Archive of Our Own

“Jackson,” Jaebeom says gravely, “you’re our last hope.”

Jackson has been lying on his back on the indoor court, tossing a basketball up toward the high metal rafters and catching it again without really looking. The sound of rubber hitting his palms echoes faintly in the gym. He blinks at the ceiling, head perking up, wondering what he’s just been volunteered for.

“Hm?” he says vaguely, rolling onto an elbow. “Sorry, I haven’t been listening to the conversation at all.”

“That much is obvious,” Mark mutters from where he’s seated cross-legged nearby.

Jaebeom exhales through his nose. He’s standing in front of a whiteboard that’s been wheeled in from one of the classrooms, arms crossed and expression solemn, sleeves pushed up with the air of a military commander readying his troops for battle. It’s a bit dramatic, considering he’s not a military commander, but the captain of a high school basketball team. But the rest of them let him have his delusions of grandeur anyway.

“Our last hope,” Jaebeom repeats, slower this time. “For the summer festival fundraiser. We have no other choice.”

Right. The summer festival fundraiser.

Every year the basketball team runs a stall at the school’s summer festival. Officially, it’s to raise money for equipment, travel expenses, team development—things that sound noble and practical when written in proposal forms. Whether all of it actually goes toward those things is, perhaps, a separate conversation. Last July, Jackson distinctly remembers Coach posting beach vacation photos from Thailand on his Facebook page with the caption “hard-earned rest.” Jackson’s pretty sure that teaching salaries aren’t that generous, but he can’t be fully certain.

Still, the stall always makes money. It’s become less a fundraiser and more an exercise in figuring out exactly how much the student body is willing to pay for proximity to a tall boy with decent shoulders. They’ve tested several hypotheses over the years, like, the dunk tank: successful. The shirtless photobooth: wildly successful. A brief collaboration with the animal welfare club involving puppies and strategically unbuttoned shirts: almost alarmingly successful. The line for that one had stretched out the campus and into the streets, composed entirely of masses of giggling teenagers holding dollar bills and dog treats.

What they’ve done has worked. It always worked. Which is why Jackson doesn’t immediately understand the problem. He pushes himself up into a sitting position, spinning the ball in his hand, and voices this out loud.

Mark rolls his eyes, reaches over and plucks the ball cleanly from his hand mid-spin. Jackson pouts.

“Pay attention, dude,” Mark says. “We’ve done everything. Last year we combined the dunk tank, and the shirtless photobooth, and the puppies. All at the same time. We smelt like wet dog for like, a week.”

“There’s a saturation point,” Jaebeom nods, tapping the whiteboard with the marker now in his hand. “We can’t keep recycling the same concept and expect the same turnout. People get bored, and when people get bored, income declines. So now, we’re doing this.”

Jackson squints toward the board, briefly cursing his shitty eyesight. He squints some more and the fuzzy letters eventually come into focus: in the center of the board, written in thick, decisive strokes, is KISSING BOOTH.

Beneath it is a list of some of the team: Mark, Minhyuk, Eunwoo, Mingyu—arranged in neat hour-long time slots. And then, at the bottom, written in red, underlined thrice over, is Jackson Wang.

He stares at it for a long moment. “Why am I the only one with my full name?” he asks carefully. “And, hold up, why am I the only one aggressively underlined?”

Next to him, Eunwoo laughs and claps him on the shoulder, the force of it rocking him slightly forward. “Don’t start getting humble on us now. You’re headlining the whole thing,” he says. 

“Jackson Wang, the bread-winner!” Mingyu hoots from the back.

Jackson furrows his brows. “I don’t understand.”

“The names are in order, in one-hour rotations,” Jaebeom explains. “And we’re ending with you.” He pauses, and then continues, sounding pained, like the words are being forcibly dragged out of him, “because as much as I hate to admit it, you’ll draw the biggest crowd.”

There is another pause, in which Jackson takes a moment to absorb it all in. He is torn between being flattered at Jaebeom’s words or terribly offended at his tone. Him? Being the main act of a kissing booth?

He is not unaware of his reputation. He’s popular. He knows how many confession letters he’s received (fourty-two, averaging about thirteen letters each Valentines), how often his name travels ahead of him in hallways (roughly twenty metres), how easily people fold over at his smile if he angles it just right (very, very easily). He’s dated enough that it’s become part of the background noise of his high school life—short-lived, uncomplicated things, because no one really expects permanence at seventeen.

Jackson has never claimed to be the pinnacle of humility. But now, the idea of being publicly available—of turning his mouth into a fundraising commodity—is strangely upsetting, because of one issue. 

One crinkly-eyed, black-haired, president-of-the-student-council shaped issue. 

This particular issue, or should he say, person, has rearranged Jackson’s habits without notice. It started subtly. Jackson began timing his walks across campus with the end of student council meetings, under the weak excuse of “passing by.” He knows, with embarrassing specificity, the difference between that careful, public smile—the one used when teachers are watching—and the smaller, private one that only appears when something genuinely amuses him. He’s memorised the way the corners of his eyes fold inward when he laughs, how his brows draw together when he’s concentrating, how he presses his lips thin when he’s annoyed but trying to be diplomatic.

Jackson’s started to care, desperately, pathetically so, about completely inane things like whether this person has had a good day or not. He’s found himself wanting to be useful, carrying equipment without being asked, offering to help distribute flyers, volunteering for things he would have once dodged, simply because it might earn him a nod of approval. And it’s totally pitiful.

Jackson, who has never struggled to receive attention, has discovered that he wants it from one very specific source and nowhere else. The casual flirting with anyone and everything that once felt like background noise now feels strangely loud, almost wasteful. It’s difficult to enjoy being everyone’s favourite when the only reaction he’s waiting for is far more restrained and far more rare.

So while the Jackson of a year ago would have been game, the Jackson of right now finds this whole idea less amusing. Not because he suddenly objects to kissing, or to crowds, or to attention. But because there is one pair of observant eyes he cannot stop thinking about.

“There are other options,” he tries, gesturing vaguely at the group. Then he squints. “Hey, Jaebeom-hyung, why aren’t you on the list?”

“I’m the captain,” Jaebeom replies at once. “I need to maintain a certain image.”

“You’re the captain of the basketball team, not president of the country.” 

Jaebeom ignores that.

Jackson turns, looking for another target. “What about Yunho? He has a bunch of admirers,” he presses.

Yunho, who has been quietly sitting with his arms looped around his knees, looks up. “I mean, I could,” he says, then smiles apologetically. “But Mingi would get mad at me.”

“Right,” Jackson mutters. “Your boyfriend.”

He very deliberately does not add that there might also be someone who wouldn’t like it if he did this. Because that would require clarifying who that someone is and anyway, it’s not as if they’re actually dating. Currently, that fantasy exists only in his own head.

Instead, he turns back to Jaebeom and deploys his secret weapon, the expression that has gotten him out of drills, detentions, and at least one disastrous group project. His infamous puppy eyes, complete with wide eyes that threaten to take over half his face and a slight downturn of the mouth. 

But Jaebeom, unfortunately, has known him for years, and is immune.

“We need new equipment,” the captain says flatly, apathetic to Jackson’s pout. “We need new training cones, and proper resistance bands, and a shooting machine that doesn’t make the sound of a dying hog every time it’s turned on. Do it for the team, Jackson.”

Jackson’s shoulders sink. He knows it’s true. He’s complained about the shooting machine himself.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he exhales. “Fine,” he says at last, resigned but not entirely defeated. “If the team needs it, I’ll do it, I guess.”

Jaebeom nods once, satisfied. He recaps the marker and reaches for the eraser, rubbing off the writing.

“And anyway,” Jaebeom adds, almost offhand, “I already asked Jinyoung. He said he was fine with it.”

Jackson’s head snaps up. “Why would you need to ask Ji—”

He’s interrupted by a shrill whistle from the doorway as Coach steps into the gym, clapping his hands sharply. He looks suspiciously tanned and well-rested. “Why is no one running drills?” he demands.

The conversation dies immediately. The team scrambles up, the hollow thud of sneakers hitting the linoleum floor and the squeak of the whiteboard being rolled away. Their coach watches them, eagle-eyed, with his arms crossed over his chest.

Jackson jogs to his position with the rest of them, Shownu patting him on the shoulder with a knowing look as he passes. His heart beats a little too loudly for someone who is definitely, absolutely not dating anyone.

After the meeting, Jackson has one week until the festival. It settles over him in a strange, stretched-out way, as he spends the seven days mentally preparing for his day of reckoning.

Well, he doesn’t really need to mentally prepare. It’s kissing. He has, historically, not struggled in that department. The only action he takes is going out to the store to buy a shit ton of lip balms—one minty, one unscented, one with SPF because the stall is outdoors and he refuses to get lip sunburn, which sounds humiliating, but the back of the chapstick said it could happen so he bought it anyway. He tosses them all into his bag and they sit there all week.

And all week, he doesn’t see Jinyoung. Not once.

Jackson lingers outside the student council room more than is strictly necessary, leans against lockers, pretends to scroll his phone, but Jinyoung isn’t there. He times his “casual” walk past the door with the end of meetings. Council members file out in groups—animated, busy, already talking about festival logistics—but the one face he’s looking for never appears.

Jihyo, another council member, pauses in the doorway and looks at him with open curiosity. “You waiting for someone?” she asks.

“No,” Jackson replies casually, as he casually leans on the doorframe, casually sticking his head to casually peek inside. Jinyoung isn’t there.

“He’s busy this week.” Jihyo adjusts the folders in her arms. “He has different schedules for the festival, so he’s not in any meetings.”

“Who’s busy? I have no idea who you’re talking about, because I’m not looking for anyone,” Jackson laughs. High pitched and very, very casually.

“Right,” Jihyo says, raising an eyebrow. 

Jackson pushes off the doorframe, edging backwards. “I’ll be going now. Because I’m not waiting. For anyone. At all.”

Jihyo watches him shuffle away, eyebrow still raised.

Jackson tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. The student council is always busy before a festival, that’s their whole thing, running around looking mildly stressed and pretending to be busier than they actually are. But he can’t help but wonder if Jinyoung is avoiding him, and he can’t help replaying their last conversation in his head: a day before the team meeting, when Jackson had stopped Jinyoung in the middle of the courtyard and they made excruciatingly awkward small talk for five minutes. He wonders if he said anything wrong, if there was a subtext or some subtle shift he might have missed that thoroughly pissed Jinyoung off to the point of actively running away from him.

It annoys him, how much he cares, because to reiterate, they’re not dating. It’s just Jackson’s stupid, overactive mind, paying way too much attention to a guy who probably wouldn’t care less if he dropped dead in the middle of campus.

By the morning of the festival, his anxiety has mellowed into something more like a mild depression. If he hasn’t seen Jinyoung all week, chances are he won’t see him today either. The student council will be running around managing logistics and overseeing stalls, or whatever it is they usually do. They’ll certainly have no time to drop in for a brief joust at the kissing booth. 

Jinyoung will be busy. It’s fine, it’s self-explanatory.

It’s very, very upsetting. But Jackson has accepted it. 

The basketball team’s stall is set up in the worst possible location—dead centre of the courtyard, fully exposed to the sun like administration wanted to punish them specifically. The plastic chairs are already uncomfortably warm and the tiny stall umbrella above them provides shade for approximately one shoulder at a time. He’s suddenly thankful he bought the SPF chapstick, silently vowing to pay more attention in health lessons. 

Since Mark’s shift is up first, Jackson spends the first hour sitting beside him, half under the umbrella, watching the line move steadily. Clusters of giggling girls approach, five-dollar bills clutched in nervous fists. A few boys too, perhaps even gigglier—Mark attracts a very specific demographic of admirers. The bowl fills gradually with crumpled notes. 

The entire time, Mark looks profoundly uninvested. Each kiss is the same quick, polite peck, over in less than a second. It’s almost machine-like, the way he goes about the whole thing.

“You’re so boring,” Jackson complains, leaning back on his plastic chair. “At least use a little tongue. You’re scamming these people blind.”

Mark levels him with a flat side eye. “If I was providing tongue action, the prices for kisses would have to be way more than five dollars.”

When Mark’s shift ends, Minhyuk slides into the chair with visible enthusiasm, already stretching his neck like he’s about to go into a basketball game, and not spend an hour kissing a bunch of sweaty hormonal teens. Jackson and Mark drift away under the extremely weak excuse of “advertising the team” which Jaebeom, overseeing the stall, pretends not to notice.

They wander through the festival instead. They test the ring toss and lose embarrassingly, attempt to haggle for free skewers at the cooking club booth, briefly consider face paint before Jackson decides that glitter would get in the way of smooching later. The festival is loud, bright, sticky with sugar and sunscreen.

But eventually, Jackson’s shift comes around, and they circle back. Mark, unwilling to sit through an hour of watching his best friend exchange saliva with a bunch of strangers, fucks off with Youngjae—their cute little dongsaeng from the school choir—saying something about a hotdog eating competition. Jackson glumly watches them leave, wishing he was going with them.

He reaches the stall and clasps hands with Mingyu, who’s lips are red and inflamed like he was attacked by a vicious hoard of bees. Mingyu, however, looks very pleased, grinning like a man who has discovered a new hobby.

“Been busy?” Jackson asks, eyeing him.

“Very,” Mingyu says cheerfully. “Oh man, you’re in for it.”

He claps Jackson on the shoulder and, for no clear reason, smacks him on the ass as he passes. “Good luck.”

Jackson drops into the chair. It’s still warm. Jaebeom materialises almost immediately, swapping out Mingyu’s bowl—bursting with cash, what a guy—with an empty one. He grips Jackson’s shoulder, only a little menacingly, and leans down.

“Remember the shooting machine,” he says into Jackson’s ear.

Jackson thinks he feels a shiver run down his spine. Jaebeom takes team funding extremely seriously. 

Jaebeom gives his shoulder one firm squeeze and disappears back into the crowd. Jackson exhales once and rolls his neck. He can do this. He’s good at this, actually, at the whole casual kissing thing, at singling someone out and making them feel like the most important person in the world for exactly ten seconds.

He can be in a good mood about this. He loves attention, honestly, and he’s mostly accepted that he and Jinyoung will never be anything more than friendly acquaintances, as severely depressing as that is. It sort of kills his mood a little as soon as he thinks about it, but he’s also very good at compartmentalising all those sticky, complicated feelings into a little ball and chucking it backwards into the far crevices of his mind. It’s why he’s so good at basketball.

So, doing exactly that, he realises that hey, this might not be that bad after all. Leaning forward onto the table, resting his head on his hand, he watches as the line seems to suddenly get very crowded as soon as people realise he’s the one sitting in the chair. The first person steps up—a blushing girl gripping a five-dollar bill like it might dissolve if she holds it too loosely. She drops it into the bowl and looks up at him, eyes wide.

Jackson lets his grin settle, easy and bright and cocky.

“Pucker up,” he says, leaning in.

“Hi, Jackson-ah,” Kangjoon smiles, stepping up to the stall. His gaze drifts amusedly over Jackson, who is sitting in his plastic chair, lips red and swollen and positively beaming.

“Kangjoon!” Jackson cheers. “Couldn’t resist coming by, huh? I knew you’d show up eventually. Nobody can stay away from the Wang forever.” 

Kangjoon hums, giving him an overt once-over. “Judging by the state of you, I’d say I’m not the only one.”

Jackson glances down at himself.

He is, admittedly, a little rumpled. People, it turns out, get very enthusiastic when they kiss. His collar has been tugged out of shape several times, and his hair has had multiple hands run through it with great passion. Somewhere along the line someone had grabbed a fistful of his shirt like they were trying to pry it right off him.

It got to the point that Jaebeom had to step forward from his hiding spot to stand ominously behind Jackson, like some sort of second-rate body guard. Something about the team’s investment requiring supervision, he said.

But despite all the chaos and manhandling, Jackson is having a good time. As previously discussed, he’s very good at compartmentalisation. The kisses are just part of the event, quick and harmless and transactional. Smile, lean in, peck, next person. The crowd energy is fun, the bowl of cash keeps filling, and every so often Jaebeom gives him a look of deep, approving calculation that says the shooting machine fund is thriving.

His hour is nearly up now, and honestly? He’s feeling pretty good.

Kangjoon fishes a bill from his wallet and drops it into the bowl, which is starting to look alarmingly full. Jackson grins, leaning in, puckering his lips, but Kangjoon bypasses him and gives Jackson a short, sweet kiss on the cheek. Before Jackson can react, he’s already straightening with a cheeky smile.

“Take care,” he says lightly, waving as he strolls away. 

“You tease!” Jackson hollers at Kangjoon’s retreating back, which is shaking with what looks suspiciously like mirth as he goes.

The next person steps up to the stall. “Dude, wasn’t that your ex?” 

Jackson blinks upward and comes face to face with perhaps his favourite fifteen-year-old in the world. Bambam.

He’s technically only a second year and thus, technically, unable to lead any clubs, but he reigns supreme over the fashion club anyway. He also reigns supreme over being an undying pain in Jackson’s ass, but he loves the kid regardless. 

“Oh, Kangjoon?” Jackson says, waving a hand lazily. “Yeah, we dated for a bit, but we’re chill.”

Then he squints at Bambam’s face, which is currently arranged into a very deliberate expression of smug anticipation.

“Hey, Bammie,” Jackson says slowly. He pops open a random chapstick and absently applies it to his drying lips. Mm, this one’s mint.

Bambam grins back immediately, all teeth and trouble, and flicks open his wallet like a magician revealing his best trick. His best trick is very underwhelming because he is, as aforementioned, a fifteen year old, and his wallet is pretty empty.

“Hey, Jacks,” he says, waggling the empty wallet around. “Look what I’ve got.”

Jackson leans his elbows onto the table, curious despite himself. “Here for a kiss?”

“I was hoping I could get a little more than that,” Bambam leers suggestively, in a way that suggests he thinks he’s being extremely suave. 

Previously mentioned: pain in Jackson’s ass. Jackson has to bite back a laugh, because Bambam is so full of shit, and his attempt at seduction is like watching a little puppy trying to be intimidating. He’s also pretty sure the kid was born, like, yesterday. He entertains him anyway, thinking back to what Mark said earlier that morning.

“Five dollars for a peck. Ten if you want a little tongue.” Jackson pauses as he pretends to deliberate, tapping the rim of the bowl with a finger. “Fiifteen for anywhere other than my mouth, but it’s gotta stay above the waist.”

Bambam immediately drops fifteen dollars into the bowl. “I wanna leave a mark,” he says greasily.

Behind him in the line, Lisa sticks her head out. “Have you even had your first kiss yet? Do you know what a hickey is?” she asks suspiciously. 

“Dude, shut it,” Bambam hisses, swatting at her. “I brought you here for moral support, not to heckle me.”

“I’m not here for you,” she says bluntly, waving a five dollar bill, “I’ve got my own ulterior motives.”

“She has a point,” Jackson says skeptically. “You were born, like, yesterday.” 

Bambam opens his mouth to speak, but Jackson has already leaned forward and pinched his cheek with two fingers, squeezing it with great affection. “You’re still my little baby,” he coos.

Bambam recoils instantly, swatting his hand away like he’s been burned. “Stop doing that!” he snaps, slamming both palms onto the table and leaning forward dramatically. He wiggles his eyebrows again. “Let this be a learning experience then, hyung.”

Jackson is just about to sigh and lean in—mostly to see how far Bambam is willing to commit to this whole performance—when the line behind him suddenly erupts. It happens in that strange ripple way crowds sometimes do, where one person stumbles and suddenly three more are bumping into each other and someone yelps because their drink almost went flying. Jackson squints over Bambam’s shoulder—once again cursing his myopia, because all he can make out is a blur of movement and what appears to be people getting pushed aside like bowling pins, as someone very determinedly forces their way forward.

Jackson leans sideways in his chair, trying to see around Bambam. He whistles appreciatively. “Wow, someone really wants a kiss.” He squints. “Or is there a fight breaking out?”

“Nevermind that, hyung—” Bambam starts, but before he can get far, a large hand descends on his collar.

Jaebeom, having emerged from where he was standing behind Jackson, looms ominously over Bambam. 

“Our workers have strict professional boundaries,” he announces, already hauling Bambam backwards.  

“Hyung—hey—what the hell!” Bambam squawks as he’s dragged away from the table.

“I will be dealing with this unruly client elsewhere,” Jaebeom continues gravely.

“I paid fifteen dollars!” Bambam yells, kicking his feet uselessly as Jaebeom drags him into the crowd. 

Jaebeom does not slow down. As they disappear into the sea of festival-goers, he glances back over his shoulder, giving Jackson a look. And he winks. 

Obviously trying to communicate some sort of meaning to him, but Jackson doesn’t really get it. He just stares after them, baffled.

Then, someone clears their throat in front of him. Jackson turns back toward the stall—

—and finds himself staring directly at a very familiar chest.

His brain sputters pathetically and screeches to a halt.

Immediately, he starts to desperately will it back alive to process the new optical information. Because there is no way the person standing in front of him now is who he thinks it is. But alas, he has plunged into total cognitive death, and is forced to slowly lift his gaze.

And there, standing on the other side of the table, slightly flushed and breathing a little harder than usual, like he’s just fought his way through a small crowd of determined teenagers, is Jinyoung.

Jinyoung, who Jackson has not seen for an entire week. Jinyoung, who looks unfairly composed for someone who apparently just bulldozed through a kissing booth queue. He pushes a stray piece of hair back from his forehead, exhaling lightly.

“Glad I made it,” he says.

Jackson blinks, gaping. “Huh?”

“Glad I made it before your hour ended,” Jinyoung clarifies. Jackson blinks again and glances down at his phone, where it reads 4:56 PM—indeed, four minutes from the end of his shift.

He looks back up at Jinyoung. “Oh,” he says intelligently.

For a moment Jackson just stares at him.

Which, admittedly, is not a particularly impressive reaction, but it’s the only one his still-offline brain seems capable of producing. 

Because this is the first time all week that Jinyoung has been standing directly in front of him instead of existing vaguely elsewhere on campus like some elusive migratory bird. The past few days have been a strange loop of almosts—almost catching him outside the student council room, almost seeing him crossing the courtyard, almost running into him between classes—except every time Jackson had looked properly, it had turned out to be someone else. A different black-haired head. A different uniform. It was a deeply irritating week of thinking he’s spotted Jinyoung across the quad only to realise it’s just a lamppost.

And now here he is. Right here. At the booth. Slightly flushed, breathing a little heavier than usual because he really did just push his way through half the student body to get here, which Jackson cannot comprehend why. 

Why would Jinyoung be so desperate to get to the front of the line? The kissing booth line? The kissing booth line to kiss Jackson?

Jackson blinks again, just to make sure the image doesn’t dissolve. Then he realises he’s been staring like an idiot, and clears his throat.

“Um,” he manages, which is not his most charismatic opening line but feels like a reasonable starting point. “How have you been? I… I  haven’t seen you all week.”

Jinyoung’s expression softens almost immediately, the corners of his mouth pulling down in a way that looks, if Jackson squints, almost apologetic.

“I’m sorry about that,” Jinyoung says sincerely, like he really means it. Jackson’s heart flutters. “I was very busy. The performing art club has been driving me nuts. They kept asking for an interpretive dance stall and wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

Ah. That explains a lot. The art rooms. At the far end of campus, the one part of school Jackson rarely ever wanders into. He feels faintly ridiculous now, recalling the amount of time he’d spent hovering near the student council room when the subject of his yearning wasn’t even there.

“Oh,” Jackson says weakly. He admits, “I thought you were avoiding me.”

The moment the words leave his mouth he considers climbing under the table and living there forever. But Jinyoung looks genuinely startled, shaking his head with emotion. “No,” he says immediately, the word coming out strong. His brows pull together slightly, like the idea had never even occurred to him. “No, I wasn’t avoiding you. Of course not.”

“I really did want to see you,” he continues, with a quiet sincerity that has Jackson’s heart upgrading from fluttering to full blown back-flips. “I’m sorry it came across like that.”

Then he adds, after the briefest pause, “I’ll make it up to you.”

Jackson’s heart, apparently sick of the back-flips, immediately skips a hard, ugly beat, seemingly intent on joining his brain in the graveyard with the rest of his bodily functions. Because the sentence, innocent as it probably is, arrives with the unfortunate side effect of sounding vaguely like a promise, almost like an innuendo, and Jackson’s imagination has never been particularly responsible nor lacking in restraint when it comes to such things.

For a moment he just sits there staring into space again, the words echoing around his head in several different possible interpretations. I’ll make it up to you, Jinyoung says. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll make it up to you.

Right. Sure. Normal sentence. Casual. Totally fine. But his brain, now unfortunately very alive, has already started rearranging it into increasingly unhelpful variations, supplying him with images of some very not G-rated things. 

Jinyoung, blissfully unaware of the mild spiral he has just triggered, glances up at the sign hanging above the stall.

“So,” he says casually, nodding toward it, “about the pricing.”

“Five for a kiss, ten for tongue,” Jackson says limply, his mouth running on automatic as the rest of him goes through what can only be described as an out-of-body experience.

Jinyoung’s eyebrow lifts, curious, and he laughs silently, shoulders shaking with silent amusement. “Interesting,” he hums. “Tongue wasn’t part of the proposal Jaebeom-hyung gave me.”

He leans forward, planting both hands on the table. Not touching Jackson, not quite, but hovering very close, close enough that Jackson suddenly becomes extremely aware of how small the space between them actually is.

“Then… how much for a date?” Jinyoung asks, smiling. 

Jackson gulps.

There are several things happening inside his brain simultaneously. One: this is happening. Two: this is actually happening. Three: oh my god this is actually happening.

But he can't show it. Freaking out would be seriously lame and would probably scare Jinyoung away, and that is the last thing he wants. Outwardly, he attempts to project the aura of someone extremely cool and unaffected. He props his cheek against his hand in what he hopes reads as casual nonchalance. 

“I dunno,” he says, gaze sliding away as if the table surface has suddenly become fascinating. “I don’t really offer private services. That would show customer bias, you know? And I gotta keep my clientele satisfied, so I can’t be favouring one over the other, that’s just bad business practice. There’s a whole reputation to maintain here. Very strict ethical standards in the kissing booth industry—”

In the corner of the eye, he sees Jinyoung’s eyes crinkle slightly with quiet amusement, head tilted like he’s studying something particularly entertaining. 

Jackson keeps rambling. “—and if people start thinking they can get special treatment then the whole system is redundant, next thing you know there’s favouritism accusations and scandal and then the money is bad and the operation breaks down and—”

“Cute,” Jinyoung murmurs.

Jackson’s mouth clicks shut, choking on his words. He goes completely red. 

“M-me?” he stutters out.

Jinyoung huffs with fond exasperation. “Who else?”

“Hey! Hurry it up over there!” someone hollers from further down the line. “This is the kissing booth, not the talking booth!”

Jinyoung rolls his eyes mildly at the interruption. Then he straightens just enough to reach into his wallet, rifling through it before pulling out a five-dollar bill. He flashes it at Jackson with a crooked, almost mischievous little grin.

Jackson watches, wide-eyed, as Jinyoung casually drops it into the bowl. They stare at each other for a moment.

“So?” Jinyoung says.

“Well,” Jackson mumbles, face still burning, “I guess ’cause you paid for it…”

They both lean in slowly, the space closing hesitantly between them, like they’re both making absolutely sure the other one isn’t about to change their mind. In the end, Jinyoung’s patience runs out first, and he closes the gap.

Their lips meet softly.

For a brief second it’s just a gentle press—tentative, almost careful—then Jinyoung tilts his head slightly, his nose brushing lightly against Jackson’s as he adjusts the angle. His hands slide fully into place on either side of Jackson’s face, palms warm against his cheeks, fingers spreading just under his ears. His thumbs rest along the line of Jackson’s jaw, moving in slow absentminded strokes that make Jackson’s brain return to the neurological graveyard.

Jackson’s lips part a little, unconsciously, and the kiss deepens, unhurried and unshowy in a way that feels completely different from the quick, giggly pecks Jackson had been handing out all afternoon. There’s no crowd-pleasing theatrics to it, no exaggerated leaning over the table for the sake of the audience. Jinyoung takes his time, pressing closer, the pressure of his mouth warm and steady as he kisses Jackson properly, but somehow politely. 

Like a true gentleman, Jackson thinks, sighing into the kiss like the dumb love-struck fool that he is. His hand settles lightly against Jinyoung’s wrist for balance, because the way Jinyoung is kissing him so reverently is making him feel a little wobbly. He barely remembers to breathe.

Jinyoung’s thumbs continue tracing slow movements along his cheeks, occasionally brushing the corner of his mouth, and Jackson feels like every coherent thought in his head has packed up and left the building. It’s warm and slow and strangely comfortable, like Jinyoung has all the patience in the world to just stand here and kiss him for as long as it takes.

When they finally pull apart, it happens gradually. The pressure eases first, their lips lingering for a moment before separating, and even then Jinyoung doesn’t move very far away. His hands are still holding Jackson’s face, thumbs resting against his skin.

They just look at each other.

Jackson is still willing his mind to catch up with the rest of reality. He can’t quite believe any of this is happening. He can’t believe the universe apparently decided to reward his months of extremely unsubtle, frankly pathetic pining with a direct kiss to the mouth. Maybe the corndog he had for lunch earlier was laced. 

He squints a little as the thought strikes him with sudden horror. Oh my god, what if the kiss tasted like corndog?

“I didn’t taste like corndog, did I?” he asks. 

Jinyoung’s thumbs pause in where they’re still rubbing against Jackson’s face. 

“A little,” he admits. 

Jackson makes a strangled noise.

“That’s okay, though,” Jinyoung adds quickly, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I don’t mind if you taste like corndog.”

“Hey, not to interrupt,” Lisa says from behind them, “but could I get my kiss?”

Both of them turn. Lisa is standing there with her arms crossed and one hip cocked to the side, looking deeply unimpressed. 

“I was next in line and you totally pushed in,” she says.

Jinyoung clears his throat with a small ahem and releases Jackson’s face, stepping aside and gesturing courteously. A gentleman, Jackson thinks again, sighing once more. Lisa bounces forward immediately, drops a bill into the now full bowl, and leans down to give Jackson a quick peck. 

“Thanks!” she chirps, before skipping off to presumably find Bambam, wherever Jaebeom dragged him earlier.

As if summoned by the thought, Jaebeom himself appears a moment later with Bambam trailing behind him. Bambam looks mildly disheveled and has acquired several suspicious-looking scrapes across his cheek and forehead. He opens his mouth, looking to get a few righteous words in, but before he can speak Lisa grabs him by the hand and drags him back into the crowd. As they disappear Jackson thinks he can faintly hear the echo of fifteen dollars!

Meanwhile, Jaebeom glances down at his watch.

“Alright, shift over!” he calls loudly to the remaining crowd. “Kissing booth is closed!”

A wave of disappointed groans rises from the students still lingering in line. Jaebeom waves them away with firm authority, clapping his hands like he’s dispersing pigeons. 

“Come back next year,” he says, already herding them off across the quad. He grabs the bowl of cash and leaves to wave off the rest of the students.

As he goes he glances back once more, gaze flickering between Jinyoung and Jackson. Then he winks. Again.

“He keeps doing that,” Jackson says, staring after him in bafflement. “I have no idea what he’s trying to say to me.”

Beside the booth, Jinyoung hums faintly. “Don’t worry about it.” But he casually lifts one hand and flashes a subtle thumbs-up in Jaebeom’s direction. Jaebeom returns the gesture without breaking stride.

For a moment after the crowd disperses, the space around the booth grows strangely quiet. The excited chatter and laughter from earlier drifts further away across the quad, leaving them standing there in the aftermath of the fundraiser with the crooked Kissing Booth sign still taped to the stall.

Jackson clears his throat. “So,” he says slowly, dragging his gaze back toward Jinyoung. “About that date.”

Jinyoung tilts his head slightly, looking down at him with open amusement. “I thought you didn’t do private services,” he teases. “You were giving me a very detailed speech about maintaining professional standards.”

“That was a general policy statement,” Jackson shrugs his shoulders, very casually. He averts his eyes again, fingers idly fiddling with one of the chapsticks lying on the table. “For you, I could make an exception, I guess. Maybe.”

The attempt at nonchalance would be much more convincing if the tips of his ears weren’t already a burning pink. Jinyoung watches him for a moment, the quiet smile tugging at his mouth deepening until his eyes crease faintly at the corners.

“You really are cute,” he murmurs.

Jackson opens his mouth to protest, but he doesn’t get the chance.

Jinyoung leans in again, one hand coming up to rest against the edge of the table, kissing him quick, but no less warm. Jackson makes a startled noise against his mouth and leans forward belatedly, but Jinyoung’s already pulling back, leaving Jackson chasing after him. 

“So,” Jinyoung says lightly, as Jackson’s left gaping dumbly. “Would you like to get dinner?”

Jackson blinks. Then he scrambles to his feet so fast he nearly knocks the whole damn table over.

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, dinner sounds good.”

Later, they’re at a small hole-in-the-wall diner, on the aforementioned date. Between them on the table sits a tall chocolate milkshake with two straws. The atmosphere feels so romantic that Jackson could puke. But he’s too busy attempting to drink approximately seventy percent of the milkshake before Jinyoung can.

“Hey,” he says eventually, words slightly muffled around the straw as he inhales another aggressive mouthful. “Did you really not mind me kissing all of those people earlier?”

Jinyoung lets out a quiet laugh. “Why, did you expect me to be jealous?” 

As he speaks, he reaches across the table and casually wipes a smear of chocolate from the corner of Jackson’s mouth with his thumb. Jackson freezes, blushing. 

“...maybe,” he mumbles. “Were you not?”

“Nah,” Jinyoung says. “I knew you were desperately pining over me. The rest of them weren’t exactly intimidating competition.”

Jackson chokes, nearly inhaling the straw. He stares at him in horror, voice coming out in a squeak. “You knew?”

Instinctively he shoves the straw back into his mouth to hide behind it. Jinyoung smiles.

“Hanging around the student council room every day isn’t as subtle as you think,” he says. Then he grins. “But none of them matter. Because now, you’re mine.” 

Jackson splutters so violently that chocolate milkshake sprays out of his mouth in an impressive arc. Jerking back in his seat, he slaps both hands over his face in sheer embarrassment, attempting to physically fold himself into the booth and disappear forever. 

Across the table, Jinyoung dissolves into laughter. He reaches up to gently pry Jackson’s sticky fingers away from his face.

Jackson makes a miserable noise of protest, but Jinyoung just laughs again, ignoring him in favour of brushing his thumbs over Jackson’s cheeks as he wipes away the lingering milkshake.

“So, so cute,” he says warmly.

And then he leans forward over the table and kisses Jackson again anyway, chocolate milkshake and all.