Chapter Text
DAY -132
It’s Hyunjin’s twenty-sixth birthday dinner, and Minho is asleep on Jisung’s shoulder.
Changbin had secured a sought-after reservation at one of the city’s current hottest restaurants. Hyunjin, who is delighted, makes it known to everyone but Changbin, naturally. Seungmin thinks Changbin should have sold the reservation and made a small fortune—there are twenty of them present, all crammed around a few tables clothed into one long stretch, twenty-one if counting Felix who’s just been ensnared on FaceTime half a world away—but it isn’t as if Changbin really needs that, nor would he ever stoop to milking it that way.
Jisung almost manages to snag the seat of honor at Hyunjin’s side, but is too slow and not quite as presumptuous as the present occupant of said seat (Hyunjin’s latest fling, a tall surfer-type hunk with sun-bleached brown hair and a face so blandly indistinct Jisung might’ve confused him for a previous fling had he not worn a gaudy shark tooth necklace with his tailored blazer). So he’s relegated to the seat next to the seat of honor, though he’s not so mad about it. Shark Tooth and his big gesturing hands and anecdotes full of long dull lapses of Like, uhh form an implicit barrier between Jisung and the rest of the table, which gives Minho plenty of peace to… doze the dinner away. On Jisung’s shoulder.
Minho had flown in that afternoon after three days of twelve-hour shifts with rough on-calls in between. And Jisung fled school at three through hordes of kids migrating to after-school clubs and sports practices to fetch him. At the arrivals level, he’d been sleepy-eyed but wired by an extremely tall cold brew when Jisung arrived (with Changbin’s driver but no Changbin, as this was, often, the reality of friendship with Changbin—some weeks one saw more of Changbin’s driver than the man himself). And Minho had chattered all the way to Jisung’s—much ground to cover, despite their non-stop texting—and straight through fixing himself a sandwich from the paltry contents of Jisung’s fridge, with enough wind in his sails to complain even about the preservative-loaded bread options on offer.
But several hours and many reunion hugs and exactly two cocktails and a hearty meal later, he’s out like a light. And Jisung would’ve kept it that way, would’ve sat on that bench until even the bar staff left and turned out the lights, but Minho rouses at the commotion for the birthday dessert, one of those tiny novelties with all the bells and whistles wherein something hot and gooey is poured on and from within a globe of chocolate a dissolving cloud of fairy floss is revealed. (Or something. Jisung can’t really see around Shark Tooth’s shoulders.) Hyunjin couldn’t be less interested in the dessert; more is he enthralled by the singing, the attention, as if theirs wasn’t already the loudest table at the restaurant.
The same can’t be said for Minho, who blink-blink-blinks and frowns and wears a cute little imprint of the netting of Jisung’s sweater on his cheek. It’ll make a great picture to look back on later, taken by Changbin from the table’s other end; Hyunjin peacocking over a single flaming candle stuck in a pink macaron, surrounded by shining faces mid-happy birthday serenade—all but the few disgruntled pixels of Minho in the very back, squinting into the shadows behind Shark Tooth.
Hyunjin blows out the candle (or duck-faces for the camera while someone else does). And when Minho joins in on the raucous applause to follow, clapping tentatively like he can’t yet feel his hands, Jisung laughs, slides his arm behind his shoulders and squeezes.
“I swear I hit stage two sleep,” Minho croaks, wobbling loosely as Jisung rubs his shoulder. Jisung plucks up his own water glass to pass over. Minho accepts and drains it a single gulp.
“Time’s it?” he breathes, closer to Jisung’s ear than Jisung is used to. Maybe only because Jisung’s used to thousands of miles between them. There are a few near-strangers seated opposite—a result of Hyunjin’s bold mixing of his various friend circles, a little too glamorously intimidating for Jisung to have initiated any conversation during Minho’s nap—so maybe Minho wants it clear that these words are for Jisung and Jisung only.
With his free hand, Jisung pulls out his phone. On his screen, glowing against the shadows of his lap, is 9:52pm. Minho hisses, “Fuck.” Meets Jisung’s eyes, wary. “And we’re still going somewhere after this?” Jisung nods to confirm, smile apologetic, and Minho deflates into his side, sighing, “Double fuck.”
“In case you want a little pick-me-up, I think our friends across the table just came back from, er… powdering their noses.”
Minho rubs at his eyes. “I hate this city.” Then he snorts out a giggle, lowering his hand. “But at this rate…” His eyes then catch somewhere in Jisung’s lap. Not that Jisung really has that much to be ashamed of down there, but it’s reasonable, isn’t it, to jump in alarm when Minho says, “Wait,” and darts a hand for Jisung’s crotch.
No—Jisung’s phone. He taps the screen awake, swipes away his myriad notifications. Ah… yes. A giggle blurts between Jisung’s lips before Minho can demand, “Why is that—?” Minho’s laugh pitches high enough to draw their seat neighbors’ attention. “Why!”
His lockscreen is a grainy, zoomed-in throwback. This time, Minho had flown to visit Jisung—or rather… Hyunjin, and everyone else. But the last time Jisung had gone to Minho, Minho had graciously informed him no later than his arrival at the terminal that they’d be attending a Halloween party held by Minho’s boyfriend’s… friend. That very same night. “I didn’t know we were going!” had been Minho’s claim, but upon reaching Minho and Jungwoo’s and seeing their couple’s costumes readied and hanging on the back of their closet door, Jisung had grown suspicious.
But the photo—all it is is Minho at the end of that night. Princess Mononoke San makeup melting greasily off his skin, costume headband askew, pulling a face with the whites of his eyes and his two front teeth on show.
“What?” Jisung laughs, defensive. Not flustered. He snatches his phone back. “If you really don’t like it, I can—”
“No, it’s just.” Minho digs around for his own. It blinds Jisung on full brightness, but when his eyes adjust, he realizes he’s staring into his own frenzied face. From that very same night. White No-Face face paint gone patchy with sweat, creased on his forehead and cheeks and staining the collar of the black t-shirt he’d borrowed from Minho’s closet and pulled up around his head.
He stifles a laugh. Holds up his phone so they glow side-by-side. “Hyung’s got good taste.”
Minho glances at him, eyes shining. “You too.”
Jisung can’t help the way the silly smile clings to his lips as he pockets his phone, rolls back his shoulders. He’s cool about it. As a cucumber. So cool about matching lockscreens with Minho. His arm still rests around him, too, comfortable. “Where’s Jungwoo?”
“Back home, obviously. Bit too tall for my suitcase.”
Jisung snorts. Yeah, we get it! Jungwoo’s tall! Ah, Jesus. No more drinks for him. “No, like.” He flicks his chin at Minho’s phone.
“Oh.” Minho unlocks it, holds it up for Jisung to see. “There.”
“Ah.” There, indeed. A picture Jisung had taken, actually. Jungwoo and Minho had flown into the city for the big meet-the-parents. No, obviously Jisung hadn’t been there for the rendez-vous, but they’d gone out together that same trip. And it would’ve been silly to not capture it; Jungwoo and Minho from behind, hand-in-hand, silhouetted on the light-dazzled boardwalk in the night. What kind of friend would it have made him, had he not? “Photo creds.”
“Mm.” Minho chuckles. Tucks his phone away. “He’s probably gonna call me later.”
“Later?” Jisung blinks. “But he’s hours ahead. It’s already later for him.”
Minho shrugs. “He’ll wanna check in.”
When it comes time to migrate from the restaurant to the next destination, they merge with Seungmin, Changbin and Jeongin by the door.
“Kim Seungmin wants to revive the DnD party,” Changbin informs them. “Kim Seungmin… is also very drunk.”
Seungmin scoffs. “I am not. Everyone’s just so hard to pin down. It’d be nice to have an excuse to, like. Call each other. Otherwise I’ll have to wait ‘til the summer to see everyone again.”
“Roadtrip of legend.” Jisung grins, offering a fist to bump. Seungmin is, at least, drunk enough to bump him back. “It’ll all be worth it, man.”
Minho appears at Jisung’s side, hand gliding down his back. “Getting sentimental this eve, are we, Kim Seungmin?”
“Bitterly,” says Seungmin. And once they’ve stepped outside and Changbin’s called up his driver, “So. Any takers?”
“Only if we change our party name,” says Minho.
“We will never be the Dumb Cunts,” says Seungmin.
Minho glares. From the curb, Changbin calls, “He’s here!” and rises onto his tiptoes to survey the crowd milling about the restaurant entrance. “Where’s Hyunjin?”
Jisung claps him on the arm. “Snorting illicit substances in Shark Tooth’s car, probably.”
Changbin doesn’t bat an eye at the epithet. He only pouts. “But I too can purvey illicit substances.”
“Tough luck.” Jisung lets Minho climb in the car first, then follows. Once settled, he asks of Jeongin beside him, “What’s your take, then? Should we revive the Stray Children?”
Jeongin squints. “Wasn’t it the Sweet Children?”
Jisung frowns, doing up Minho’s seatbelt for him when he can’t locate the buckle under his sleepy ass. “Dunno where I got Stray. Weird.”
“Anyhow,” says Jeongin, dubiously observing the seatbelt debacle, “what’s the point? We already know exactly how the campaign’ll go. Chan-hyung’ll get too busy and stop showing up. Changbin-hyung will want to be the main character. Felix-hyung will end up being the only shining light keeping the campaign spirit alive, and you’ll be too busy seducing Minho-hyung to give a fuck about anything else.”
Jisung snickers shamelessly. “It’s not my fault Minhoring is always a MILF-y elf! I’m a man with needs. A gnome with needs, rather.”
“Ah, yes,” Seungmin recalls with a shudder. “Our weekly dose of gnome-on-elf porn.”
“More like elf-on-gnome.” Jisung catches Minho’s grinning eyes. “Semantics matter.”
Minho, eyes shut and slumped into the headrest, pats Jisung’s thigh knowingly. “Semantics matter.”
It’s nearing two and the bar is still rowdy when Minho returns from the bathroom to drape himself over Jisung’s shoulders. “‘M gonna go. Already told Hyunjin good night,” he murmurs into Jisung’s ear, warm and just this side of too-close that makes Jisung shiver and then promptly question why.
No time for that, though, when Minho’s patting indiscriminately and confidently all over Jisung’s ass. “Mind if I grab your keys?”
Jisung spins to face him. He finds his house keys dangling from Minho’s finger. “You—you headed home?”
Minho nods. He goes to spin the keys around his finger, but they slip right off, thump Jisung in the sternum. Jisung manages to catch them, metal cool and jagged in the folds of his palm, and Minho lets out an embarrassed laugh.
“I’m coming with you,” Jisung decides.
“Changbin said they’re going somewhere else after this.” Minho brushes the hair from his heavy, shadowed eyes. Tickles Jisung at his elbow, a silent wheedling. “Somewhere that’s open ’til five. You should go.”
Jisung huffs. Ridiculous. “I’m coming with you,” he repeats flatly.
“Jisungie—”
He hooks his elbow through Minho’s gallantly. “Off we go, Eepy.”
Minho laughs, quiet and defeated.
Out in the brisk night wind, they clutch their jackets shut at the collars and trudge a few blocks to escape the congested traffic by the club. The boardwalk isn’t far, and Minho says he can’t remember when he’d last been. Jisung does not encyclopedically offer that it was obviously the first time Minho met Jungwoo’s parents. Instead he incurs the small fine of canceling the car he definitely hadn’t already ordered so they can amble over.
Minho stops far from the action further down the boardwalk, far from the lights and the vendors and the people. So they stand shoulder to shoulder facing the dark water, elbows propped on the splintery planks of the fence as the wind whips their hair into their eyes.
The chaos of Hyunjin’s birthday party rings distantly in Jisung’s ears. Minho’s warmth radiates through the sleeves of their jackets and into him. And… it’s nice. Were Minho not here, he’d have left alone, probably. He wasn’t one for lasting ‘til sunrise, not anymore. Hyunjin would probably leave with Shark Tooth tonight. Seungmin with Chaewon, who’d met up with them at the club. Even if Changbin strikes out at the club, he has his driver! No, they won’t kiss and hold hands. But. The principle of the warm body still applies. (Jeongin is the exception—he’ll leave alone and be ecstatic about it.)
And inexplicably that… eats at Jisung. As the saltwater in the air stings his nose and the alcohol-parched back of his throat, that absence gnaws at him. The implicit… someone to go home with. Someone to leave early with. Someone with whom to bid everyone good night together, make the rounds with as a unit. Someone whose hand he’d hold as he left everyone—everyone, but that very someone.
It feels good, having a someone. To Jisung, it feels good. Better, certainly, than reaching the end of the night and watching everyone leave in pairs (hell, sometimes threes or fours). And he’s sure he could, if he really tried. If he went out looking. But there’s something about things falling into place without desperate, sweaty intervention.
Maybe he sinks into Minho’s side a little. But the gnawing doesn’t come without the reminder that… Minho is someone else’s someone.
That’s never stung Jisung before. In all their seven years of knowing one another, it’s never stung.
“I never even asked you how your day was,” Minho speaks suddenly, startling Jisung.
Jisung… who’d been openly watching Minho, eyes agog, dignity slipping between the cracks in the boardwalk. “What?”
“Since I got here.” Minho sounds cold. “I never even asked you how your day was.”
Lifting himself from his slump, Jisung inspects him closely. Minho’s upset now, he can tell. Upset—and self-flagellating. The overtiredness kicking in, maybe. Pushed way past its brink. “Oh, hyung.” He smiles, fond. “I don’t care.”
“You should.” Minho laces his fingers into a tight ball. “Well? How was it?” he demands, snippy now.
“Hyung.”
“Jisung. Tell me how your day was.”
“My day. Okay. My day was—very ordinary. And then you came along.” He rubs his shoulder into Minho’s, cheeky. “And it got so much better.”
Minho rolls his eyes. Jisung can see his jaw work. Keep on working, until he mumbles, “I can’t come on the roadtrip.”
It doesn’t hit Jisung out of left field. Whatever field’s further than left, frankly.
Jisung processes. Very slowly. So slowly, in fact, that he hasn’t spoken once before Minho’s already adding, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Jisung breathes, long before ever deciding he’s okay about it. That won’t come for a few months. “Hey, it’s okay.”
Minho’s lips purse. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Minho cups his chin in his hand, scowling at the dark water like it’d once wronged him. For all Jisung cares, it had. Fuck the ocean. “Jungwoo’s sister’s getting married.”
Jisung remembers when she got engaged. From Minho’s texts, of course. “Oh, fun.”
“And he wants me there. As his plus one. So we’ll have to fly out of the country. For that.” He rubs his eyelids. “And then we’re supposed to stay a while at Jungwoo’s parents’—like, their second house—and by the time we get back you’ll all be—”
“Hey.” Jisung laughs. “Dude. I said it’s okay. Obviously I want you with us and we’ll miss you and it’ll suck, but.” Great. Great job. “Hey!” He grins. “Who doesn’t loves a wedding?”
Minho grinds his teeth again. He shoots Jisung a threatening side-eye. “If I find out later that you’ve been trying to reschedule the trip around me—”
“I would never do such a thing,” Jisung says quickly. “Why would—I would never. Han Jisung does not break his back bending over backwards for anyone. Least of all you.” (The back of his mind is already recounting everything he knows about his friends’ summer plans for next year and whether they’d find another four-week chunk. All the destination weddings Hyunjin has to attend might throw a wrench in things.)
Minho stares.
Jisung smiles.
Minho scoffs. He pinches at Jisung’s cheek, then shoves his face away, turning to saunter off down the boardwalk. “I’m getting a car.”
Jisung doesn’t know it, but he gets lucky. Minho throws him a lifeline. Because: instead of those untimely thoughts of Minho, his best friend Minho, as his someone… lingering like some dark cloud over Minho’s visit, he channels all his energy into assuring Minho that he (a) won’t reschedule their once-in-a-lifetime roadtrip to accommodate him and only him behind his back (which, in Jisung’s eyes, is really the only way forward), and (b) won’t hold this against Minho for the rest of their lives (which had never occurred to him, not even once).
In the backseat of the car, Minho is glum and weary.
Jisung places a hand atop his, there on the middle seat between them. His knuckles are warm and dry, dry from all his dutiful daily scrubbing. And Minho lets him stay—until his phone vibrates, until he has to slide his hand from beneath to take the incoming call. “Hi, baby,” he says, quiet, peering out the window.
Jisung leaves his hand where it is, too late to retract. Feeling the hum of the car below, he looks out the other.
DAY -45
“Any summer plans, Mr. Han?”
Jisung glances up from his laptop. The music room is largely empty, cleaner than it’s been all year, ready to sit tight through the summer and await their autumn return. Largely empty, but for Minji, of course. He hadn’t even heard her come in.
She’s eating from a bag of crunchy snacks. He eyes the very corner of his screen—lunchtime. As ever, he’d overslept and brought nothing of his own. “It’s the last week of school,” he says, shutting his screen and sitting back in his chair. “It’s inappropriate to show your face in my classroom if you’ll be skipping my class later.”
Minji blinks, round-eyed. “But I’m not skipping your class later.”
“Everybody’s skipping my class later.” In fact, if his entire next period skips… he might get away with making a run for the nearest convenience store.
“Not me.”
Jisung smiles a little. “You should think about it.” Not just for lunch reasons.
Minji is silent. Then she shrugs. “I think… no.”
Jisung chuckles. “Mkay.”
This is not unusual. Minji comes into the music room everyday for lunch, every other day for orchestra practice—his first cello. Maybe Jisung is the fool for thinking she wouldn’t show today.
Minji resumes crunching. Her worn backpack is askew on the chair beside hers, still full of books when it ought to be empty as most kids’ heads this week. Her legs swim in her Bermuda shorts and her socks bunch around her ankles, like someone had clothed an adolescent giraffe. “So,” she says. “Summer plans, and all that.”
“Summer plans.”
“You got any?”
Jisung huffs, sitting back in his chair. “Um…” He pulls a face. “Sure.”
“Well?”
Amused, Jisung’s eyes do a half-roll, fingers drumming the cover on his laptop. “I’m going on this… roadtrip. With some of my old pals. From college.”
Minji proceeds to fold her snack bag into a tiny plastic square. “Nice.”
“Was that a boring answer?”
“No, no,” Minji says casually. She shakes her head. “It was a perfectly standard answer.”
Jisung bats his eyes. Right. “What about you, Minji, any summer—”
“Are you single, Mr. Han?”
That’s when Jisung sputters. “Sorry?”
“I’m not asking like that.” She scowls, nauseated. “And don’t get all that’s inappropriate on me”—her transition between natural monotone and Jisung imitation is alarmingly pitchy—“because half the school knows Mr. Moon’s going through a divorce. Because he tells his students. About every painstaking stage. And everyone knows Mr. Lee who teaches first year Lit and Miss Lee who teaches third year Lit are dating—they don’t have to tell anyone. They’re totally obvious about it. And don’t get me started on how much I know about Mrs. Jung’s children. I know more about the color of her second grader’s snot when she got sick last week than I know about…” Minji sighs. “You.”
Jisung lifts an eyebrow. “So… you think you’re owed that? From me?”
“No.” She shrugs. “But we’re friends, aren’t we?”
Jisung does not lower the eyebrow.
Minji rolls her eyes. “Fine. Not friends, but friendly. You know. In that way that… teachers and their favorite students can be.”
Jisung chuckles. “Oh, are you my favorite?”
Her stare is blank. “Aren’t I?”
Jisung returns the stare. Then he smiles, lips pursed tight, as he goes about straightening a stack of sheet music he’d printed earlier, still warm.
“Mr. Han—”
“Yes, I’m single.” He folds his arms across his desk’s edge. “Happy?”
Minji pumps her fist. “I knew it.”
Again: Jisung sputters. Flecks of spit fly that time. “What?!”
Minji brushes it off. “Never mind. I just had this feeling. And—”
“Minji, I’m kind of a—a private guy. So I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t go spreading this—”
“Mr. Han,” she says flatly. “Who would I tell.” She blinks, awaiting his answer. “Sorry to be blunt, sir, but. Who?”
Jisung flounders. “You… I don’t know, your frie—”
“Mr. Han.” She rolls her eyes. “I don’t have friends. And no offense, you being single is really not as scandalous as you think. I won’t tell anyone.” She slumps in her chair, peeling ruffles into the edge of her chip bag now. “Except… maybe my eomma. Because her little sister—my aunt—is also single. And pretty. And depressed because eomma calls her a spinster all the time. And she’s your age… ish. How old are you, anyway?”
Jisung chuckles warily. “Minji…”
“What? What is it? You don’t wanna meet my aunt, Mr. Han? You think she’ll be ugly?”
This girl keeps him on his fucking toes. Moments like now. Moments like when she’d most impressively sight-read Kabalevsky’s concerto no. 1. “I never—!”
“Jeez, calm down.” Minji laughs. “I’m just joking. You’re… so predictable, Mr. Han.”
Jisung is, admittedly, flustered. Maybe he’d checked out a little too early for the summer. Doesn’t have all his usual, necessary mental-defenses-against-teenagers up. He lays his face in his palms. Weaves his fingers in his hair. “Minji…”
“Don’t pull your head bald, Mr. Han. You’re probably a little too young for that.” Behind the darkness of his palms, he listens to the tap-tap-tap of her sneakered foot. “So you don’t want to be matchmade with my aunt—fine. It’d be weird if we were family, anyway. But—what is it, then? Are you just planning to never get married? Or is it that you already like someone?”
Jisung doesn’t budge from the safe cave of his hands. So what exactly Minji takes as confirmation, he’ll never know. Only that she says—a little derisively, no less—“Aw. Mr. Han.”
His eyes squintingly acclimate to the light of the room. The overhead fluorescents are off, but bright midday summer sunlight pours through the big windows. He tents his fingers. “What, Minji.”
“You like someone. Don’t you?”
“No,” Jisung answers. Too fast, too fast. Minji eyes him with suspicion. “I mean…” He bites his inner lip. “No.”
“No, you mean, no,” echoes Minji.
“No.” Jisung blinks. “Yes.”
Her gaze grows impossibly flatter. “Mr. Han.”
“Kim Minji.”
She raises her eyebrows.
Then Jisung speaks words as yet unspoken but mulled over for some… three months now. Of anyone on Earth, his star student will be the first to know. (This will come to keep him up at night several weeks into the summer.) “Well, as it stands. I… do like someone.” There’s something menacing about Minji’s silence. “I think I have a crush. On my best friend.”
For the first time all lunch period, an intrigued light enters Minji’s eye. But whereas Jisung is shitting himself, she remains impressively placid, swiping her snack-dusted palms on her shorts and pitching forward to plant her elbows on her knees. “You think?”
“Well… yeah. It’s weird.” Jisung shifts, gripping the sides of his crappy rolling chair. “He…” His throat emits a weird dying-creature sound post-pronoun slip. Dumbass. Dumb. Fucking. Ass. But when he eyes Minji, she shows no signs of… discomfort. No signs of anything, in fact. She is perfectly stoic. So he swallows with a click. “He lives across the country. So I haven’t seen him since March, which was when…”
“When you decided you liked him.”
“Yes.” Jisung chews his inner lip. “Well—no. I didn’t—decide. I just thought, like.” He shrugs. Oh, this is pathetic. Therapy is the place for realizations like this. Not the music room. With his sixteen-year old first cello. “Maybe.”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe…” Maybe what? Good question. He’s spent months now trying to not dissect that. Because it’s weird. Isn’t it? To have known Minho so long. To now look at pictures of him, of them, and think not yeah, of course my hyung is hot, but rather… oh. My hyung is kinda hot. “Maybe that I… could see him. Like that.” He scratches his neck. His fingertips come back tacky. Gross. “As… my person.”
Minji blinks slowly. Her head tips to the side, mouth scrunching. She seems to assess him a while. “So he’s really your best friend, huh?”
Without hesitation: “Yeah.”
“But… you never see him?”
Jisung shakes his head. “We just text. A lot.”
“Do you flirt?”
Jisung opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. That… is just the thing. If he thinks about it, if he really, truly thinks about it—they’ve always flirted, he and Minho. Flirted like breathing. Even when Jisung was eighteen and bumbling and nervous and needing of Minho’s platonic validation more than oxygen, they’d… flirted. But that’s just how they were. How they are, as people. How they communicate, how they joke around—with one another, yes, but also with other friends. Jisung is hardly the only guy with whom Minho’s ever flirted without any let’s-sleep-together-about-this-later intentions. And it isn’t like Jisung himself really discriminates. Because… what’s a little flirting between friends? What is it but harmless fun? For better or worse, he and Minho tend to deflect with humor; they’ve had that in common from that start. And humor… often meant flirting.
With each other.
He realizes he’s been scrolling unseeingly through his texts with Minho when Minji’s voice rings over his shoulder, “Oh, he’s totally flirting.”
Jisung drops his phone with a clatter. “Minji!”
“You both are.”
Jisung fumbles to catch the phone. It falls between the spokes of the base of his chair. “Shit. I mean—sorry. Shoot. Whatever.”
“Mr. Han,” she says, peering down at him and sounding terribly unimpressed. She’d traversed the room to him like a ghost. Minji eyes the phone as he replaces it on the desk. “That was flirting if I’ve ever seen it. Just… you know. Awkward… millennial flirting.”
Decisively, Jisung opens his desk drawer and chucks it inside, grumbling, “I am not a millennial.”
“I think you should tell him.” Minji flounces past the desk back to her seat. Even when the room is empty and she has free reign, she sits at the front of the cello section, off to his right.
“Tell him what,” says Jisung, already pondering which parts of this interaction will haunt him most that evening whilst he lay in bed with eyes wide open.
“Mr. Han,” Minji scoffs. Jisung looks. “That you like him.”
Jisung goes back to shuffling sheet music.
Minji’s having none of it. “You really think distance will kill this thing? Sounds like it’s only made it worse.”
Jisung’s voice catches in his throat, like even his body’s trying to stop him while he’s ahead. “Well, there is… an important detail I’ve left out. In all of this.” He taps the stack of sheets on the desk’s surface. Lays them flat. “Which is that he’s taken.”
Minji says nothing.
Jisung says, “As in… he’s in a relationship.”
“I think I know what taken means, Mr. Han.”
Jisung waves her off. “But… he’s been taken. Since… long before I ever got it in my head that I might like him.” He slots his jagged thumbnail into a nick in the edge of his desk. “And… maybe I don’t, even. You know? Maybe I just think I do. Maybe I’ve been hyping it all up in my head, and maybe all it’ll take is… seeing him again. In person. To remember what we’ve always been.” Whenever that would fucking be, now that Minho won’t be joining them on their roadtrip.
Minji watches him with her big heifer calf eyes. “That really sucks, Mr. Han.” She sighs with gusto. Knocks the rubber toes of her tennis shoes together. “Any chance you have the world’s tiniest violin lying around in here?” He can tell, from the scrunch of her eyebrows, that this is her attempt at sympathy. “At least you’d be very good at playing it.”
Jisung burns in the neck and ears and chest. But he also smiles, wry. “Wow. Thanks, Minji.”
“To be honest, I’m just glad your crush isn’t Mr. Choi who teaches math.”
Jisung’s mouth dries up, just like that. “What?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s just… he’s always trying to sound casual about asking after you. How’s your old music teacher doing? and all that. Asking me, specifically, because he knows I’m in orchestra.”
Jisung massages his fingers into his temples. He’d have to sort that out another time. “Right. Okay. Anyway.” And… close this out. Moving on. Enough. Jesus. “Was that everything you wanted it to be?”
“What?” She taps her shoes again. “Oh, that… friendly exchange of ours?”
Jisung laughs. “If that’s what you want to call it.”
Minji snorts. She rises from her chair, shuffles across the room, and disappears. Some clanging and banging later, she comes hauling her cello out of the storage room. At sixteen, she’s taller than Jisung, and probably looks more competent, too, wielding both her instrument and the music stand she grabs on the way. “For what it’s worth, I still think you should tell him,” she declares into the silence after unlatching her case.
Jisung had reopened his laptop. Stares at a flood of emails Chan had forwarded them. Among the recipients is Seungmin’s work email, prim and proper, right above [email protected] and [email protected]. Camper van rental confirmation, a spreadsheet outlining their prospective route and the campgrounds and tourist attractions along the way. When he glances up, eyes adjusting from tiny text to Minji’s face, she’s staring at him, cello propped and ready to tune. “Hm?”
“You should tell him.” Minji twitches her chin toward Jisung’s desk. Jisung doesn’t piece together what exactly she’s gesturing toward, until she enunciates, “This Minhoring-nim,” with a little grin. She must’ve seen. On his phone.
Jisung’s tongue clicks as it suctions from the roof of his mouth. “Kim Minji—”
Loudly, Minji says, “I’m not telling anyone. Okay? Take a breather, Mr. Han. You have my word.” Then she jerks her chin again, this time at the tuner on his desk. “Toss me that?”
Despite his uncoordinated lob, she catches it with grace. But she also puffs, “Mr. Han. What if someone had walked in just now? Seen you pelting your students with sharp objects?” She tuts, turning on the tuner and plucking at her A string. “Now, that would’ve been totally inappropriate.”