Chapter Text
“If you don’t have your student ID card, we can just look you up.”
The receptionist’s well-intentioned offer goes completely unnoticed as Jooyeon continues rummaging through his backpack, crouched low to the floor and emptying out pockets frenetically. Behind them, a lengthy line piles up—all students, study-worn and glaring at Jooyeon’s oblivious back. They’ve been trying to check in for five minutes. Jiseok wants to die.
He’d thought getting feedback on his paper would be a simple process, but with finals season on the horizon students have descended on the tutoring center like proverbial vultures. Not to mention their scheduling system is a nightmare. It had taken deciphering a god-awful website (probably some student volunteer’s passion project) and refreshing periodically for two hours to do it, but Jiseok finally managed to grab one of the last spots.
Jooyeon, in typical Jooyeon fashion, hadn’t even bothered looking at the schedule, convinced he could get a walk-in appointment. Which, so far, is going just about as well as Jiseok expected it to.
“Um,” says the receptionist. She’s a freshman by the looks of it, and impossibly patient, but even she can’t ignore the increasingly less patient line winding out the door. “We need to—”
“Found it!” Jooyeon nearly hits his head on the jutting edge of the desk as he pops up, thrusting his ID into the air like he’s Broadway’s newest Alexander Hamilton before offering it to the girl.
Unfortunately, their luck ends there. “Jooyeon . . .” she mutters, squinting at her computer monitor. “I don’t see you on the schedule.”
“Oh. Right. About that.” He laughs, like this is a silly little mistake and not an inconvenience for everyone involved. “I was hoping you took walk-in’s?”
Someone behind them groans audibly.
The receptionist bites down on her lip, looking dubious. Her eyes move to Jiseok, apprehensive. “Are you a walk-in, too?”
“I’m scheduled,” Jiseok replies, trying not to sound too proud of himself for doing the bare minimum. He forks over his ID. “Here for a writing tutor.”
The computer beeps, and she nods, looking relieved. “You’re with Jungsu. Head on back to the Writing Center, he’ll be at table 6.”
Jooyeon whistles, impressed. “Fancy system.” He turns to Jiseok. “You go. I’ll be right there.”
Jiseok, with a quick glance at the girl’s furrowed brow, kind of doubts it. Still, he nods, flashing a thumbs up as he goes. “See you.”
He’s never been to the tutoring center before. Never needed to, really. With (mostly) straight A’s and some handy connections, he’s coasted through the past two years with a solid GPA. Even in high school, he’d managed to avoid study halls and “Make-Up Monday’s.” Such accommodations have always been beneath him.
Needless to say, it took a lot of swallowed pride to finally open that dysfunctional webpage.
But as Jiseok winds his way through desks filled with anxiety-ridden students and scattered worksheets, he tries to remind himself that this isn’t him giving in. He’s not stupid. He is smart. Research papers and MLA formatting are just Satan’s tactics to sabotage his degree.
Edging past a whiteboard filled with equations, he takes a sharp right turn into a hallway labelled “Writing Center.” Jooyeon was right about their organized system, at least; some faculty member must run the department with an iron fist. Jiseok is funneled into a room lined with even more tables, each marked with a numbered paper tent. Even on the left, odd on the right. Like that makes any sense.
Jiseok gets saved the trouble of finding his number, anyways. His tutor, who must have a photo of him handy, rises to his feet and waves. As he closes the distance, Jiseok sizes him up—quite literally, because the guy is at least a head taller than him. Maybe more. He’s broad and stocky, with a jockish build that’s immediately negated by his preppy outfit: a white polo, tan slacks, and a school-certified card holder displaying his ID.
Jungsu Kim, it says.
Jungsu Kim is . . . not bad-looking.
It takes a while for Jiseok to actually get to his face since it’s so far above his, but Jungsu immediately strikes him as the type of person who should be off modeling or joining idol groups overseas instead of tutoring undergrad idiots in a dingy room. Shaggy blonde hair frames a cut jawline and pretty, almond-shaped eyes. Two tiny, silver hoops dangle from his earlobes. He smiles, and the whole room gets a little brighter.
Jiseok stares. There’s no way they hired this guy for his brains. Maybe this is their method of encouraging people to study.
“Hey. Jiseok, right?” Jungsu sticks out a hand, abruptly reminding Jiseok that he’s here to study.
“Yeah,” he replies, accepting the handshake. Wow. He didn’t even think about what he was wearing. Is a Green Day hoodie and cargo shorts kosher? Jungsu’s fitted up like this is a job interview—one Jiseok is about to flunk. “You’re my tutor?”
Jungsu nods, motioning for him to sit down. Jiseok does. “For a minute, I thought you weren’t going to show.”
He winces. “Sorry. We had a . . . bit of a holdup.”
“That’s not surprising,” Jungsu sighs. “Our system is so glitchy this semester. But you probably already knew that, huh?” He runs his finger down a paper Jiseok hadn’t noticed before, one that seems to outline his entire life story. Junior, off-campus housing, blood type O, Korean—
Jungsu’s finger finally stops. “Compsci major,” he says, with a small chuckle. “No wonder you’re here.”
Flushing, Jiseok chooses not to take that personally. “What’s your major?”
“Professional Writing and Rhetoric,” is the breezy reply. Go figure. Jiseok bites back a question about what the hell he plans on doing with that. At least Jungsu will always have a fallback in the beauty industry. “I graduate in May.”
“Cool, cool.” So he’s a senior. Thank god. Maybe Jiseok isn’t doomed after all. “You been tutoring long?”
“Just since last year.”
“How’s the pay?”
Jungsu’s reply is slow, tactful. “It’s a rewarding job.”
“So, bad.” Jiseok cracks a smile that Jungsu returns rogueishly.
“Off the record, maybe.”
“I won’t tell.” It rushes out in a dropped voice, a reckless attempt to turn on the charm, and Jiseok nearly cringes at his own corniness.
It must be his lucky day, because Jungsu actually laughs—a stifled, smothered snicker, but a laugh nonetheless. “Thanks,” he whispers back, knee nudging playfully against Jiseok’s. “Can’t have them thinking I’ve gone rogue.”
The contact has Jiseok’s pulse skipping up a few paces. Holy shit. He’s still got it. The shuffling of Jungsu’s papers to reveal an all-too-familiar cover page, however, immediately send his spirits plummeting. Here comes the wrath of God.
“I can’t.”
A hissed protest echoes through the quiet room, successfully distracting them both from the paper again. It’s not hard to find the source; two tables over, the nice girl from the desk has one of the tutors in a death grip—a wiry guy with a shrewd face and silver-bleached hair. While not fighting back, his entire body is angled towards the exit, a backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Just forty-five minutes,” the girl pleads, her voice nowhere near as hushed. Nearly everyone in the room is staring, now. “You’ll get overtime.”
It’s an odd statement, because there’s no way a place like this pays overtime, but either way the tutor is unmoved. “Sorry. My shift ended five minutes ago, and I’ve got plans tonight.”
“Please, Seungmin. You’re the only one who’s free—”
“Because I’m off.”
“—and he won’t leave.”
The tutor—Seungmin—must have a softer heart than he lets on, because he relents without much of a fight. Heaving out a sigh, he drops his pack. “Forty-five minutes,” he tells her. “And counting. It’s forty-four if he doesn’t get his ass over here.”
With a flurry of gratitudes, the girl bustles back down the hall. Seungmin drops into his chair, grumbling.
“Finals season,” Jungsu says to Jiseok, as all the eavesdroppers return to their papers. “Turns some people insane, I swear.”
“Yeah,” Jiseok replies, eyes still trained apprehensively on where the girl disappeared. He gets the feeling he knows who this is about.
Sure enough, Jooyeon comes waltzing into the room seconds later, his lion’s mane of dark hair fluttering in the artificial air-conditioned breeze. He gives Jiseok a two-fingered salute as he passes, winking. At the far end of the room, Seungmin appears to be sprouting gray hairs.
“You know him?” Jungsu asks, with the gall to sound amused. Jiseok flushes a shade deeper. So much for his image.
“He’s, uh . . .”
My roommate. My bandmate. My best friend. The only reason I didn’t drop out sophomore year.
“. . . my classmate,” is what he lands on instead. He’ll save explanations for another day. Satisfied enough with this, Jungsu slides a freshly stapled stack of paper over. The cover page spells out an italicized title— ADHD Accommodations in the Public School System: Room for Improvement. Jiseok’s chest puffs with pride at the sight. He slaved over that cover page; it’s the one thing he feels confidently good about.
“So,” Jungsu says pleasantly. “Your essay.”
“My essay,” Jiseok echoes, trying not to squirm.
“The cover page is nice.” Jungsu flips to the next page, creasing it at the corner. Jiseok’s enthusiasm at the comment lasts all of five seconds before the hammer of justice is brought swiftly down. “The rest is awful.”
“Huh?”
He turns to gape at Jungsu, whose expression is perfectly neutral as he scans the paragraphs. Is he even allowed to say stuff like that?
“It’s pretty bad,” Jungsu elaborates unhelpfully. “Your formatting is inconsistent, you keep switching tenses, the in-text citations are sloppy, and your thesis statement needs work.” He meets Jiseok’s gaze, those pretty eyes suddenly cruelly discerning. “When is this due?”
Jiseok nearly swallows his tongue, tugging at one of his sleeve cuffs as he inspects the wooden grain of the table. “. . . Saturday.”
“Saturday,” Jungsu repeats—blankly, like the gears in his brain are working overtime just to process the information.
“Saturday?” comes Seungmin’s distraught, disbelieving voice from two tables over. Jooyeon, halfway slumped over the desk with his cheek planted in a hand, looks entirely unrepentant.
So maybe they should have come sooner. Maybe Jiseok should have realized his incompetence a few weeks earlier. He’s just been too busy with other finals—ones that actually matter to him—to really take it seriously. The essay is for a 100-level course, one of those stupid generals he needs to graduate, and he and Jooyeon had made the stellar decision of saving it for junior year, applying for the same class like they were signing a suicide pact. Jooyeon’s a Liberal Arts major, so he really had no excuse except procrastination. Jiseok, on the other hand, has scraped by this far only having to write two essays, both of which were for non-English professors who didn’t really give a shit as long as he turned it in on time. So maybe he never actually learned how MLA works, and sure, maybe it’s biting him in the ass now, but to be told his hard work is terrible? Utterly unreadable? Ouch.
Just as Jiseok is about to apologize and see himself out, however, Jungsu speaks. “Okay. Saturday. Can you come in tomorrow?” He lifts the paper, as if looking at it closer will make it any better. “. . . And the next day?”
Jiseok’s stomach sinks. He’d been hoping this would be a one-and-done thing. “I could make it work,” he says, already mourning the band practice he’ll have to forsake. Judging from the way Seungmin is chewing Jooyeon out, they’re in the same boat.
“You’ve got potential,” Jungsu offers, seeming to sense his disappointment. “Seriously. If I thought you were a lost cause, I’d just let you sink.”
“Great tutoring practices you’ve got here.”
“I’m serious, Jiseok. It’s a good idea. And the research is all there. All you need to do is . . .”
“Scrap it and let you rewrite?” Jiseok suggests.
“Arrange it better,” Jungsu corrects him. “I can help with that.”
Hm. Jiseok considers this. Two more tutoring sessions. On one hand, the fallout would be annoying—two missed band practices and two nights of dragging Jooyeon back on campus instead of lazing around and ordering takeout. On the other hand, it’s two more nights with his charming, witty, borderline-freakishly gorgeous tutor who actually wants to see him again—even likes Jiseok enough to overhaul his paper. Jungsu definitely seems to know his stuff; if he can’t fix a botched essay, no one can.
The more Jiseok thinks about it, the better the arrangement sounds. This isn’t so bad after all.
“Okay,” he says at last. “Deal. What’s your first tip, boss?”
Jungsu snorts. He scoots closer, dragging his chair across the carpet and pressing their shoulders together, and geez, he’s broad. Forget modeling—he could be a linebacker. Jiseok, utterly dwarfed in comparison, feels a crawl of itchy heat up his neck. He pinches his arm sharply beneath the desk, training his focus back on the tap of Jungsu’s highlighter.
“Well, the cover page is great.” Jungsu draws a neon yellow circle around Jiseok’s meticulously centered title before continuing. “But you don’t need it.”
“. . . You’re joking.”
Jungsu grins apologetically. He flips to the back of the essay, gesturing at the messy Works Cited page. “Level 100 writing classes almost always deal in MLA format. Your citations fit the guidelines . . . mostly.” Another rueful smile. “But MLA papers don’t actually need a cover page. You must have been referencing an APA guide or something.”
“Kill me,” says Jiseok, staring down at the paper.
“Calm down. That’s what I’m here for.” Jungsu produces yet another paper—one that, upon closer inspection, is essentially a glorified version of Jiseok’s essay. It’s picture-perfect, neatly formatted with a title printed above the body text.
“‘School Lunch Hour: Brief or Bare-Minimum?’” Jiseok reads aloud. “This is what English majors write about?”
It comes out skeptical, and Jungsu raises an eyebrow, looking a little miffed. “This is the final essay I turned in for the class you’re taking. It’s a critical research essay on the public schooling system, just like yours.”
“Yeah, but lunch hour? How much is there to discuss about that?”
“You’d be surprised. Anyway, it got a 100, so watch your tone.”
Jiseok holds up his hands in surrender. “Apologies, your majesty. Do enlighten me.”
Jungsu hums, pleased. Then he aligns their papers, putting them side by side on the desk. The comparison is humbling—like placing a Van Gogh next to a child’s macaroni painting. “All right, let’s start with the easy-to-fix stuff,” he says, drawing another neon circle, this time at the top right of Jiseok’s paper. “You forgot your page numbers.”
“Right,” Jiseok replies sheepishly. He really had meant to put those in. “I couldn’t, uh, figure out how to insert them.”
This earns him a sidelong glance. “Aren’t you a computer sciences major?”
Now it’s Jiseok’s turn to be defensive. “You don’t program websites in Microsoft Word.”
“Fair enough.” Jungsu seems to know when to pick his battles. He straightens slightly, lips twitching. “Sorry. I can show you how to do that. Do you have your laptop on you?”
“Always,” says Jiseok, bending over to unzip his backpack.
The rest of their session goes, for the most part, without a hitch. Jungsu is blunt, but undeniably helpful. He manages to be simultaneously sweet and relentless in his tutoring methods (which Jiseok would find really attractive if his grade and his dignity weren’t on the line). With a tactful dose of banter, Jungsu teaches him the in’s and out’s of MLA formatting: how to insert page numbers with his surname and delete between-paragraph spacing and give his citations hanging indents and all sorts of other stuff that kind of flies over Jiseok’s head. Before he knows it, Jungsu’s watch is beeping with a five-minute warning.
“Take this home with you,” he instructs, sliding his perfect essay on top of Jiseok’s mediocre one. “Don’t worry about writing yet, but make sure all of your formatting matches mine before next time.”
Jiseok picks up the papers reluctantly, like they’re ticking time bombs. “Homework, huh?”
“My first decree,” Jungsu replies cheerfully, swiping through his calendar app. “Does five work again tomorrow?”
“It should,” Jiseok says, already drafting how he’s going to break it to Hyeongjun that his two bandmates are dumbasses. Somehow, he doesn’t think the news will be a shocker. “I’ll be here.”
“Great. I’ll make sure you’re on the schedule.” Standing up, Jungsu sticks his hand out again, like he’s Jiseok’s dentist or something. Jiseok takes it anyways, unable to help noticing this time how smooth and uncallused Jungsu’s fingers are compared to his own. Right. For a moment, he’d forgotten that not everyone fucks up their hands with daily guitar practice.
He forces his gaze upwards, meeting Jungsu’s dark almond eyes. “Thanks, dude. Seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”
“No problem.” Jungsu lets go finally, smiling. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead his eyes fall to Jiseok’s chest—no, his hoodie. Is something wrong with it? Jiseok feels a surge of panic.
But all Jungsu does is give a surprised hum. “Huh, Green Day. Good taste.”
. . . And that officially ticks another box on the list of things that make this guy officially Jiseok’s type. He tries to curb his excitement, smothering a grin. “Hell yeah,” he says, before tacking on “I’m in a band,” like that has anything to do with anything. It borders on little-kid-oversharing-in-the-grocery-store-checkout-line. Embarrassing. Maybe he doesn’t still have it.
Thankfully, Jungsu takes the bait. “I was wondering. Your hands are crazy callussed.”
See? Not a weird thing to think about after all. “Yeah, I do rhythm guitar. And vocals.” Jiseok doesn’t mention the fact that there’s only three people in his so-called “band”—a gaggle of guitarists who fill in the blanks with computer-generated synth and shitty drum beats.
“You sing?” Jungsu asks, intrigued. He’s got one hand planted on the desk, his weight shifted casually to the right, and god, he is this close to making it into Jiseok’s next stupid sappy song.
He fights the urge to pinch himself again. Or give his face a good smack. “Yeah! Do you?”
Jungsu frowns, contemplating it for a moment. “Not . . . professionally. I like to, though. I did choir in high school and all that.”
Join our band, Jiseok almost says. Hell, he almost drops to his knees and proposes while he’s at it. Luckily, he manages to keep it together. No reason to rush things and humiliate himself in front of some guy he just met. They’ll have plenty of time to get to band proposals on session three.
“Cool,” he says. “Well, uh, let me know if you ever want to . . . y’know. Talk music.” (Whatever that means. God, he sounds so stupid right now.)
“Huh.” Jungsu’s eyebrows quirk upwards, like the offer surprises him. “I might take you up on that.”
“Sweet. Nice.” Standing next to Jungsu is reminding Jiseok very swiftly and suddenly of how short he is in comparison. Feeling stuffy, he clears his throat, giving a stiff wave. “Well, uh, see you tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for Jungsu’s response. He doesn’t even bother grabbing Jooyeon, who’s seemingly attempting to bargain with Seungmin for more tutoring sessions. Instead, he makes a swift beeline for the door, the tips of his ears burning in embarrassment. He hopes his hair is covering them.
It’s the fastest he’s ever speedwalked in his life. The center whooshes by in a blur, an almost dreamlike haze that Jiseok is stumbling through. It’s only after Jiseok has passed the equations mathboard, said goodbye to the desk girl, and dropped onto a bench outside that it hits him.
I might take you up on that. Jungsu’s thoughtful voice, void of aversion or reluctance. Maybe even intrigued.
That was his in. The perfect excuse to ask for his number. They’re already working together anyways—it wouldn’t have been weird at all.
“Damn it,” Jiseok murmurs, wilting against the brick wall. It’s Jooyeon-levels of drama, and the girl sitting on the bench opposite his looks up, tilting her head in concern. Jiseok forces a halfhearted grin, waving back at her. “All good! Just realized I’m an idiot who’s going to die alone.”
Instead of looking at him like he’s an insane person (deserved), the girl just snorts. “Wow. Been there.”
“Finals season?” Jiseok asks.
“Finals season,” she replies grimly.
And that’s the end of that conversation.
As his kindred spirit returns to her studies, Jiseok straightens, squaring his shoulders. He’s being overdramatic. He’ll be back tomorrow, won’t he? That gives him 24 hours to plan their next interaction—an insane, probably caffeine-fueled scheme to win over Jungsu Kim, the cute senior writing tutor who plays along with his stupid bits, likes the same bands as him, and is definitely out of his league (if not straight as a board).
Jiseok is smart. He’s a strategist, with a programmer’s brain and a musician’s charisma. He may be inexperienced in essay-writing, but he won’t need Jungsu’s help on charming his way into his heart. How hard could it be?
Jooyeon comes bounding out of the center a few minutes later, in surprisingly high spirits for someone who just spent 45 minutes getting torn apart by an ill-tempered tutor.
“Hey, I thought you’d left me,” he whines, plopping down on the bench beside Jiseok. “Do you ever check your phone?”
“Don’t blame me for wanting to reconnect with nature,” Jiseok retorts, relaxing back into their usual dynamic. “I’m not chronically online, unlike some people.”
Jooyeon’s bones pop as he stretches, careless as can be. “Well, if you weren’t, you’d see all my texts about zipping your fly up. It was down that entire session.” Reaching over, he pats a gaping Jiseok on the shoulder in mock sympathy. “Let’s hope that handsome tutor of yours was too busy looking at your face to notice.”
Never mind. He’s doomed.