Chapter Text
dongmin stood in front of the school building. nails digging into his backback, anxiety crawling up and rivulets forming down his spine already. he already hated it. the stupid brick, the polished floors, the too-bright banners declaring school values no one actually followed.
he adjusted his collar. it itched.
first day, and it was already too loud.
someone brushed past him and laughed and it felt like it was aimed at him. it probably wasn't, but his spine straightened regardless.
he took a deep breathe and braced himself before entering the daunting gates of the school.
the hallways were too bright. too alive. a mess of noise and movement, like someone had hit fast forward on a film reel dongmin didn't want to be in.
students brushed past him—bags swinging, voices rising, laughter too sharp for 8am. a group of kids tossed a soccer ball between them near the lockers, the ball thudding against the wall with a sound that made dongmin's eye twitch. someone cheered. someone else whined. a pair of girls giggled about something on a phone screen.
it was too much. too loud. too cheerful for this hour.
he didn't belong here. not really.
he tugged his headphones from his bag, sliding them over his ears like armor.
the guitar hit first—gritty, raw, and unapologetic—and then the voice, the scratchy beginnings of Smells Like Teen Spirit fills his skull.
kurt cobain made it easier to breathe.
music was the only thing that ever made sense. the one thing that didn't ask him to smile or sit straighter or stop fidgeting. it just was. and he clung to it like something holy.
his schedule was already folded neatly in his pocket, handed to him by the homeroom teacher the day before, and he didn’t waste time looking around. he moved like a thread through fabric—silent, unnoticed, pulled taut by something he couldn’t name.
Classroom 3-B.
he slipped into the room, ignored the eyes that briefly flicked up, and took the seat to the farthest back corner. near the window. away from everything. perfect. he let his backpack drop to the floor and closed his eyes. for a second, just a second, he could pretend he wasn't here at all.
then the door creaked open again.
and everything changed.
dongmin opened his eyes, the music still humming in his ears—but even that felt muted now.
there he was.
the boy walked in like he owned the air in the room. like gravity bent slightly for him. blonde hair brushing the nape of his neck, uniform unbuttoned just enough to say i don't care, posture all loose elegance and bad intentions. his laugh was low and easy, a sharp contrast to the chaos outside.
dongmin felt it before he even looked directly. that presence. like a ripple across still water.
he turned his head.
and there he was—surrounded by people, of course. donghyun didn't move through the world alone. he had orbiters, satellites, an audience. it was hard to look away from him.
dongmin's fingers clenched the edge of his desk. his breath felt shallow. blood gushing through his ears, muffling the loud music from the headphones.
he couldn't stop staring.
there was something infuriating about it all—how easy he moved, how casually he tossed his head back when he laughed, how he didn't try to be magnetic, he just was.
and dongmin—dongmin, who always felt static—was suddenly aware of how still he was. how quiet.
"you're staring."
dongmin jolted.
he hadn't noticed the boy beside him until he spoke. a wide grin, round eyes, and a presence that was entirely too cheerful for this side of the classroom. the boy leaned closer, stage-whispered, "that's kim donghyun. his dad basically owns half the school. or sponsors it. or something rich like that."
dongmin didn't respond.
"anyway, i'm woonhak!", the boy added brightly, as if they'd been mid-conversation all along. "you're new, right? that's cool. it's usually just boring people here. no offense."
dongmin blinked. "none taken."
woonhak smiled wider.
dongmin put his headphones back on.
the music was still playing—but it didn't sound the same anymore.
it had been a few days since dongmin transferred, and the school hadn't gotten quieter—he'd just gotten used to the noise.
mostly.
he still wore his headphones like a shield, still winced when locker doors slammed, but it didn’t make him want to walk straight into traffic anymore. that was progress.
woonhak helped.
woonhak, the literal child genius who’d skipped a grade and landed in dongmin’s class, grinning like he didn’t notice—or didn’t care—that he was smaller, younger, and brighter than anyone else. he’d appointed himself dongmin’s guide to surviving this academic hellscape and took his role very seriously.
“so basically,” woonhak had said one morning, arms folded over the top of dongmin’s desk like he lived there, “it goes like this—donghyun’s at the top. like. unreachable. king of the school, not in the hot fantasy way, just in the terrifying real-life way.”
dongmin had scoffed. “he’s just rich.”
“he’s not just rich,” woonhak had replied, solemnly. “he’s rich rich. his dad’s the biggest shareholder here. that’s why teachers look the other way when he skips class. or smokes. or breathes incorrectly.”
dongmin rolled his eyes. woonhak grinned wider.
“there’s also minju—she’s super pretty and nice but like, in a way that could kill you if she wanted. sungho is donghyun’s childhood friend so he’s basically on payroll. gyuvin is donghyun’s enemy but also his best friend, they insult each other every day but also ride home together. oh, and yunah—she’s the only one who scares him.”
dongmin raised an eyebrow. “scares donghyun?”
“she called him a walking tax evasion once. in front of a teacher.”
dongmin didn’t reply, but a corner of his mouth twitched.
now, it was thursday. he hadn’t even made it to lunch, and he already regretted existing.
“dongmin-ah, could you please take these to Room 3-B?” his teacher had asked sweetly. “you’re strong, right?”
he should’ve said no.
he should’ve smiled and said, sorry, i have class.
but no. no, he had smiled and nodded like a damn idiot and now here he was—arms full of thick textbooks, neck cramping, knees aching, navigating two flights of stairs and a hallway packed with screeching teenagers.
it was humid. his shirt stuck to his back. he was sweating in places that shouldn’t be allowed.
the stack was heavier than it looked—half of it sliding to one side every few steps, the corner of a binder jabbing into his ribs. his hands were going numb from holding the weight too tightly.
he hated everyone today.
the hallway was a blur of movement and color—too many bodies, too much perfume, someone’s lunch stinking up the air. he could feel his frustration curdling in his chest. another boy bumped into his shoulder, barely glancing back, and dongmin had to bite his tongue not to hiss.
the books slipped slightly. he grunted, adjusting the stack and narrowing his eyes at the cluster of students blocking the hall.
he didn’t see the person coming around the corner.
crash.
books spilled like a landslide.
dongmin stumbled back, nearly losing his balance. “shit,” he muttered under his breath.
the other person let out a soft grunt—half annoyed, half surprised.
dongmin didn’t even look up. he was already on his knees, scrambling to collect the mess, fingers shaking with adrenaline and irritation and the creeping dread that maybe the universe really did hate him.
“i swear to god—” he started, barely glancing up, “—if one more thing goes wrong—”
he reached out.
another hand reached at the same time.
pale knuckles, clean fingernails, silver rings catching the light. smooth, careful movements.
they almost touched.
almost.
his knuckles brushed the other boy's fingers—barely, lightly, like a whisper. And suddenly the world felt very, very still.
dongmin's head snapped up, eyes wide.
donghyun.
donghyun didn’t say a word. he knelt without hesitation, already stacking books with an ease that made dongmin irrationally irritated.
say something, dongmin’s brain whispered. thank him. apologize. yell. anything.
but his eyes wouldn’t stop tracking the movement of donghyun’s hands. the way his fingers brushed the edge of a page. the slight tension in his wrist when he reached for a thick binder. the quiet tap of one spine against another.
too close.
too silent.
too much.
dongmin swallowed hard.
donghyun’s fingers were long and clean. he handled each book with quiet ease, stacking them efficiently, precise and deliberate.
dongmin tried to do the same, but his hands felt clumsy in comparison. his movements jittered. he kept watching donghyun’s hands—how they curled around the spines, how his thumb swept the dust off the corner of a binder before placing it down. it was stupid. it was so stupid, but dongmin couldn’t stop noticing the care.
their hands brushed again.
this time, it wasn’t accidental.
it was a shared grip on the same textbook, both sets of fingers curling instinctively.
dongmin’s chest went tight.
static.
it felt like static.
he pulled away too fast, nearly dropped the book again. his skin buzzed where their knuckles had touched—just enough to leave a mark he’d pretend didn’t exist later.
donghyun kept stacking, collecting the last book, and placing it on top of the pile in dongmin’s lap.
then stood.
no smirk. no comment. not even a glance.
just—
gone.
as if it hadn’t meant anything at all.
as if dongmin didn’t feel like someone had knocked the breath out of his lungs a second time.
he stayed crouched for a beat too long. his knees ached. his palms stung from gripping the floor.
he hated everything about this school.
and he hated the way his heart was still beating too fast.
dongmin returned to the classroom still carrying the books—but also something heavier.
his limbs moved on autopilot, but his brain was stuck on rewind. playing that moment back. again. and again.
the way their fingers brushed. the clean line of donghyun’s wrist. the complete silence. the absence of mockery or smirks or anything that would’ve made it easier to write off.
donghyun hadn’t looked at him like he was pathetic. or invisible.
he hadn’t looked at him at all.
and somehow, that made it worse.
dongmin slid into his seat like he was trying to disappear. his palms still tingled. he pressed them flat against the desk, hoping the cold would make the sensation go away.
it didn’t.
“...you look like you saw a ghost,” woonhak whispered, immediately at his side like a goddamn bloodhound. his eyes scanned dongmin’s face with surgical precision. “or almost died. did you almost die? you look like you almost died.”
“shut up,” dongmin muttered, keeping his eyes firmly on his desk.
woonhak leaned in closer. “you’re pale.”
“i'm always pale.”
“no, you’re like—extra pale. did you pass out on the stairs? did a teacher yell at you? did someone grope you? i swear, if someone—”
“woonhak—” dongmin hissed, low and warning, but woonhak wasn’t catching on.
or maybe he was catching on too well.
“you’re not acting normal. you’re all... tight. tense. twitchy.”
dongmin could barely breathe. he could feel the back of his neck burning, not just from embarrassment but from the awareness—the gut-deep instinct that someone was watching him.
talking. laughing.
just five feet away.
he didn’t dare look up.
“i said shut up,” he snapped, louder this time.
woonhak blinked. hurt flickered across his expression—fast, but not fast enough.
dongmin’s gut twisted.
before he could stop himself, he pushed up from his chair.
“come with me. cafeteria. now.”
it came out sharp, like a command, and too many people turned to look. dongmin tried not to wince.
woonhak stared at him for a beat—then stood, grabbing his bag and trailing after him like a kicked puppy.
dongmin didn’t glance around the room. he didn’t have to. he could feel it. that pull—like a hook in his skin. someone watching.
he didn’t see it.
but he felt it.
the cafeteria was nearly empty, lunch still twenty minutes away. they settled into a corner table, dongmin slouched low in his chair like he wanted to slide under the table and evaporate.
woonhak, to his credit, didn’t press right away.
dongmin rubbed his hands down his thighs, once. twice. then inhaled and muttered, “i bumped into someone.”
woonhak blinked. “...okay?”
“i dropped all the books.”
“ohhh.” woonhak nodded sagely. “you’re embarrassed. that’s normal. did people laugh?”
“it’s not that.”
“then what?”
dongmin hesitated. the words felt stupid in his mouth. heavy and weird and too dramatic.
He stared at the table.
“donghyun helped me pick them up.”
woonhak’s jaw dropped. “you’re lying.”
“i’m not.”
“you’re lying.”
dongmin sighed. “why would i lie about this?”
“because it sounds fake. like. really fake.” woonhak leaned in, whispering like the cafeteria was bugged. “donghyun doesn’t help people. he doesn’t even hold the door open. last week, minju dropped her laptop and he just stepped over it.”
dongmin shrugged, trying to look like he didn’t care. “maybe he was tired. or too lazy to make it a big deal.”
woonhak didn’t answer right away.
his eyes narrowed. “or maybe he wanted something.”
dongmin looked up. “what?”
“nothing,” woonhak said quickly, too quickly. “just... weird. that’s all. be careful.”
dongmin stared at his tray, suddenly nauseous. he hated how his stomach twisted. he hated that he wanted it to mean something. he hated that he kept thinking about that quiet second, that unreadable face, that brush of skin.
he hated that he was confused.
and worse—he hated that he wanted to see him again.
it had been days since the hallway.
days since donghyun knelt beside him and said nothing at all.
and yet, dongmin hadn’t stopped thinking about it.
not the moment itself. not really. but what came after. the after was what kept him up.
it was the way donghyun’s silence had felt dismissive. like he was just another body, another passing face in donghyun's life. a nobody.
dongmin hated it and he didn't know why.
or—he thought he hated it. but if he really hated it, why did his eyes search every crowd now? why did he find himself scanning cafeteria tables and classroom doorways, hoping—hoping—for a flash of blond hair or a voice too smooth for its own good?
he didn’t even know what he wanted.
to be seen?
to be noticed?
by him?
why?
who the hell was kim donghyun, anyway?
a spoiled rich kid. a walking rumor mill. a name with too many stories tied to it. someone who smoked between classes and laughed like the world bent for him.
dongmin had never wanted anyone’s attention before.
he didn’t know what to do with this sudden ache for it now.
it made him restless.
tense.
like his own skin didn’t fit.
so he did what he always did when the world got too tight around him.
he went to the rooftop.
it was past fourth period. the halls were quiet. dongmin slipped out the back stairwell and climbed each step with hands in his pockets and a storm in his head.
he didn’t expect peace. he just wanted air.
the rooftop door creaked open, and the breeze hit him like a baptism.
fresh, cool, biting—high enough above everything that the sounds of the school dulled to a low murmur. the sky stretched out overhead in a pale wash of gray-blue. the wind tugged gently at his collar. for a moment, just a moment, he felt like maybe none of it mattered. that he could breathe.
And then he saw him.
kim donghyun. of course, he was here.
sitting on the edge of the building like gravity was just a suggestion. one leg dangling into the open air, cigarette in hand, posture so casual it felt performative. like he was doing it for someone, even if no one was watching.
But dongmin was watching.
And donghyun saw him.
their eyes met.
electric. that’s what it felt like.
like a live wire snapped inside his chest, heat rushing down his spine. dongmin felt everything in that second. every breath he’d been holding since that day. every question he hadn’t dared ask. every stupid, desperate thing he wanted but couldn’t name.
donghyun didn’t flinch. didn’t smile.
just held his gaze. eyes sharp. curious.
and dongmin—dongmin did what he always did when he felt too much.
he turned.
his hand reached for the door.
“stay.” donghyun said.
not a question. not a command. just a word, dropped into the air like a sigh. like they’d done this a hundred times before.
and dongmin—
dongmin stayed.
he didn’t move at first. just stayed in the doorway like it wasn’t a choice. like his body had made the decision before his brain could object. the air bit cold against his cheeks. his fingers twitched at his sides.
donghyun didn’t turn around.
he just brought the cigarette to his lips, took a slow drag, and exhaled. the smoke unfurled in front of him, curling upward like a lazy ghost. his posture didn’t shift. no sign of tension. no acknowledgement beyond that one word.
stay.
so dongmin stepped forward.
his shoes echoed faintly against the rooftop floor. one, two, then silence. he didn’t sit. didn’t move closer.
he just stood a few feet behind donghyun, arms crossed, trying to pretend the wind wasn’t stealing the breath out of his lungs.
“didn’t think this place was taken,” he muttered.
donghyun shrugged. “it’s not.”
another drag. another cloud of smoke.
the quiet stretched out again—long and heavy, but not uncomfortable. not exactly. more like the quiet between verses. not the end of something. just a pause. dongmin stared out at the city. the rooftops, the power lines, the pale sky smudged with clouds. below them, the school moved like a different world. distant. small.
“do you always come here?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
donghyun didn’t answer right away. when he did, his voice was soft, lazy. “when i feel like it.”
another shrug. like he didn’t care if dongmin stayed or jumped.
dongmin hated how badly he wanted to be acknowledged. not with a smile. not with a compliment. just—something. something real. something earned.
he glanced sideways.
donghyun was still staring out at the horizon. his fingers resting loosely against the cigarette. his blond hair lifted gently in the wind. and his eyes—
his eyes were impossible to read.
“you smoke up here to feel cool or just to feel something?” dongmin said before he could think better of it.
donghyun huffed a laugh, low and amused. “does it matter?”
dongmin didn’t answer.
he leaned back against the wall, arms still crossed, like he was holding himself together.
“people say a lot of things about you,” he muttered.
donghyun tilted his head slightly. not enough to look at him. “yeah? what kind of things?”
“the usual. rich kid. gets away with everything. doesn’t care about anyone.”
a pause.
“and?”
dongmin hesitated. “is it true?”
finally, donghyun looked at him.
it was brief. just a glance over his shoulder, sharp and unreadable. but it felt like being seen.
not in the casual way. not the way teachers look through you or students glance past you. but like donghyun actually saw him. measured him. decided whether he mattered.
then he turned back to the skyline.
“depends who’s asking,” he said quietly.
the wind picked up again. the smell of smoke. the sound of something cracking open in dongmin’s chest.
before his mind could catch up, dongmin moved and sat beside donghyun, letting his legs dangle over the edge. the rooftop’s drop yawning beneath him like a challenge.
unintentionally, completely, he mirrored him.
dongmin didn’t share space with people. he didn’t let them close. his silence was his own. his breath, his solitude, his sky. he didn’t offer it to anyone.
but it felt like instinct with donghyun. which was ridiculous even to dongmin. he decided to not let himself read too much into it.
“want some?” donghyun asked, voice smooth, low, like smoke and salt in the wind.
dongmin turned slightly. donghyun’s eyes were already on him—steady, unreadable, dark. and then, for a fraction of a second, they dropped.
to his mouth.
barely a flicker.
quick.
but dongmin caught it.
and his heart stuttered.
he had to remind himself to breathe.
“yeah. whatever,” he said, shrugging like it meant nothing. like his pulse wasn’t a fucking drumline. like his mouth wasn’t suddenly dry.
because even with all the tension in the air—thick, humming—dongmin was still seventeen. still pissed at the world. still desperate to look cool, unshaken, bold. maybe for himself. maybe for donghyun.
he didn’t know.
didn’t want to know.
donghyun took another lazy drag, holding it a beat longer this time. then, without a word, he passed the cigarette.
dongmin reached for it—slowly.
his fingers brushed donghyun’s in the handoff.
the filter was warm. still wet from his mouth.
that realization sent something sharp and hot spiraling down dongmin’s spine.
he blinked.
shivered. (not from the cold.)
then he brought it to his lips and inhaled.
the burn hit him instantly. harsh. dry. bitter. his chest seized.
he coughed.
hard.
it tore through him, shaking his whole body, the cigarette nearly falling from his fingers. he doubled over a little, wheezing, eyes watering as his throat rejected the drag in full force.
beside him, donghyun laughed. a full hearty laugh. and despite nearly dying, dongmin noticed. his heart doing a little something he decided to ignore for now.
the laugh wasn't cruel. not mocking either. just soft and easy. amused, if you may.
dongmin didn’t look at him.
“fuck off,” he muttered, still coughing, shoving the cigarette back in his direction with more aggression than necessary.
but his hand was shaking.
donghyun took it, still smiling. not smug. just—gentle. too gentle. like he knew something dongmin didn’t.
and then, without warning, he said, “c’mere.”
dongmin blinked. “what—”
donghyun didn’t wait.
he lifted the cigarette to his mouth, took a drag—slow, deep—and didn’t blow it out.
instead, his free hand reached over and gripped dongmin’s jaw.
firm. confident. not rough, but not asking permission either.
dongmin’s breath hitched. his lips parted on instinct—shock, confusion, something else—and that’s when donghyun leaned in.
so close.
too close.
and exhaled.
the smoke spilled into dongmin’s mouth—warm, sharp, sweet with heat and nicotine. it slid down his throat, filling his lungs with something that wasn’t his.
their lips weren’t touching.
but they could have been.
just a tilt forward.
just a mistake.
just a moment.
dongmin didn’t breathe.
couldn’t.
the world around them stilled.
fell away.
ceased.
there was only heat. and smoke. and him.
and just as quickly as it had happened, donghyun pulled back.
quick. clean. effortless.
the distance between them suddenly cavernous, despite being barely a few inches.
the air felt wrong now. too big. too sharp. too much distance but not enough, all at once.
dongmin didn’t move. he just sat there, stunned. his lungs still full of smoke. but he wasn't coughing anymore.
one. two. a few seconds passed in silence and pure daze. as if donghyun was merciful enough to give him time to process what just happened.
“makes it easier,” donghyun said suddenly, voice low, casual—like they hadn’t just shared the same breath.
it broke the silence, but not the tension. that stayed. hovering between them, delicate and unsteady. like a thread pulled too tight.
dongmin blinked. the words didn’t register right away.
his lungs still burned, but that wasn’t what hurt.
“huh?” he breathed. dazed. eyes unfocused. his voice came out small, lost somewhere between smoke and confusion.
donghyun didn’t look at him directly.
“smoking,” he clarified. “makes it easier this way. see? you didn’t cough this time.”
his tone was light. shrugged off. but his fingers fidgeted against the rooftop ledge, and the flush rising to the tips of his ears said more than his mouth ever could.
dongmin stared at him. cheeks burning. brain empty.
“yeah,” he said. barely. a soft exhale of a word, breathless and trembling. just for donghyun. no one else.
they sat there for one more suspended second.
the kind of moment that should stretch on forever just because neither of them knew what came next.
and then—
the bell rang.
sharp. violent. jarring. like the universe yanking them back down.
both boys flinched.
donghyun was the first to move—pushing off the ledge, brushing invisible ash from his sleeves. his voice was quick now. awkward in a way that made dongmin’s chest twist.
“um. i’m gonna head back to class, yeah?”
he didn’t wait for a reply.
he was gone in the next breath—just like the hallway. just like the first time.
leaving dongmin frozen in place. again.
only this time, it was worse. tenfold.
because now he had his breath back.
and it still wasn’t enough.
he sat there, blinking into the sky, throat raw and chest too full, like he might laugh or scream or throw himself off the roof just to feel something clean.
donghyun hadn’t touched his lips.
but it still felt like he had.