantine brings out the best in me (due to lack of responsibilities) & here’s the fic I’ve been working on for the past week; I hope you like it :)
one.
Lee Minho tells you that he drowned his AirPods during that one campfire social by the beach and that he can’t afford to buy a new pair because he’s a dirt poor, money-starved college student who survives solely off of Shin Ramyun and its complementary mushroom flakes.
You know this because 1) he’s mentioned it before during the ten-minute break of your three-hour-long marketing lecture and even got the professor involved in a heated discussion about Apple’s obligation to make all of their product lines waterproof for maximum customer brand loyalty, 2) the past several calls with him have been staticy and demonic sounding, and 3) he actually FaceTimed you during his grocery trip last weekend and asked whether he should buy two five-packs of Shin Ramyun or one. You said one, but you’re pretty sure Minho’s too fucking weak to pass up on that two-for-one deal.
So here you are, grocery shopping on a Friday night (because you’ll never wake up early on a Saturday morning) and listening to your best friend wail about his misfortunes through the phone as you’re slapping every watermelon you come in contact with.
“Can you buy me Girl Scout cookies on your way back?” Minho asks when you’re picking out what flavor of ice cream you’re having next week when you decide to cram for finals. It’s a coping mechanism, you convince yourself.
“No? Can’t you walk down to the market and buy it yourself?” You ask pointedly, creasing your brows disbelief. “That’s not something a broke college student would ask for. Five dollars a box? Please. I could buy two dozen eggs to last me a month.”
“But I want to stay in bed and finish the paper due tonight,” he whines. “How do you sleep going around and crushing little girls’ dreams like that?”
You make a grab for the ice cream sandwiches on the third refrigerator shelf; there are six individual bars in one box—okay, so you’ll have at least some self-control and not devour the entirety in one sitting. “With earplugs and a sign outside my door that writes ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ in a fat, red sharpie,” you tell him. “And don’t act as if you’re not already out of bed. I know Fridays are your barhopping nights with Chan.”
“Can’t anymore. Chan’s got a group project, and his team members can’t meet until 11 PM because this one guy has lacrosse practice until then,” Minho concedes with a sigh. “Oh, and I have a paper due midnight.” He says it like it’s no big deal. Like it’s an afterthought. You’ve taken that class before; that paper is worth twenty-five percent of his grade.
“Who the heck has lacrosse practice at 11 PM? Everyone knows that the university’s too cheap to turn on the stadium lights.”
“Beats me,” he says, and you hear shuffling on his side of the call. “I hate this stupid essay. I could have been at Johnny’s frat party tonight. They even brought a whole rodeo inside the bar!”
You scoff and toss a loaf of wheat bread into your basket. “Right? Too bad you decided to procrastinate and cram your paper on a totally party-able Friday night,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “I need to check out now. Call you back later.”
“Wait!” Minho exclaims, nearly bursting your eardrums. “Aren’t you going to ask if I want anything?”
“What does my grocery shopping have anything to do with you? Do you live with me? Are you a parasite? Because I would lock you in the basement and let you starve to death,” you accuse, lining up in the self-checkout line. Wow, people (you) are so misanthropic these days… the cashiers might lose their jobs.
“Hah! You don’t have a basement,” he counters, “I’m standing outside your apartment complex.”
You let out a deep sigh and step out of the checkout line; now you have to feed him. “What happened to ‘I’m too fucking busy working on my essay’?” you mimic him.
“I brought my laptop.” You can practically see him grinning and bouncing on his toes outside your apartment complex right now. “Plus, everyone knows you’re not doing anything on Friday nights besides watching The Bachelor and crying when your favorites get eliminated.”
“Bro, reality TV… these bitches be throwing each other under the bus,” you mumble as you pick up a frozen pesto pizza for Minho. You never really understood his penchant for frozen pizzas, especially not since you live beside two pizza chains. “I live vicariously through the drama.”
“Yeah, you almost threw hands at your TV when Jillian got eliminated. I swore Jisoo lost ten years of her life when the remote control missed her TV by a hair.” He’s talking about the time where you and your roommates decided to invite a few of the guys over, and you made an executive decision to make everyone watch The Bachelor (Felix high-key loves it). And when Jason decided to Not Give Jillian the rose, you lost all your cool.
While you’re still at the frozen dinner aisle, you toss in a pack of frozen chicken nuggets for late-night snacking. Who knows what you’ll crave during the middle of next week? “Listen. That woman did not go through The Bachelor and The Bachelorette consecutively to not find love. Homegirl may be married now, but at what cost!”
“You’re so dramatique,” Minho muses, pretending to be his visual arts professor who had a little too much fun during his trip to Paris. You know this because you scrolled through Minho’s Instagram that one time and saw a post of him pretending to be a mime—you’ve never touched his phone since. “Hurry up. I feel like I’m feeding mosquitoes out here.”
“Well, I hope they have a feast tonight!”
“Ooh, so you think that I’m a whole meal?” he gasps loudly. “Ballsy. I like it.”
Minho doesn’t hear what you have to say next because you’ve already hung up.
But on your way out, you see girl scouts doing their little memorized pitch of why you should buy their overpriced (though decently delectable) cookies. Reluctantly, you hand the smiling girl a crisp five-dollar bill and throw a box of Thin Mints into your tote bag.
two.
The first thing Minho does when he enters your apartment is set the oven to preheat at 550 degrees. For his frozen pizza. Because God forbid he starve.
“What’s your paper on again?”
“Surveillance capitalism,” Minho groans and shuffles through your kitchen cabinets for something to place his pizza on. “Why? Do you want to write it for me?”
“You fucking wish,” you dismiss with a chuckle. “I’m not about to make myself sad tonight.”
He grabs a pair of crocodile mitts from your drawers and holds them up to your face, snapping the jaws together like he’s a fucking five-year-old. “Says the one who’s about to cry over a Nicholas Sparks movie. I see your Netflix history,” he supplies unhelpfully. Can you blame yourself for wanting to cry for no apparent reason once (a week) in a while?
“Maybe you should open your own Netflix account then–oh wait, you can’t. Because you’re a parasite,” you say, eyes widening. Okay, you can’t help but reference the Oscar-winning movie when it comes to Minho, even if he was practically dying during that one scene. Everyone and everyone’s parents know about that scene. Longest scene ever.
“But I’m your parasite,” he beams, lips curving up, makes him look like a cat. A very annoyingly cute cat with stupidly good hair.
“I would starve you.”
Minho grabs the bright green box of Thin Mints from your tote and smiles like he’s come home from war; he raises an eyebrow skeptically. “I thought you said Girl Scout cookies were overpriced and would rather buy two cartons of eggs.”
“I have enough eggs?” you shrug, holding your breath at the sight of your empty carton. Shit, you knew you forgot to buy something.
“Thin Mints are my favorite though.”
You clear your throat and proceed to restock your fridge with produce and milk. “You’re not the only one who likes Thin Mints. How narcissistic of you to think that way,” you say primly. The fridge is empty because a few of your roommates went home for the weekend. Not for long though. Jisoo usually comes back with thousands of side dishes and bags of rice cakes that her mom packs for her, so she won’t have to cook a day in her life.
“Wasn’t Narcissus like the most handsome dude in Greece?” He wiggles his brows and adds, “Are you calling me… hot?”
You pretend to not hear him because yes. Yes, he is attractive—hot, if you may. Like when he runs his fingers through his hair, brushing it back to reveal his smooth forehead with perfectly made eyebrows every single time he feels frustrated about homework. Or when he’s feeling philanthropic and decides to help you carry Big and Heavy boxes for your student council meetings (because no one ever shows up on time), completely showing off his gains from gyming with Chan and Changbin. But in no way shape or form will you tell your best friend that he’s hot and send his ego flying off into a parallel universe where Alternative Y/N also has a fat crush on him. Nope. Not in a million years.
“For your information, Narcissus was also the same guy who fell in love with his own reflection and got big sad when he couldn’t be with himself.”
Minho looks not at all sympathetic and says, “Yeah, but could you hand me the pizza?”
“Do you only care about food?” You hand him the box regardless. Your apartment’s so old that you sometimes end up having an irrational fear of the oven and how it might explode when you’re in the kitchen. Jisoo calls you paranoid. Lisa calls you stupid. Minho straight up doesn’t care because he’d rather be blown up than starve himself.
“No,” he says with a huff, wincing when the hot oven heat waves hit his face, “I care about you too.”
You don’t show it, but you think your heart skipped a few beats–
“Because you buy me food,” he finishes, dusts off his hands after he shoves the pizza in the oven.
–in anger.
Minho sets the timer for eight minutes and makes a beeline for your living room, catapults himself onto your leather couch like he’s a grenade, sound effects and all. He takes Lisa’s pillow with a horoscope palm reading stitched onto it and tucks it behind his head, his foot dangling off the side because he’s a few inches too long for your three-seater couch.
“Please tell me you’re not about to take a nap.”
“And miss you sobbing over Dear John? What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t record that and post it on my Snapchat story?” he asks with faux concern. He makes you sound like a sappy romance movie junkie (only on occasion!); you sort of hate him.
“A good best friend,” you deadpan, walking over to where he’s getting cozy on the couch.
Minho drapes an arm over his eyes, finding the lamp too bright for his liking (because he lives in a cave he calls his room). “You know I prefer showing up unannounced at your apartment and surprising you with my holy presence,” he says calmly, voice smooth.
“Wow, I must be so blessed. Aren’t I lucky?” you chide, taking a seat beside him on the carpet, knees pulled tight against your chest.
You will never forget the night he came banging on the door of your shared apartment, batshit drunk, at 2 AM and demanding that you open up and buy him donuts. You only rush to open the door to get him to shut the fuck up—because the neighbors will complain to the landlord about your questionable activities past midnight—and drag him inside by the collar. Drunk Minho ends up eating the last of your toaster strudels thinking that they’re square donuts, and you end up texting Woojin a series of angry texts asking why he couldn’t bother driving an extra three minutes to drop Minho off at his own apartment.
“You are The Lucky One,” he grins smugly.
“Please stop using Nicholas Sparks references on me, I will not hesitate to kick you to the curb.”
three.
“How’s that essay going?”
“Uh huh,” Minho says, dismissing you with a wave of his hand and the other reaching over your lap for another handful of honey mustard pretzels.
Your face makes a scowl when you look over to his laptop, neglected and throw off to the side, to see that he has written his name (not even his full name, just “Minho”), his section number, tomorrow’s due date, and a title that says “tbd :D” in parentheses. “Bitch, you haven’t even started,” you say, pointing at the screen.
“Shh, John’s about to go off to war. What if he never comes back?”
Shutting your eyes, you press your temple against your fingers, kicking yourself for forgetting how crappy of an attention span your best friend has. “I think everyone knows that he comes home from war. All of the movies end happily!”
“But it’s not the same! You know what happened to his father!” Minho exclaims, leaning his head back to shove a handful of pretzels in his mouth, chews obnoxiously like he’s totally pissed at the filmmakers.
“Yet here you are, rewatching the movie instead of working on your paper that is due in three hours,” you say, leaning onto the sofa arm.
“I’m a CS major,” he clarifies knowingly, “This class won’t affect my major GPA. It’s just some elective I need to fulfill a requirement. Who knew there was so much writing involved? Ugh, I should have dropped it during Week 5.”
The battle scene flashes on the television screen and casts an orangey glow on Minho’s face, makes him look like some sort of god. But whatever, it’s not like you’re admiring the bridge of his nose and staring at his long fucking eyelashes or anything. “Why did you take marketing then? CS majors don’t usually have minors,” you ask him.
“Because I get to spend time with my wonderful best friend that is you.” Minho glances over at you and makes brief eye contact.
You want to etch this moment into your brain permanently and slide it into a photo book for you to revisit ten years later when you’re married to someone who isn’t Lee Minho. Even though you shudder at the thought of marriage and commitment, you can’t help but wonder what it feels like to be someone’s and have them be yours.
“Shut up. You just want a GPA booster,” you point out.
“What can I say? C++ takes a toll on your mental health and tanks your GPA. Not everything is as easy as Java,” he sighs.
“Hmm, I love it when you speak Python to me. So sexy, please continue.”
Your best friend scoffs, not having the heart to tell you that all three of the aforementioned are actually different languages. Then, Minho’s phone buzzes in the pocket of his sweatpants, and it’s a Snapchat notification from Chan. You peek over, and it’s an unimpressed selfie of Chan with no filter, eyebags on full display, that reads “walked halfway across campus to find that the taco place is closed… huge L”. You chuckle for good measure, watching as Minho snaps a picture himself stuffing his mouth with a slice of sad, lukewarm pizza.
“Why are they working on a project on a Friday night when there’s the whole weekend?” you wonder.
“His group mates are big lacrosse players. They have a game this weekend, so they want to finish it by tonight.”
“You CS majors are kind of nerdy,” you note. You picture Chan and a couple of buff dudes with gear surrounding a small round table on the first floor of the library, and there’s just a bunch of energy drinks, empty coffee cups, and nutrient bar wrappers littered around them. They’re pulling an all-nighter, coding in complete silence, occasionally nodding off and discussing a few main points here and there. But you know Chan, he always pulls through and gets an A on every project he’s ever worked on; no wonder all the girls (you) have had a crush on him at one point.
Right then, the front door bursts open and an unusually happy-looking Lisa walks in. You know something’s up because she always looks rough after class, and the last time she was this happy was when her professor got food poisoning and all her classes for the next week were canceled. Morbid, but understandable. “Guess what?” She hums, swinging her arm over your shoulder.
“You dropped out of college.”
Lisa sneers and throws a pillow at Minho’s timely comment. “No, fuck you,” she scowls, points a finger at him accusingly. “I’m going on a date tomorrow!”
“You said you were done with dating apps! Remember that time your last Tinder date asked you to pay for his Airbnb because he got kicked out of his apartment. He didn’t even pay back the twenty dollars he owed you for his meal!” You splutter, grabbing her shoulders forcibly. Maybe if you shake her hard enough, she’ll reconsider and raincheck the guy with some lame excuse.
“No, no. This guy’s from my CS class, so why not?” Lisa removes your hands from her shoulders and holds them between her own like she’s about to give the most heartfelt speech of her life. Like it’s she’s getting married and making you her Maid of Honor.
Minho freezes and gasps, “No way. Whose heart are you going to break now?”
“Yours. If you don’t shut up and let me finish my story.”
“Okay, so what happened?” You interrupt before Lisa actually decides that she wants to go to jail and strangles Lee Minho to death. Really, she’d do anything to get out of attending lecture.
“You know we have weekly coding assignments, right?” You nod, and she continues, blatantly ignoring Minho in the background because he’s rolling his eyes to the moon. “I was asking him about my code because I’m a dumb bitch, and then he asked me whether or not I wanted to run his code. I say yes, naturally, since he’s smart. And guess what he did?”
Minho narrows his eyes in disgust and props his chin on your shoulder, glaring your roommate down. “Don’t tell me he added an extra line of prompt asking you to go out with him.”
“Yes! And like, it's a free lunch… so I can’t say no. Plus, he put so much effort into this. I’d actually feel bad if I rejected him,” she explains with steady eye contact. That’s a fat surprise—Lisa might not break his heart this time. You always knew, deep down, she was soft for grand romantic gestures.
“That was the most fucking nerdy thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” you state, “I stand corrected… CS majors are extremely nerdy.”
“But it’s so cute!” Lisa lets out a high pitched squeal and basically collapses on top of you. Then, she sits up straight and remembers that her arch-nemesis, Lee Minho, is also present. “What’s he doing here again?”
You shake your head helplessly. “Being a parasite, as per usual,” you breathe.
“Save that slice of pizza for me and consider tonight’s stay free of charge,” she tells Minho as she stands up from the couch, ready to run into her bedroom and change into jammies.
Minho smiles fakely. “You know, I never liked you.”
“I’ll hook us up with boba orders. Woojin’s closing tonight.”
“Because I love you! More than I love Y/N.” Nice save.
“The fuck?” You say, pretending to be extremely offended, clutching your heart and all. Like it hurts more than one of the top ten anime betrayals. But you know he’s always like this. You’d be like this too. You would drop him in a heartbeat for a jasmine green tea with cheese foam.
four.
The previous night, you texted Jisoo if you could sleep on her bed because your twin size bed is too small to fit both you and Minho’s fat ass. She texted back “knock yourself out”, so it’s fair to say that you have the best roommate ever.
Minho ended up turning his paper in (sans proofreading) at 11:59 PM, one minute before the Turnitin deadline. As a reward for finishing a whole research paper in less than three hours, he decided to gift himself a brand new pair of AirPods to replace the ones that Han Jisung trashed when he tossed him into the ocean. And like the good best friend you are, you even bought him an AirPods case cover; it’s a little lame, but you got him a strawberry milk one to match your banana milk. It’ll arrive in a few days.
Currently, your beauty sleep is rudely interrupted by your alarm that you forgot to turn off the night before, the one at 10 AM for your 12 PM class. You see, that two-hour gap is very much necessary considering you require time to force yourself to wake up, scroll through Twitter and stalk Jungkook (your husband), respond to messages, think about life/have a mid-college crisis in bed, actually manage to get up and change into presentable clothes, wash up, and then rummage through the fridge to see what’s edible before the bus leaves.
But today’s a Saturday, and waking up to the sound of your annoying alarm is not a pleasant one. You crack open one eye to see that the room’s still dark, to see Minho snoring softly on your pillow, your mom’s ugly floral duvet thrown over his head with his feet peeking out the ends of it. You groan, rolling over and swiping randomly on your phone screen to turn off the alarm.
The noise, however, causes Minho to shift in his sleep as he stretches his limbs out like a starfish, a hand punching through the air. He pulls the blanket away from his face and takes a deep breath. He turns to his side and looks up at you, hair disheveled as he squints through layers of sleep.
“Sorry, I forgot to turn my alarm off,” you whisper apologetically. “You can go back to sleep.”
“S’okay. I usually get up around this time to work out before class starts,” he mumbles back. Minho rubs the sleep away from his eyes and sticks his entire leg out. You almost giggle at the sight of his checkered pajama pants and baggy t-shirt combo. The shirt is yours, from that one time Lisa brought you to a strip club, and you managed to win a free t-shirt (and lap dance) during trivia night; you gladly accepted the t-shirt but gave Lisa the honors of experiencing a lap dance. To this day, you still crack up when you listen to Poker Face.
“What a beast,” you waggle your eyebrows tiredly before falling back in bed. “Today, the student council and I have a meeting planned for next Friday’s Yule Ball event. As secretary, I need to have everything arranged by Monday to start setting up on Tuesday.”
Minho nestles his face into your deflated pillow and stares ahead like a confused animal. “So far you have…”
You shut your eyes and mentally run through the spreadsheet you’ve been compiling for three weeks now. “I have 3RACHA for music, Woojin on bartending Harry Potter-themed drinks, and Hyunjin and Felix working on decorations. The president, Seungmin, is managing check-in and social media presence, and other board members like JenLisa are securing the ballroom and helping with decorations. Jeongin is working with me to have all the shit running smoothly and picking up the slack, especially with the university’s dining hall… these workers are so lazy! You’re working on the photobooth with Rosé because she needs help carrying props. Jisoo will help with check-in, but I might need all hands on deck if more than five hundred students decide to attend,” you share, and now Minho looks more lost than ever.
“Ooh, is there Firewhisky?” Minho decides to ask after the massive spiel you delivered. He never quite gets the point, does he?
“No alcohol. It’s an on-campus event,” you comment, rolling your eyes. “If you want alcohol, just raid Woojin’s fridge or something.”
“Damn, that’s so much to do. No wonder Seungmin’s been extra mean this week.”
“Yeah. We’re all meeting for lunch today, but like… there’s still so much to do. And will we even have everything ready to go by Friday? We still have to paint all the house banners and hang the lights. Who said Hogwarts needed to have four houses? Why not just Gryffindor and Slytherin?”
Minho laughs aloud at that and says with a loopy smile, half sitting up and half reclining on your fat Gudetama plush. “You, my friend, are a Ravenclaw,” he feels the need to tell you.
“And I am more than ready to transfer houses and be a Gryffindor,” you say enthusiastically, clapping your hands together.
“So I could be the Draco to your Hermione?” He drawls, a hand coming up behind his head to prop it up. Minho knows about your unhealthy obsession with Dramione fanfiction (best to ever exist by the way). The Romione ship is just… subpar. No offense.
“No,” you snap, “So Chan could be the Draco to my Hermione.”
He sees the wistful smile on your face and nearly throws the Gudetama plush at you. “You still like him? It’s been what? Three years?”
“No! You know everyone has liked Chan at one point! I bet you even liked Chan at one point,” you accuse, crossing your arms in front of you. Jisoo’s bed is too soft, so your back’s all sore now.
“I mean… when he drives me home after our bar hopping dates and buys me carne asada tacos on the way back… let’s elope and move back to Australia,” Minho mumbles dreamily, proving your point. Bang Chan is like everyone’s ideal type, kind of annoying really. You sort of feel sad for whoever has to date CB97 and deal with girls (and boys) throwing themselves at him.
Then again, Minho’s no different. He’s just less outgoing, less engaging in college events, but he still has the occasional admirer who would give up a kidney for him. Too bad your best friend’s the most misanthropic person on earth and doesn’t give two shits about most people outside of his social sphere. Minho’s almost “tsundere” for lack of a better word, and boy do girls dig that.
Sluggishly, you kick off your blankets to head to the kitchen to make two cups of cold brew with soy milk. It’s a routine at this rate. “I hope he feeds you to the man-eating spiders as a late-night snack,” you add before yawning.
“Did you just call me a snacc? Because you know I am, babe.”
“You’re so annoying,” you whine with an exasperated sigh. “Seungmin’s picking me up at 11:30. What are your plans for the day?”
Minho’s scrolling through his phone as he’s still blinking the sleep away, brown hair, soft skin, all bundled up in your bedsheets like he belongs there. He looks decent. More than decent, actually. He’s just an unfairly beautiful piece of shit. “I have dance practice with Hyunjin at noon, and then we’ll swing by to see what you guys need help on?” he says with an eyebrow raise, turning to look at you.
“Well, aren’t you benevolent today?” You snort, walking to your closet to fish out a pair of leggings and one of your many massive hoodies.
“Magnanimous, if I may.”
“Shut up,” you chuckle, “Coffee will be on the counter. Food, wherever. You know my apartment better than I do. Just tell Lisa to lock up before she goes on her date.”
Truthfully, you sort of want to stay in bed with him. Just lounging there without a care in the world. Free of college responsibilities. Knowing Minho, he’ll give you an extensive movie review of Joker or something, and how much Joaquin Phoenix deserved that Oscar for losing that much weight (healthily, of course) to get into character. And maybe you’ll even gather enough courage to wrap your arms around his torso, and maybe he’ll do the same.
Maybe he wants you to be his just as much as you want him to be yours.
five.
Rosé and Seungmin send out at least a thousand university emails. It’s not clout, you swear.
Your infallible marketing strategy targets students who have expressed even the slightest bit of interest in the Harry Potter franchise, and thanks to surveillance capitalism, you’d like to say you’ve narrowed it down to at least a good fraction of the population. The ballroom capacity is only seven hundred, but you think that it’s safer to have more guests than not enough guests; plus, things always come up, especially on a Friday before a long weekend.
“Do we have all the materials yet? We have enough funding for backup?” Seungmin asks as he stretches his arms over his head, leans back in his chair for a well-deserved five seconds. You feel the strain in your back too—it’s been seven hours since your last saw Minho. The lamp fixtures in the boba shop flicker on as the sun sets, golden light streaming through the glass windows. In less than a few minutes, the sky will be dark.
“Four hundred feet of fairy lights just came in. The university’s helping us hang that shit up because they don’t want to be responsible for our deaths. I have poster boards, spray paint, glitter, and other art supplies. Tablecloths, linen, sustainable utensils in the supply closet,” you narrate through your laundry list of things to do. “Blah, blah, blah. The dining hall will have all the food and the drinks for the bar supplied. Also setting up and cleaning up is their responsibility… I think we’re almost good to go.”
“Okay, how many workdays are you thinking? Also, it’s nearing finals week, so be mindful of that,” Rosé reminds you.
You tap your pen on your chin, thinking rather deeply about this. “We’ll work hard on Monday and Tuesday. Rest Wednesday. Finishing touches on Thursday and before the event on Friday. Our schedules all vary, so we’ll just visit the venue and pick up slack whenever we can.”
“Hey, the North Ballroom is close to all our lecture halls too. My classes are easy this semester, so I’ll be there pretty often,” Seungmin proclaims, and it sounds like music to your ears. Ah, as expected of Mr. President.
“Wait.” All your heads turn to Jeongin. “If this is the Yule Ball, are we allowed to go as students from different academies? Is that an option?”
Rosé laughs at the younger boy’s question. “I’m going as Beauxbatons. You’re welcome to join me,” she smiles and finishes up the last of her Hokkaido milk tea. Rosé is such a Beauxbaton, you can totally see it already.
“Um, no thank you,” he wrinkles his nose playfully. “I’m a Ravenclaw.” And this prompts the vice president to make a noise of disapproval. She knows that ninety percent of the attendees will be basic and go as Hogwarts students.
“Ooh, who are you texting?” Seungmin sings in your ear. “Is it a certain boy whose name sounds just like a celebrity’s name?”
“You mean Jeon Jungkook?” You gasp loudly, pretending that he actually found out about your “love affair” with the International Playboy Jeon Jungkook. “I mean, we’re long-distance right now… but yeah. It’s steamy.”
Seungmin looks wholly unimpressed.
“It’s Lisa,” you reply dryly. “She ditched today’s staff meeting for a date with a CS boy. She’s texting me her location in case she gets killed.”
Seungmin doesn’t seem fazed by your morbid answer. It’s because first dates are always risky, especially if you’re not familiar with the other person. That’s why you never go on dates. No, not when you’re sort of in love with your equally dateless best friend.
Speaking of said best friend, you hear the wind chimes at the front entrance, and Lee Minho (and Hyunjin) walks into the boba shop after dance practice just as he had promised.
Breaths fraying.
Sweaty.
You hold your breath when he comes up behind you and lands a hand on the back of your chair, following up on the staff meeting.
“So, I got the Eventbrite app installed on my phone already. I’m ready to scan everyone at lightning speed because it’s all GA. None of that VIP checklist type of special treatment.” Hyunjin takes a grab at Jeongin’s winter melon milk tea and makes a face. “Um, this is not sweet at all? I’m ordering another,” he says on his way to the cashier.
“VIP checklist?” Minho quirks his head, not understanding the lingo.
“All the tickets are general admission this time, so there are no VIP guests. In the last event, we had college deans participating, so some students wanted to pay extra fees to sit in the front row for the panel speakers. It was also a lot more work to execute because VIP guests require wristbands,” you explain, not quite looking him in the eye. “The Yule Ball is just an excuse for students to dress up and have fun, so no VIP!”
Seungmin feels the need to scoot over and show him the number of emails he sent out, and Minho leans down dangerously close to you just to take a better look at the small ass font he has on his spreadsheet. His soft breaths tickle the side of your ear, and you can practically feel him breathing through his lungs. Kim Seungmin, you did this on purpose!
Rosé must have noticed your distressed expression because she kicks you underneath the table and waggles her eyebrows like a complete pest. “What,” you mouth, expression stern. You’re not in the mood to play footsies with her.
She does a silent chef’s kiss and points at Minho, who is very sweaty and very hot.
This reminds you of the time where he randomly picked up an entire box of Sprinkles Cupcakes after a workout (yeah, must have been a tough workout) and asked if you wanted some. You said yes because, duh. It’s free, it’s cupcakes, and it’s Sprinkles Cupcakes—so he drives to your apartment complex and meets you in his car. The only thing you could think of that night was how much you loved banana nut cupcakes and how yummy he looked.
You shudder back to reality when he casually rests his hand on your shoulder while standing back up.
“So I think the meeting has adjourned?” Seungmin suggests, packing up his laptop that is running low on ten percent. “We’ll keep in contact over the weekend to work things out. But get some sleep before we start prepping next week, you’ll need it!”
“I’m riding home with Hyunjin, so I’ll wait for him.” Jeongin fumbles for his belongings and stuffs them in his backpack before giving the rest of the team a small wave. He runs up to Hyunjin, who is waiting impatiently for his order.
“I’m taking Rosé, so Minho and Y/N?”
Lips in a tight line, you can only nod in agreement. “Yeah, sounds good to me,” you manage to say, voice no louder than a squeak.
Rosé swings her purse over her shoulder and blows you a stupid kiss (which you proceed to crush with the palm of your hand, earning a silent gasp from her) before she follows Seungmin to his car. You begin to tidy up your belongings when Minho asks you about your dinner plans.
“What? You want frozen pizza again? Didn’t you have that yesterday?”
“I can’t think of anything else I want to eat!” Minho cries out, lips cracking into a smile because he knows that you’re so fucking done with him. He once had pork belly for five days straight when he sprained his ankle doing a backflip. What a loser. Could have asked you to meal prep for him or something. But he was too damn prideful after you specifically told him not to do acrobatics on a slippery dance floor.
“I’ll make you ram-don and fulfill your dreams of being my parasite,” you tease, nudging his arm. “Your treat though. I already paid for your pizza.”
Minho’s eyes light up like stars. “You’d make that for me?”
“Yeah,” you tell him.
You’ll even get him the moon if he wants.
six.
You and Minho end up raiding the Asian supermarket.
Ram-don only requires three ingredients, but when it comes to splurging on food, neither of you have power over cute packaging and timely BOGO deals. You, a business major, should know better than to succumb to the pressures of monopolistic competition in a capitalistic society. But instead, you toss the last three bags of seaweed chips into your cart, clearing the shelf and getting rid of the store’s inventory. Business is a cycle.
“You love me for my money,” Minho frowns as you’re skipping down the alcohol aisle.
You reach up to grab two bottles of strawberry soju. “Of course. We’re friends with benefits,” you say mindlessly, and you feel dirty looks coming from the lady a few beer cartons away.
“Who would want to be friends with benefits with you? All you do is stay at home and eat,” he snaps back, stifling a laugh.
“Um, that’s sort of the point of friends with benefits in this day and age. Do you know how rare sugar daddies are? What are the chances of me finding a hot, rich CEO at the prime age of twenty-five with a business empire at his feet? I’ll never be able to snatch reservations at a Gordon Ramsay restaurant and be featured on Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Even if you did. What are the chances that he’d pick you over a go-go dancer? What qualities can you offer to the market of potential sugar daddies?”
You hate the fact that Minho is now a declared marketing minor. “I can cook, on good days. I can hold great conversations. Yeah, communication is key in a business partnership,” you insist.
“Wow, what the heck would you need communication for? Are you going to make spreadsheets of the times that you’re going to meet?” Minho questions and decides that two bottles of soju are not enough. He adds a peach flavored one to the cart.
“Yeah! If he’s Jeon Jungkook and tragically busy! I need to make sure that my man has time for me!”
“He’d rather date Jimin than date you.”
You pout. You know he’s right. Even you’d rather date Park Jimin than date yourself.
“I thought you said you were broke,” you say when he adds one of those gigantic packs of rice crackers, the ones the size of a machine gun, to the cart.
“Just got my paycheck,” he shrugs, “It’s not even for me. I don’t eat bland, tasteless shit. Chan wants it because his mom just sent him five jars of peanut butter, and he can’t get rid of it… do you want a jar? I can grab one for you.”
“I think I’m good,” you tell him, chuckling to pretend like you’re okay. Like the fact that he just got his paycheck and offered to buy groceries for his roommate isn’t the cutest, most wholesome shit ever. Like his sudden thoughtfulness doesn’t make your heart stop all at once. Like you’re not mentally combusting at the sight of his stupid attractive face debating on which cut of beef he wants for the ram-don.
Minho ends up picking ribeye (because it’s the cheapest), and soon enough, you’re leaving the supermarket with five bags of unnecessary junk. But what’s college if you haven’t fucked up a few times? If you haven’t drunk until your head is in the toilet. If you haven’t accidentally skipped a lecture (or more) because of a hangover. When would you ever be able to do all of these things if not now?
Like a gentleman, he pops open his trunk for you—when all the groceries are loaded, he starts the car.
You really like his car.
It’s different from Chan’s car, which by the way is a poor excuse for a college student’s car. It’s too pristine, too clean to the point where you feel bad for sitting on the leather seats after a long day of classes and work. You feel like you’d dirty them, and Chan might end up resenting you for hurting his baby.
Minho’s car is familiar. It’s sleek and clean just like Chan’s but not excessively; there’s still leftover straws from his many boba runs and free napkins from Chipotle. If you look hard enough, there are a few cracks on the jade pendant that hangs from his front mirror. His mom says that it will keep him safe, and it’s cute how he keeps it there despite complaining to his mom every single time he goes over a speed bump. When you lean your head back on the passenger seat, there’s the Pusheen headrest you gifted him two years ago for Secret Santa. One look in the backseat and you can still make out the stain from when Changbin spilled a bunch of spicy rice cakes because he sneezed a little too hard (and forgot to ask for a lid). It took Minho a week to get most of the stain out, and to this day, he still doesn’t trust Seo Changbin with anything edible or spillable while being in his car.
“Wait, you still have this?” You hold up a post-it note that reads “buy yourself something nice ;)”. You wrote it the time you went to the ATM by campus to retrieve cash for his broke ass who decided that he wanted another tattoo on Friday the 13th.
“Hmm?” Minho glances over at you as he’s reversing out of the parking lot. “Yeah, why? Do you want it back?” he jokes.
“No. I just thought you would have tossed it by now.”
You think that he’s too focused on driving because he doesn’t respond. Your phone’s Bluetooth automatically connects to his car, and you let your songs shuffle—“Riptide” by Trivecta begins to play.
Maybe it’s not his car that you like. Maybe it’s the memories made in his car. The kind of memories you’ll fondly look back at fifty years from now with a nostalgic smile on your face. With a series of “what if” questions swimming through your mind. With probably two cats by your side.
Actually, maybe it’s not even the memories.
Maybe it’s him that you like.
seven.
"Don’t you think that you’re missing something?”
“Like what?” Chan asks, looking up from his array of Tupperware. He’s meal prepping for the entirety of next week like the epitome of a gym rat.
You cross your legs, sitting on the counter. “So you’re just going to have chicken breast and string beans for the rest of the week? No carbs? Don’t y’all need carbs to function?” you ask, picking up a string bean with a pair of chopsticks from his hot pan. Could use more pepper.
He stares at his half-empty containers for a hot second. “Fuck. I need to cook rice.” Chan rummages through his cabinets for a bucket to rinse his rice in. “Don’t you have anything else better to do besides watch me cook?” he questions.
“I mean, I would make myself a banana smoothie. Too bad Changbin broke your blender,” you tell him casually. “How long does it take Minho to shower? At this rate, we might as well just UberEats something.”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you join him to kill time?” The corner of his lips raise as he’s washing his brown rice like a nuisance—you hope he forgets to press cook and leaves his grains of rice sitting at “warm”.
“Haha, very funny,” you respond sarcastically. It’s not as if Chan doesn’t know about your humongous crush on Minho anyway. “As if your tiny shower could fit two people.”
Chan takes the pair of chopsticks from your hand, preventing you from taking more of his string beans and chicken. “You should try it out and tell me,” he teases, sending a greasy smile your way, because he knows you’re thinking about it now. Chan’s proud of planting that seed in your brain.
You want to fucking uproot that seed and leave it out to die in the sun.
“I hate you.”
“Because your heart’s too busy loving Minho.”
And you can’t even fight back because he’s right. Bang Chan’s always right about everything. Unfair.
Minho’s phone buzzes on the counter, and out of pure boredom and aggravation, you decide to check it because it’s probably an email from the university reminding everyone to pay tuition and burn more money–oh, it’s just Han Jisung.
(8:37 PM)
jisung bb: yo, hyunjin’s bday coming up
jisung bb: wtf do I get him?
(8:38 PM)
lino: you should get him the penis plush with a bowtie on it
lino: bc he has bde
jisung bb: LMAO BRO
jisung bb: AIGHT that’s sick
jisung bb: what are you getting him then?
lino: the nerdy self-development book he’s been wanting
lino: oh, this is y/n btw
(8:39 PM)
jisung bb: um, am I interrupting something ???
lino: he’s showering so I’m just waiting for him to finish
jisung bb: join him and kill two birds with one stone ;)
lino: bitch you DO realize that he’ll see this chat right?
jisung bb: no, you would delete it
lino: TRU lol
(8:40 PM)
lino: shit, I think he just finished… imma go delete
jisung bb: TTYL, BE SAFE :)
lino: STFU
“My phone’s filled with cat pics, if you’re wondering,” Minho says when he walks into the kitchen, a towel draped over his neck, droplets of water falling from his hair onto his white t-shirt. He looks so effortlessly radiant in this mess of a kitchen with only one light bulb that works. This should be illegal. He should be arrested.
You’re just about finished deleting the messages when you answer, “Oh, I know. You only send me pictures of your cats and use them as really bad reaction memes. I was just stalling time to keep my mind off the fact that I’m starving and pissed at Chan.”
“What did Chan do to piss you off?” Minho chuckles, coming up beside you. He’s about eye-level, now that you’re sitting on the counter. When he laughs, his eyes crinkle into crescents—your heart goes haywire.
“His entire existence pisses me off,” you snarl, flashing the boy a glare.
“Did you break Y/N’s heart?”
Chan scoffs rather loudly, too loud for your liking. “Me? As if. Whoever has Y/N’s heart must be a total hunk,” he says, and you hope he stops talking right there.
“I thought you said you were going to cook me ram-don?” Minho asks with a jut of his lower lip. He plants his hands on either side of you and leans forward, trapping you against the counter. This happens and you get a splendid, 1080p vantage of his Face and long fucking eyelashes. As a result, you’re trying to keep a straight face as you control your heart rate. As a result, you are also trying to moderate the heat rising to your cheeks, like you’re working in the engine room of the Titanic and throwing ice cubes into the chambers to prevent steam (doesn’t work btw). And as a result, Chan is having the time of his life chopping up overcooked chicken breasts, pleasantly enjoying your misery.
“Can’t cook if you don’t move,” you mention, sounding less confident than you would have liked. He takes a step back, and you immediately hop off, making a grab for the spare chopping board and slab of ribeye steak. “Help boil water or something.”
Chan ends up slicing the meat because you don’t trust yourself with a knife after what Minho did.
eight.
Turns out Lisa’s date didn’t meet up to her expectations.
The guy’s great, apparently. He planned the entire day: from sushi, to cat cafe, to movies, etc. The conversations were courteous, none of that “how much do you make?” or “do you want to come to my place after?”—it's safe to say that it was a pretty decent date.
“So what’s wrong?” you ask her over the phone. You’re lying facedown on Minho’s full-size bed, propping your chin up with the back of your palm.
“He’s too nice,” she sighs, the sound of the apartment door unlocking on the other end. “He responds to my text in seconds and seems really keen to set up another date. He even suggested rock climbing. I don’t rock climb!”
“Maybe you should give him a chance. He did put a lot of effort into this date,” you mumble. You see Minho shaking his head on the bed, drinking soju through one of Changbin’s metal straws. He’s watching Love is Blind on Netflix, but you have a feeling that he’s enjoying your phone conversation more.
Lisa gives an exasperated sigh this time. “I know… but you know my type. I just don’t want to lead him on. He’s a good guy… just not my guy.”
“Let him down easily, and thank him for the date! At least, he wasn’t the guy who made you pay for his lunch and asked you to book an Airbnb for him and his dogs.”
“Right? I just met you, and it’s not my fault that you forgot to pay rent. I’m still waiting for that Venmo.”
You giggle when you remember that incident—it was during Valentine’s Day when she called. You were sitting on your dining room table and watching something on Disney+ (your friends back home have come to a consolidated consensus that it’s a crucial asset to a college student’s survival kit). And when Lisa called, you almost spat out the entirety of your dinner on your laptop screen, right on top of your Mushu icon. “That was an eventful Valentine’s Day,” you snicker, rolling over onto your backside. You hear Minho take a sharp intake of breath when you almost knock over his bowl of barbeque chips.
“Fuck you, bro. I called you because I was scared for my life! I don’t want the police coming up to our apartment doorstep and asking you for a testimony because I’m dead and found in the bushes,” she exclaims on the phone. You wince when she raises her voice.
“No more Tinder, Bumble, Coffee Meets Bagel, East Meets East…”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I deleted all of them already.”
Your eyes widen. “And?”
“And I’ll thank him for the date but won’t agree to a second one,” Lisa mumbles; she sounds like a child after being scolded by her parents for accidentally painting the apartment wall or something.
“Good girl.”
“Where are you? Snapchat says that you’re not home. Are you dating someone behind my back?” She bombards you with a series of questions—you really need to turn off your Snapchat location. If she looks hard enough, she’ll see your Bitmoji chilling with Minho’s Bitmoji… wait, she’s friends with him too. Great, you’ll never hear the end of it now.
You sit up and clear your throat. “No. I’m with Minho. We’re watching Love is Blind on Netflix,” you tell her responsibly. Like you’re afraid to get caught. Though you shouldn’t be. It’s not like Minho’s your dirty little secret or anything.
“Hoho, love is indeed blind,” she snorts, “You’re not coming home tonight?” You can practically see her wiggling her perfectly arched brows in glee.
“Maybe… stop making it sound so bad!” You retort, bouncing on the bed for added emphasis. Minho looks as if he’s about to kill you because you almost knocked over his soju bottle. It’s his fault, only rookies drink alcohol in bed.
“I’m not! I think Woojin got off work. I’m going to ask him to buy me cheese corn dogs now. Bye!” And the phone conversation ends there because she hangs up for food.
Your best friend looks over at you, bored. “Did she break someone’s heart again?” Minho asks.
“Yeah. Poor kid.”
“Would you ever go on a dating app?”
You scoff in response, a dismissive wave of your hand. As if you could ever sell your information to the dark web and give creepy stalkers the opportunity to track you down via satellite signals. “No. I would prefer not to die. Isn’t it so much more wholesome to fall in love in person? People are so manipulative online these days. Online dating only works for a selected group of people. That’s why there’s such a bad reputation around it,” you say calmly, hand reaching for his bottle of peach soju.
Minho tilts his head and takes the soju bottle away; you narrow your eyes at him. He asks again, “Then why haven’t you fallen in love with anyone in person yet? You have a bunch of eligible bachelors surrounding you. Example one–Seo Changbin.”
That’s because I’m in love with you, stupid. But you don’t tell him that.
“Changbin’s too chonky for me,” you lie. Changbin’s fine and a great friend. Maximum boyfriend material. But he’s not Lee Minho. There’s a chance that you might fall for Changbin in an alternative universe where Minho doesn’t exist, but sadly, it’s not this universe.
“Han Jisung.”
“The same guy buying Hyunjin a penis plushie for his birthday? No, thank you,” you chuckle for good measure. You didn’t think Jisung would take it seriously... but the more you learn. “I’m okay with being single. Too busy with my studies to fall in love.”
There’s an unreadable expression on Minho’s face, one that seems almost lost. Like if you were to look into his eyes, you’d see a large expanse of dark matter. Just dust particles floating listlessly in nothingness.
“Plus, I’m too busy taking care of my parasite that is you.”
Minho cracks a close-lipped smile and rolls his eyes; you like it when he smiles. “Look who’s the parasite now,” he says, fixing his gaze on your reclined figure that is sipping soju through a fucking metal straw.
“I mean… I can sleep on the couch if you want. And big spoon Felix if Changbin brings him home tonight,” you offer, resting your chin on your hand. Changbin always brings Felix to his apartment (he practically lives here) because Felix makes it known to the world that he hates dorming.
“No. My bed is big enough for the two of us.”
Okay, this is normal.
Breathing is optional.
nine.
You’re in charge of the Ravenclaw banner with Jeongin, a fellow Ravenclaw, when Jisung marches in the North Ballroom and shouts, “Guess who bombed his ochem midterm!”
Nobody guesses. In fact, Rosé shakes her head and focuses even harder on calligraphy-ing numbers for the table placards. And Seungmin looks like he’s about to toss a sock at him—that would be bad. Not for Han Jisung but for the underpaid university worker hanging lights on top of the ladder that Seungmin is securing.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you chide as he saunters up beside you. “Though, Kim’s TA probably had the easiest time grading your exam.” You dip your paintbrush into a tub of dark blue paint, preparing to trace over the sketch of the Ravenclaw banner you referenced off Google Images.
Jisung takes off his backpack and hops onto the stage ledge, grabs a spare brush to begin tracing the raven in the center. “Nah, she was entertained. Look! I even played a game of Hangman for her,” he announces, flipping to page three just to show you a stick figure missing an eye.
“How thoughtful of you,” you say with the most sarcasm. “What were you trying to spell?”
“Here’s your chance to give the class a fat curve.”
He makes you speechless sometimes… but never in a good way. You quickly change the topic to prevent yourself from losing brain cells. “So why aren’t you with the other Gryffindors?”
Jisung looks over to the other side of the stage where Changbin is sprawled on top of a giant piece of poster paper and attempting to sketch a lion onto the canvas; he’s looking hard at his Samsung but not making much progress because Gryffindor’s have the most intricate design. Hyunjin is there too. But he’s being useless and looking at shades of red and yellow despite the fact that you’ve already picked up the tubs of paint from the craft store. “I think they have enough hands,” he mentions casually, earning a glare from Jeongin.
“Go,” the younger boy bosses.
Your friend points a brush at Jeongin, threatening him. “If Changbin kicks my ass for messing with his design, which you know for a fact that I will because he’s not very gifted at drawing, I am going to hurt you,” Jisung announces. He doesn’t sound very confident, however. He mumbles something about wishing he was a Slytherin before he drags himself towards the challenged artist.
“I think we’ll have all the banners finished by tonight.” You can say this confidently because Woojin and Felix are nearly done with Hufflepuff’s.
“Yeah. Centerpieces will be done by tomorrow, and if not, we’ll just pick up on Wednesday. Right on schedule,” Jeongin tells you, one hand steadily tracing the banner. You want your kids to be just like him when they grow up. If you ever were to have kids that is.
“I love you, did you know that?”
He smiles sheepishly. “Not as much as you love Minho,” he chimes in. Miraculously, it’s like everyone knows about your crush on Lee Minho but Lee Minho himself.
You press your lips together, crossing your arms. Minho’s so ugh. He’s not even painting the Slytherin banner right, but you know for a fact that they’ll be okay because Chan’s always out to save his ass. Minho’s just smiling and saying “oops” in a stupid cute voice when he intentionally paints green onto all of Chan’s fingers. Such a nuisance. Ugh.
“Y/N! You’re getting blue on the raven!” Jeongin accuses and stands up to make a big scene out of it. God, why did he have to take that drama course? Why is visual arts a GE requirement for a biology major like him?
“Calm down… I’ll just paint black over it,” you explain, hoping he’d shut up. Everyone (and Minho) is looking in your direction; you feel your cheeks grow warm.
“What a rookie move, Y/N!” Minho shouts from the Slytherin work area like an actual Slytherin. One more word and you’ll sock his face like what Hermione did with Draco. “You literally have one of the easiest banners!”
The truth is—you’re not a terrible artist—you’re just distracted. And you shouldn’t be because you see Minho’s face every single day. If anything, you should be accustomed to it by now. Inured. But why does your heart have to beat that much faster when he’s nearby? Not to mention that he’s already walking towards you to mock your mediocre craftsmanship.
“I’ll fix it, you fool. Focus on your own banner,” you respond harshly.
“We’re practically done,” he laughs, and Chan gives him a thumbs up.
“Go help Jennie with the tables.”
Minho looks sort of hesitant. “Um… Jennie flipped me off earlier because she asked if her new cardigan looked good on her, and I said no.” This prompts you to look over at Jennie, who is securing tablecloths onto every single university-branded round table with Jisoo. He’s right—she could do so much better.
“Take five. When Seungmin’s done with the lights, you can help him decorate the bar,” you tell him, trying your very best to paint the banner and not fuck up (because Jeongin might start yodeling or something).
“Hey, I want to ask you someth–”
“Y/N! Emergency! We forgot to buy glitter!” Rosé calls from across the ballroom as she holds up two readily Mod Podge-d placards in the air.
You shove your paintbrush into Minho’s hand. “Crap. Here, paint this. I need to run to the craft store,” you say, hopping off the ledge of the stage to save your vice president.
ten.
Thursday evening rolls along, and the university’s North Ballroom has officially transformed into the Yule Ball at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It’s nowhere near winter (or Christmas), but Jisung has somehow managed to convince his ochem professor to let him borrow three Christmas trees for the stage backdrop. You’re not sure what the trade-offs are for his final grade if he damages them, but he seems pretty okay with a solid C. This addition ties the entire venue together, in your opinion. String lights and LED icicles hanging from the ceiling, intricate centerpieces on every table, bar and DJ equipment all set up and ready to go. You think your gang of cranky, sleep-deprived friends did a pretty solid job on this venue.
“Alright, team. The tech people will set up the picture booth and dance floor tomorrow, so we’re done for the night,” Seungmin tells everyone. “Please go home and get some rest!”
Rosé adds before everyone starts to peel themselves off the unfinished dance floor. “And make sure to have a good night’s sleep so you’ll look hot at the ball tomorrow!”
At this rate, everyone’s just exhausted and wants to sleep. The past few days consisted of ASB members running in and out of the ballroom, 3RACHA frantically hooking up all their equipment while trying to maneuver wires around ladders, and a lot of (alcohol-free) cocktail testing because who the heck knows what Gillywater tastes like.
Jeongin leans his back again yours, and his hair tickles the crown of your head. “This dance floor will literally light up tomorrow. It’s going to be so cool,” you comment, patting your hand on the floor. Despite being beat after hours of running across the ballroom and tending to details, you think that it’s worth it. College is sometimes worth it.
“I mean, I guess,” Jeongin groans, attempting to scoot himself away from Changbin, who is trying to suffocate him in a hug. “Ew, gross. There’s glitter all over your hands!” And that’s the last time you see Jeongin (on Thursday) because he sprints back to his dorm, turning back to throw a peace sign back at Changbin.
“Please don’t try to hug me,” you say to him.
“Excuse me? I’m not trying to get my balls cut off by hitting on Minho’s girl.”
In less than a quick second, you punch his shoulder, earning a groan from him. “Don’t say that! He could have heard you,” you whisper threateningly. God, if he weren’t preoccupied with Woojin and Lisa nagging his ear off about some CS project, he could have overheard Seo Changbin’s loud ass voice.
“But it’s fucking true,” Changbin laughs in disbelief.
“No, it’s not!”
“Then why are you getting mad at me?”
“I’m not fucking mad at you!” You cry, standing up to pick up your backpack. “It’s just… don’t say shit when it’s not true. Don’t try to get my hopes up when I’m already confused.”
Changbin scoffs as if it’s a knee-jerk reaction, no sympathy whatsoever. Some friend you have. “I don’t really think that you’re confused,” he says.
“What?”
“I think you know exactly how you feel about Minho. But you’re just too scared and stubborn to confront him because you’re afraid of losing what you already have. So you’d rather live like this and micromanage yourself to prevent your feelings from showing,” he tells you, motioning his head towards Minho, who’s laughing along with your housemate. “I know you want validation. Maybe that’s what he needs too.”
“Can you stop doing that?” You ask bitterly. It feels as if he took your diary (imaginary, because you don’t have the time to write) and flipped to the page with all your qualms about Lee Minho. Narrates the list like he’s giving a product pitch for Apple.
Changbin laughs aloud this time, his head thrown back dramatically. He tosses his car keys in Chan’s direction before he responds, “You mean being a good friend? Who genuinely cares about your love life? And taking time out of my busy day to talk to you?”
“As if. You just don’t want Lee Minho to cut your balls off.” You turn to him as you glare into his deep brown eyes. Hostility aside, most of the gang has left, and it’s mainly just your housemates and Changbin’s.
“Because I need them?”
“Wow, that’s good to know.”
Lisa clicks her tongue in your direction and turns off the lights in the North Ballroom. “Alright, time to say bye to Bin. We’re gonna head back now,” she calls out, bumping fists with Chan and Minho on her way out. Jisoo’s probably napping in the car already; it’s going to be such a hassle to wake her up.
“I hope you become broke after renting your tuxedo,” you say in lieu of goodbye.
Changbin just pats your shoulder. “I hope you trip over your dress and fall on top of a certain dude whose name rhymes with Pee Winho.”
“Splendid,” you deadpan.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Chan smiles when he gives you a side hug. “Get some sleep and stop watching sad pet videos at night. It’s all over my Instagram feed.”
Chan’s the only nice one in your friend group. And you don’t mean “nice” in a bad way either; he’s anything but boring. He’s just a genuinely interesting person to be around, knows how to hold meaningful conversations, isn’t afraid to stick up for his friends. He’s great—it’d be so nice if you could fall for him again.
“I’ll try, buddy. Get those eyebags taken care of,” you tease, nudging his side.
Minho is right next to him, standing there with an oversized university hoodie that covers his mid-thigh and his Adidas joggers that he solemnly swears by. He carries his backpack on one shoulder, defeated and tired, like any junior year college student who can’t remember his carefree high school days and can’t look forward to graduating because he still has another year to worry about.
He is beautiful.
eleven.
“Damn! Who is she?” You holler from your bed when Jisoo struts out of the walk-in closet in a full-length, pastel yellow gown trimmed with lace and florals. She gives it a twirl and fluffs up layers of tulle. She looks like Belle. Stunning.
“Wait, why are you sitting down?” Jisoo scolds you immediately. “You’re going to wrinkle the tulle, you dumbass.”
You stand up, narrowing your eyes at her and straightening your gown. “Wow, I compliment my roommate for being hot stuff, and this is how I’m being treated in return?” you inquire, feigning a hurt expression.
“Your roommate also spent an hour last night steaming your dress and avoiding all the polyester stars because they will burn!” Jisoo reminds you, referring to the embroidered stars on top of your sheer black tulle.
For a person who’s not very dressy, you sure are picky about this particular dress. Your housemates have all purchased their dresses weeks prior to the ball, and yours barely arrived at your doorstep two days ago. But you tell yourself that the stress was worth it. By no means are you a fashion major, but it makes it seem like you can fucking dress yourself. It’s this gown with two layers: the top is sheer tulle with capped sleeves and patterned with gold stars and moons, and the bottom is a strapless, midnight blue dress made with silk; the waist is cinched with a gold ribbon. How very Ravenclaw of you.
Fondness bleeds into your expression. “I would die for you, Jisoo. I really would,” you tell her seriously before cracking a shit-eating grin.
“Yeah, yeah. Save it for Minho.”
“I would not die for him!” You declare with the passion of Kim Woojin, first in line at the new fried chicken place on campus. “I would die with him, bro.”
“Whipped,” she says, fixing up her gloss in the mirror. “Are you ready to go? Minho says he’s picking us up at five.”
You tilt your head, furrowing your brows. “Minho? I thought Woojin was picking us up.”
“I mean, he was supposed to be our ride. But Seungmin needed him to run some errands because we ran out of soda. So he’s most likely at the market right now cruising the soft drink aisle in a pricey tux,” Jisoo casually mentions. Like it’s no Big Deal. Like that fact that Lee Minho is driving you to the ball is no biggie.
Truth is, you’re not ready to see him. And you are most definitely not ready for him to see you.
“Um… can Lisa drive me instead?” you ask nervously, chewing your bottom lip. This isn’t even prom, you shouldn’t be this nervous. You also shouldn’t be picking at your dress because the metallic thread is delicate and expensive.
“No, she left with Woojin already. He’s her date, remember? He asked her on Wednesday.”
“What? Why is Woojin her date?”
Jisoo widens her doe-like eyes and looks at you concerningly. “Y/N, it’s the Yule Ball. It’s a ball! And you didn’t think to ask anyone to be your date? You’re the fucking secretary! Who are you going to dance with during the staff dance?”
You’re panicking at this rate. Not because you don’t have a date but because you’ve never seen Jisoo lash out like this until today. You must be an idiot. “I forgot! I was too focused on getting stuff together and actually planning the ball! Um… I’ll ask Seungmin? He’s the president, he won’t say no to me,” you blurt, distressed.
“Hello? President and Vice President are the first dance? Pick someone else.”
You search through a mental list of the eligible bachelors that you know. Chan is too busy DJ-ing (sorry ladies and gentlemen). Changbin has managed to find a date who can deal with his whiny ass. Woojin, Seungmin, Hyunjin, and Jeongin also have dates. Jisung and Felix like to keep their options open like the tryhard playboys they are.
There’s no hope now.
“I’ll just pretend to use the restroom or something. University food usually gives you food poisoning,” you decide, dodging her stare.
“Are you sure that everyone you know has a date? Like everyone you know.”
“Mhmm,” you drawl, furrowing your brows. “Do you want to dance with me? You don’t have a date.”
Jisoo deadpans. “I have a boyfriend, Y/N. He doesn’t need to ask me to be his date.”
“Can he not share?”
“You’re being ridiculous right now,” she informs you as she packs her belongings into a small clutch—you stand and watch her.
Just because you’re dateless, just because your options ultimately boil down to Minho, just because you’re desperate and he’s your best friend, doesn’t mean that you’ll ask him to be your date. It’s too risky. What if he already has a date? What if he has someone he wants to ask to the dance? You have no right to depend on him to be your date. It’s not like that. It’s not like with Jisoo and her boyfriend where it's an unspoken rule. With you and Minho, there are no rules. No rules that are meant to be broken.
“I’m not,” you state. “I’m going to pay Jisung five bucks to dance with me.”
“And that’s not ridiculous?”
“At least I’m not the one, posting a selfie of myself on Twitter, and asking Jeon Jungkook to fly his ass over here to ask me to the Yule Ball!”
Jisoo crinkles her nose, she looks disgusted. “Oh my god. She really did that?”
“Yup. Tagged the band’s Twitter handle and all.”
“Aren’t you jealous?”
Of course not. Jeon Jungkook would never ask a fan to the Yule Ball. Or any ball. It’s unrealistic. You’ve never been jealous because of him. You don’t know him as a person nor do you care for him deeply like the way you care about Jisoo or your other friends.
The only time you’ve been jealous was during your sophomore year. Minho offered to study with you at the library (you ordered Chinese takeout and all) but canceled last minute because something “urgent” came up with his dance partner, a pretty senior girl. That night was lonely; you ate all that orange chicken by yourself on the fifth floor. You didn’t respond to Minho’s texts for an entire day until Chan mentioned that his dance partner had sprained her ankle during rehearsal and needed a ride to the hospital. And he was also kind enough to mention that she’s in a very committed relationship with the captain of the football team. You ended up doing the Walk of Shame to Minho’s shared apartment with a burrito bowl and ice cream—you never want to experience jealousy again.
Ugh. But what if Minho already has a date? You don’t want him to hold her hand and put an arm around her waist? Jealousy stinks.
“Very,” you say.
twelve.
“Hello ladies,” Minho greets, rolling down the windows as soon as you exit the apartment complex. He wiggles his dark brows. “My name is Lee Minho, not the actor, and I am at your service.”
“You’re not even going to open the door for us?” Jisoo snorts and gets into the backseat, leaving the passenger seat open for yours truly.
“It’s because we’re not paying him,” you tell your roommate. “And we shouldn’t even need to. He eats and sleeps at our apartment for free half the time.”
Minho fixes his collar in the rearview mirror. As if it were crooked to begin with. “I pay you with my company and clean your fridge for free. That yogurt was going to expire, Jisoo. Aren’t you glad I finished it for you?” He questions her, referring to the time where Jisoo’s dad bought her a pack of vanilla-flavored Yoplait, and she got so sick of it to the point where she was offering it to students during ASB tabling.
“So very thoughtful of you,” she chides.
You have to force yourself to enter the car (and stop drooling). You’re not used to seeing Minho without some baggy sweater over his Adidas sweatpants and his worn-out pair of indoor slides that he likes to wear everywhere. Instead, he’s wearing a black dress shirt with a forest green tie, silver rings lining his fingers and hair tousled in that wet, effortlessly-styled kind of way. His blazer is on the armrest, and it’s black with matching forest green lapels; how very Slytherin of him. He looks very couture vogue, like that suit was tailored to fit every inch of his body. He looks rich, expensive. He looks like the fucking love of your life.
“You clean up nicely,” you say to him. Greatest understatement of the year.
“Of course. I can’t have my best friend outshine me during the Yule Ball,” he explains, giving you a lopsided smile. “You look nice tonight–”
“Save the compliments for later! Seungmin’s spamming the group chat because the turnout rate is insane. There’s a line that wraps around the fountain and down the stairs!” Jisoo urges Minho to floor it, which you’re a little grateful for.
At least this way, Minho doesn’t have to see you mentally combust.
His Spotify playlist goes on shuffle— “These Nights” by 88rising begins to play.
thirteen.
The North Ballroom looks so magical that it almost seems surreal. Like you’re half-expecting to see Sir Nicholas’ ghost float by and show you his decapitated head. Seems like the university knew that this was going to be the Event of the Year because they even provided a complimentary chocolate fountain for the guests to enjoy— this is what your tuition goes towards. Plus, you’re very grateful that most of the attendees actually made an effort to dress up extravagantly, dresses and suits and all. They all look like Triwizard champions.
“I’m glad I sold my soul to make this event come to life. Especially during my last year,” Jennie says, finally taking a seat beside you and slipping her heels off. “Best idea ASB ever came up with.”
“I know! Aren’t you sad to leave college?”
“If you put it like that, then yes?” Then, she runs her hand through her curls and makes an unpleasant face as if to say “then again”. “But you know how I’m the TA for the class on the internet industry, right? For the video projects, one group’s film had a bong in the corner of the room. Like, what am I supposed to do with that information?”
College is the best and worst four years of your life, they say. “Though you are severely underpaid, you should grade on the contents of the video and not let extraneous factors affect you.” You’re never going to be a TA; you might cry if anyone decides to roast you on Piazza, even if the kid were a freshman. Big stress.
“Ugh. You sound just like Professor Bae. I’m getting food. Any recommendations?” she asks. Jennie’s been working check-in with Hyunjin ever since the event started two hours ago. You’re not sure if the light snacks will fill her.
“Everything is… dining hall food but on silver platters. I can ask Rosé to order something more substantial. That’s what club funds are for, and we really racked up this year.”
Jennie shakes her head, chuckling. “Rosé is too busy running her ass around and making sure everyone is recycling. I’ll just go stuff myself with chocolate before the staff dance.”
“Don’t get chocolate on your dress though!” You shout through the music, and she’s already halfway to the buffet table, tiptoeing barefoot across the carpet with a lump of dark green fabric in one hand. Jennie gives you a thumbs up.
Hyunjin appears beside you with a plate of chocolate-covered strawberries and s’mores. “Want some?” he asks over a mouthful of fruit and chocolate, no manners whatsoever.
You grab a skewer and begin to eat obligingly. It’s not every day that Hwang Hyunjin brings you food. “Check-in was that bad, huh,” you say, eyeing his plate filled with desserts. He usually complains too much about getting bloated to reward himself like this.
“Sho bad,” he emphasizes while chewing, eyes rolled back as he heaves a sigh. Hyunjin picks up Jennie’s heels and sets it to the side, sitting down on the staff table. “Students and faculty get in for free, but outside guests need to pay. You think I don’t recognize a fake ID? Do they think I was born yesterday or something?”
“Fake student ID? I’m dead,” you snicker. “This isn’t even a nightclub… this boosts my ego as secretary so much. Don’t tell Seungmin. He might just faint.”
“Since you’re secretary, why are you sitting here like a loner and not out there doing something?” Hyunjin says it like it’s a bad thing. It’s not your fault you can’t DJ like Chan, bartend like Woojin, or take pictures as well as Seungmin. Plus, you’re still stressing over not having a date for the first dance. “And why do you look so bothered?” he adds, dunking his marshmallow in more chocolate.
You frown particularly at the way he worded that. “I fucked up and forgot to ask someone to the first dance. And none of you even bothered to remind me? Or even ask me? Didn’t you ask Jennie, like, yesterday night?”
“Hey! Half of us would have probably asked you… but like… you’re kind of off-limits.”
“What? What do you mean ‘I’m off-limits’?” you ask, scandalized; your heart pounces a little.
Hyunjin’s first order of business is to set his food down and clasp his hands together like he’s a business professional and about to give you a daily report on the stock market. Not a pleasant way to start the morning, by the way. “It’s an unsaid agreement. Minho is legally your single, bachelor best friend. Therefore, he’s obligated to ask you. I don’t want to mess with that agreement and have to deal with the consequences of my head getting bitten off,” he tells you honestly.
You would rather listen to him give you a report on the crashing stock market. Because your heart’s the one crashing now. Because, fuck the legal agreement, Minho hasn’t even asked you to the first dance! “Hyunjin! He hasn’t even asked me! He probably asked someone else, like that girl he’s talking to right now,” you hiss, pointing across the room to where the photo booth is.
“That’s your marketing professor, Y/N.”
“Oh, that actually explains a lot. McGonagall's costume and all.”
Hyunjin crosses his arms proudly. “See. I know Minho, he doesn’t have an interest in other people. He’s practically stalling just for you to ask him because Slytherins are cowards. Who the heck talks to their professor during an event?”
“Lee Minho does. Product positioning is his kink.”
“I have no interest in what his kinks are, unlike you! Shut up and go ask him already! The dance is about to happen,” Hyunjin says, standing up to scan the ballroom for his date. “Where’s Jennie? She needs shoes to dance.”
“You’re so unromantic,” you scoff. Of course, dancers. “She’s stuffing her face at the chocolate bar. If you drag her away right now, she might hurt you.”
Hyunjin grabs her heels and takes the chance; he’d rather get a fistful of marshmallows thrown to his face than miss the first dance. You, on the other hand, would rather miss the first dance.
The lights begin to dim.
“Alright, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s give a special thanks to the ASB Student Council for making this magical night happen! Grab your partners to the middle of the dance floor and pull them close for this song, you know who you are!” Chan announces from the stage.
You feel called out, like he’s directly staring at you and telling you to step up your game.
Taking a deep breath, you stand up and grip the sides of your dress, half-walking and half-searching the dark ballroom for your best friend before Chan starts the song. You swear Minho was just there a few minutes ago–
“–Hi, Y/N. Jisoo told me you didn’t have a date,” Jungwoo says, interrupting your train of thought. You remember that he’s from your film class; you sort of don’t recognize him without his satchel and hipster, Urban Outfitters-esque outfits. Jungwoo looks even better tonight; very Hufflepuff of him to wear a mustard yellow scarf with a suit. “Um, so I was wondering if you’d like to dance with me?”
You gape, eyes wide open. You don’t know how to respond… but the dance is going to start any second now. “I, um, I alread–”
“–Hey! There you are!” Minho greets and wraps an arm around your waist. “Sorry, Y/N. There was a line in the men’s restroom because one stall didn’t work properly. The janitors don’t get paid enough, do they?”
“Oh! I didn’t realize Minho had asked you already!” Jungwoo exclaims, chuckling at his own mistake.
Yeah, you didn’t realize either.
fourteen. The acoustic version of “First Time” by Seven Lions and SLANDER begins to play. It’s a terribly soft song—you hate Chan for playing it.
You don’t even have a second to apologize to Jungwoo and remind him about the film discussion meeting next Thursday before Minho is grabbing your hand with his own and pulling you close to him. He holds one of your hands out and places his other on your waist, resting it comfortably on your dress. As naturally as you can, you rest your hand on his shoulder.
“Men’s restroom? Bullshit,” you whisper playfully to get rid of the nerves. “I saw you talking to Park beforehand. Were you kissing up to her?”
“You already know,” Minho says, swaying you against the soft piano acoustics. Everything’s perfect. How the light shining on the hanging icicles make Minho look like he’s glistening, how he’s holding you close like you’re all he has, how his palm is warm against the small of your back. It must be because he’s a dancer—it feels just right.
So don't stop now
I'm falling for you, I can't lie
I wanted you to stay…
“I thought you were going to ask someone else to the dance,” you tell him, eyes cast down at your heels.
“Well, I didn’t.”
His words tug at your heartstrings, and when he pulls you closer at the bridge of the song, everyone on the dance floor disappears until it’s only you and him. You can’t seem to focus on anything but him. Everything is so potently him — you can even smell his Dior cologne he tried way too hard to buy during Black Friday (not that you’re complaining). And his eyes? Cosmic. If you looked close enough, you think you can see all the galaxies in his starry eyes.
Oh, feels like we're falling for the first time
Oh, this is exactly what it feels like
You shift nervously against him; Minho’s face is dangerously close to yours. “You know I wouldn’t have said yes, right? I was looking for you,” you confess. “It just didn’t feel right to dance with anyone but you.”
“Sure, liar. You were going to pay Han,” he responds with a straight face despite the amusing glint in his eye.
“He was my safety backup… because I was scared to ask you,” you confess, “You know I wouldn’t have paid him! I love money too much.”
“I guess.”
I, I knew that you were worth it
I, don't know if I deserve this
You, have given me a purpose
You, yeah you were always worth it
Minho leans a little closer, locking eyes with you. “Why were you scared?”
“Because it’s not like Jisoo and her boyfriend,” you say, and he cocks his head in confusion. “Just because you’re my best friend, doesn’t mean that you have to ask me to the dance. There’s no legal or ethical agreement binding you to me. You could have asked someone else… because you have no obligation towards me. So yeah, I didn’t want to ask you and crush your dreams of asking someone else. Because I know you’ll say yes to me. Because you’re my best friend.”
Your heart becomes all erratic at the confession. Sure, it’s not even a full-fledged, flower-bearing, tear-jerking confession, but it’s enough to strangle the life out of you. He makes you feel like the female character of a trashy, high school teenage romance novel published in sans serif font (which lacks even more qualification), and you hate it, you really do. But if it’s with Minho, then being irrational and dramatic is fine.
“Is that it?”
“Yes? That’s why I was scared.”
He moves both of your hands to his shoulder and wraps his arms around your torso, clasping his hands on the back of your waist. The sound of your thumping heart drowns the chorus. “No. I meant, am I only just your best friend?” he clarifies.
“W-What else would you be?” you stutter, puzzled at his response.
“Does this mean nothing to you?”
“Minho, what–”
Wordlessly, Minho leans down and presses his lips against your parted ones—you gasp into the kiss. The feeling of his mouth on top of yours sends your head and your heart pounding, hands clenching the fabric of his tuxedo. You seize up at the kiss at first, almost stiff, before you cave into him and draw him closer with a hand on the nape of his neck. You can feel his lips captivating yours, feel his breath mixing in with your own, feel his heartbeat racing against your palm. Minho tilts his head and kisses you fervently, swallowing each and every one of your qualms away, like he’s been waiting to do that all night. He holds you close like you’re his. And you hold him close like he’s yours.
Feels like we're falling for the first time
The first time...
fifteen.
If there’s one thing you are especially horrible at, it would be dealing with your feelings, namely your feeling towards Lee Minho. Because you can’t seem to face him or give him a proper response after the kiss.
“Minho!”
“Wha-where?” You blurt, snapping out of your trance and looking around the room frantically only to realize that there’s no one in the coffee shop but a few office workers. No one’s ever awake this early on a Saturday. Not even you. But you haven’t slept a wink since last night.
“In your dreams, dumbass,” Woojin snorts, rolling his eyes. “I’ve called your name three times already. You’re so fucking whipped for him.”
If it weren’t for the fact that he bought you this very Vietnamese coffee that you are drinking right now, you’d tell him off. Instead, you resort to burying your face in your palms, a deep sigh emitting from your lips. “I haven’t slept since last night, Woojin,” you tell him, “I’m just… I don’t know what to do.”
“Do you know how much I want to sleep?”
“It’s not my fault that you’re taking the opening shift.” If anything, he should be thanking you for spending time with him during his fifteen-minute break.
“You want to date Minho,” Woojin states matter-of-factly.
You feel uncomfortable at the mention of Minho’s name. At the way Woojin reads you like you’re an open book. Like you’re transparent and made of glass and he can see into your heart and the depths of your soul. Like he knows how stupidly feeble your heart is and how your best friend means everything to you, more than anything this fucked up world has to offer. Not to be dramatic, but yeah, that’s Kim Woojin.
“So? But to risk everything? You know nothing will ever be the same if we break up, right?” you say back, feeling your voice crack at the thought of losing Minho entirely.
“And you think ignoring him after the kiss isn’t a stab to the heart?” Woojin acts as if you said “I don’t” and left him at the altar. “How would you even know if you didn’t try? How much longer are you going to tiptoe around him and act as if you don’t see him as anything more than a friend? It’s 2020, Y/N. Maybe it’s time to stop neglecting your feelings,” he finishes.
You tense up instantly and a deafening silence descends.
It’s not as if you and Minho had been best friends since the womb; frankly, you lived a solid eighteen years of your life prior to knowing him. You got into college with the mindset that it would be the best and worst four years of your life, and eighteen-year-old Y/N was right. It’s a fucking shitfest of exams and debt, but free alcohol and good company make up for it.
You met Minho on the first day of orientation when you asked him where the check-in was. He took an immediate interest in your fat cat plush after you’ve expressed that you couldn’t sleep without it, even if orientation was just one night away from home. Minho looks kind of different from before, better if you had to choose. When you first met him, he looked lost, hands stuffed into his gray hoodie as he dragged himself along with a massive Nike duffel bag. Three years later, you don’t recognize that kid anymore. Minho grew into his features as he started making use of the “free” gym that the campus demands you to pay a recreational fee for, he no longer gives two fucks about people who waste his time, and he radiates confidence in himself and his endeavors.
The best part was, you got to see that transformation.
Since orientation, he has planted himself in your life (like a true parasite), woven himself deep into the crevices of your heart and bones. It’s seamless, it’s effortless. It’s as if your lives were meant to collide and intermingle like all the stars have miraculously aligned for you to find him on this lonely college campus where people barely converse with one another. Minho has become a part of you unknowingly, and you wouldn’t know what to do if one day, you wake up, and he’s gone. Truly, it would be a Black Mirror type of universe if he disappears; you’ll be on your phone, wondering how life would be like in a world where he isn’t a clever simulation of your brain.
The human brain is capable of many things: Einstein and the Theory of Relativity, Newton and the Three Laws of Motion, and whoever invented french fries in Belgium… geniuses. But even if you used up your last standing brain cell to simulate Minho’s smile—his lips that have a crooked curve and his eyes that light up softly like waltzing stars—it wouldn’t work. Nothing is as devastatingly beautiful as the actual thing.
Your heart is so screaming loudly for him, but what’s holding you back?
“You know, you can’t give everything an outcome before it even starts,” Woojin tells you, “If that were the case, I would have dropped out of college.”
Woojin’s right, as he usually is.
He was actually on the fence of dropping out of university to enroll in a community college and pursue a minimum wage job to pay back his student debt. However, due to several dreadful days of locking himself in his room and drowning his sorrows in Hot Pockets, he decided to stay and give college a second chance. Now, Woojin is one of the selected few to participate in a paid music production internship all the way in Hollywood. What a star!
“But you didn’t. You’re basically ballin’,” you smile, feeling like the bits and pieces of your heart and coming together.
Your friend laughs bitterly, throwing his hands in the air. “I work two jobs, Y/N.”
“If I bought an expensive car, you best bet I would become a stripper.”
Woojin scowls (because he’s not a stripper but a barista), and his coworker tells him that his break is over. “So, if I want something, like a car, I’ll work hard until I can get it. Relationships aren’t all that different,” he replies. “You already have his heart, just make it last.”
That’s a good piece of advice.
Minho wasn’t your first (you don’t remember his name), but you want to love him like he’s your last. He’s worth it, you decide, and life’s too short to miss opportunities. You want him to crawl up to your apartment past midnight demanding square donuts. You want him to confide in you and trust that you’ll be there for him even if you’re cramming for a final and running on five Monster drinks. You want him to hug you so tightly until there’s a trail of cat fur on your leggings. You want to make him smile because he only deserves happiness and nothing short of it.
“Okay, I’ll pay Lee Minho to become my stripper,” you declare with the willpower of a soldier fighting for independence.
Woojin raises his eyebrows at your confession. “He might willingly do it for free. If he’s in the mood for it.”
“I love free,” you say wistfully, earning a flick on the forehead from your barista friend.
sixteen.
You know you’re nervous when you’re pacing like a crackhead at the front gate of Minho’s apartment complex at 10 AM in the goddamn morning. The neighbors walking their dogs must think that you’re crazy—well, maybe you are kind of crazy for this guy.
Minho’s apartment is so stinking old that it still has an intercom system; you feel like you’re paying your grandparents a visit. With shaky hands, you punch in the numbers 3-2-5 and an excruciating noise follows. Seconds later, there’s a groggy “what” on the other end of the line. It sounds like a hungover Changbin.
“Hey, dude. Can you get Minho to come down? I need to give him something–”
“Bitch, get up! Y/N says she needs to give you something! Maybe some cake or her virginity!” Changbin bellows on the other end. The line falls flat and so does your heart rate.
You are speechless. Flabbergasted. Appalled. You are this close to sprinting home.
Cake? That’s okay. Cake is yummy and can be bought. Virginity? Tempting… but that’s later on in the story... if everything works out. You really should have known better than to trust boys. There’s no telling what a smelly, hungover Seo Changbin can say or do. Either way, you’re ruined. Minho will see you as a creep and regret kissing you and never set foot in your apartment again… you want to turn back time and redo this.
You’re about to beat yourself (and Changbin) up and consider banging your head against the brick wall to end your misery when Lee Minho steps out of his apartment, walking down the stairs with a bedhead and slippers. Even in a big hoodie and fuzzy pajama pants, he is perfect.
Your heart gnaws at the sight of him, and it hurts more when you see how sleepless he’s been. How his eyebags are almost as prominent as Chan’s. There’s a fading imprint on his face; you think he’s been tossing and turning all night and fell asleep on his headphones.
“Hey,” you breathe out, taking small steps towards him when he opens the massive gate, iron rails scraping against each other.
Minho stops walking and stuffs his hands in his pocket, stares at you with forlorn eyes. He watches you stop when you’re standing right in front of him. “What?” he asks coldly with an indifferent expression. If he notices the nervous flicker in your eyes, he doesn’t comment on it and you’re grateful for that.
“I’m… uh, I don’t have cake,” you mention, voice quivering. There’s an apology lingering at the tip of your tongue, but the embarrassment and impending fear run rampant in your mind. Catches the breath in your throat. Locks your jaw.
“Okay,” he says, and silence comes crashing in. You feel like you’re sitting in the dilapidated ruins of a city, post-earthquake, and waiting in agony for the aftershock. It’s so deadly silent that you can’t focus on your thoughts through the thundering of your heart.
Minho looks tired. His eyes are more glossy than usual, probably from yawning due to lack of sleep. His jaw is defensively tight and that doesn’t sit well with you, because you don’t remember the last time he’s been ticked off like this. He looks regretful. For a moment, you feel a little pathetic for approaching him.
“That’s not what I came here to say,” you mumble quietly, “I’m… um…”
Without warning, you go on your toes and reach for his lips, hands resting softly on the sides of his face. At the kiss, you feel Minho’s body stiffen in surprise. To your relief, he then softens and surrenders to your touch. A weight lifts off your chest.
You are breathless when you pull back, dizzy.
“I’m sorry for ignoring you yesterday,” you tell him, and you can tell that he’s listening because he’s looking at you ardently. “I just needed some time to gather my thoughts. That kiss meant everything to me. Because you sort of mean everything to me.”
“Since when?” Minho tilts his head, lips arching—he’s testing you.
You think hard about this. “Since freshman year? When I discovered a corpse in my dorm and had to evacuate for a day until my roommates came back from spring break,” you reply thoughtfully, searching his gaze with keen eyes.
Minho’s hands find your face, and he cradles your cheeks before squishing them together. “It was a dead cockroach,” he corrects.
“Yeah. A big corpse,” you feel the need to inform. “Are you pissed off at me?”
Minho gives you a little smile, that signature raise of his lips, before leaning down and closing his eyes until they disappear in the shadows of his full lashes; you guess that’s his way of saying it’s okay. Minho holds you close with fingers entangled in your hair, controlling the kiss, his other hand gravitating towards the tapers of your waist. He kisses you because he can, and it makes you feel all weak in the knees as he tries to steal the breath from your lungs. There’s something about kissing Minho, the familiarity of having his chest pressed against yours and his arms wrapped around you that feels normal and right. Like that one term you learned in lecture: infrastructure. Like wifi and coffee. Something that is so prevalent and taken for granted that you don’t realize it until it breaks down—then your life is in shambles.
If there’s one thing you know (and will finally admit to), it’s that you have always wanted to kiss Lee Minho. From that very day since the cockroach passed away in your dormitory and you slept on his Twin XL top bunk. And if there’s one thing you wished you knew earlier, it’s that the same boy will always kiss you back.
Woojin is right, you are so whipped for him. And he might be too. He just hides it better like the true Scorpio he is.
He presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth before trailing his lips to the shell of your ear and whispers, “What did you want to give me again?”
“Cake?” you suggest, feeling goosebumps forming on your skin.
“The other one.”
“Only if you pay me.”
Minho brushes it off with a chuckle; you think your heart just did a massive cartwheel at the sound of his laugh. “Cash or card,” he replies, tucking your hair behind your ear, his fingertips tickling your skin.
Without hesitation, you tell him, “Cash.”
“Oh my God. You’re dirty.”
Only then, he seems to notice the shopping bag you’ve been holding onto since the crack of dawn. Minho gasps out loud dramatically. “You bought me two boxes of Thin Mints? That’s ten dollars. It could buy you two months worth of eggs!”
“I hate how I throw away money for you,” you mutter under your breath. “So annoying.”
“Five bucks if you give me another kiss.”
You jump on that offer.
When Minho smiles into the kiss and the sunlight catches the flecks of gold in his brilliant brown eyes, you know that no amount of money in the world could buy the time you have with him. Life is short. Politics is a messy hellhole. The world might end because of global warming and sea-level rising. You are just a negligible being floating in the expanse of the ever so powerful cosmos with no legacy. But with Minho, standing right beside you, right in this very moment, you feel invincible because he loves you wholly and fiercely and loudly. You love how his heart loves you more than there are stars in the galaxies and will love you until the final demise of the universe. Until the waves come crashing into skyscrapers and fire sweeps the plains.
Even if the sky falls and the earth crumbles, you think you will be okay if Minho is by your side.
ps: if you’ve made it to the end, thank you so much for reading & don’t forget to like + reblog :D this fic is lazily proofread, so excuse any mistakes; happy 2020 & stay safe + healthy !!! see you in the next fic ^.^
