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“Don’t be mad, but I forgot my lighter,” Junhui says on the first Tuesday of December, skidding to a seat under the bleachers. He rustles in his pocket for a few seconds, pulls out a different rectangular plastic object as a consolation prize. “Want some? It’s basically the same thing.”
Minghao stares at his friend as he peels back the packaging, looking awfully pleased with himself. “Dunkaroos and marijuana are not basically the same thing, Jun."
"Fine! More for me." Jun takes out a circular cookie, dunking it with a generous amount of frosting before popping it in his mouth. “You used to be fun, you know. Remember that? Fun?”
Minghao’s not in the mood. Junhui’s kept him waiting for a good fifteen minutes already, sitting here by himself, holding an unlit joint like a nerd. It’s cold, too, the early winter frost still dotting the top of each blade of grass, and Minghao’s worn leather jacket and black-and-white flannel do little to insulate him against the biting chill. The joint would warm him up, but–Of course. No lighter.
He’s been looking forward to getting a little high before his Art History seminar. It sounds depressing, but it’s the only thing that’s enticing him to make it out of his dorm these days. He’s got class at 2:00, and Junhui’s last class ends at 1:00, and they always smoke under the bleachers on Tuesdays. It’s cliche, maybe. Childish. They’re in college now, after all. But a tradition’s a tradition, God damn it.
“How’s Jisoo?” Minghao asks. He fights to keep his voice upbeat when he brings up Jun’s new, super-popular boyfriend. He wants to be happy for them, really, but it’s hard when he’s just been unceremoniously dumped by his boyfriend of four years.
He's not depressed. He's fine. Fine, okay? Stop asking about it.
“It was mutual,” he’d told everyone when it happened last month. “Seokmin and I are just in different places now. Long-distance is hard. We’re still friends, though. We always will be.”
The worst part is he can't even be mad at him. Seokmin’s a great guy. The best. If he put an ad out in the paper, he’d write him a glowing recommendation.
They just weren’t right for each other, or whatever.
“He’s good,” Junhui says now. “He says hi. You should let him hang out next time. You two would get along.”
“I never said he couldn’t come." Minghao digs in his backpack beside him, rummaging around the bottom. Maybe he has, like, a singular match down there. A piece of flint. Anything.
“No. That’s true, you didn’t.” Junhui’s patient with him. “But last time, you looked at him like you were going to bite his head off. He’s a little scared, dude.”
Minghao rolls his eyes. “Let’s plan something, then,” he says, in a voice like he’s making a dental appointment. “It’ll be fun.”
He puts extra emphasis on the last syllable. Fun. Jun just gives him a look that says, “I'll believe it when I see it.”
Minghao looks down at his nails, picks at the chipped black Sharpie with his thumb until he nicks his cuticle, a twinge of pain shooting up his nerve. He needs to redo it. He hasn't had the energy for anything regarding his appearance lately—which is how he knows he's really going through it. Aesthetics are important to him. Not in a vain way–he's just inclined to see the world as beautiful, all its little details. He thrills in shining a light on its most mesmerizing parts. It's why he's always wanted to be an artist.
But Minghao hasn't felt like making art in a while. What has he felt like doing? Good question. Sleeping, mostly. Moping around. Listening to music so loud he can feel the tinnitus developing with every chord. His winter portfolio is due in a couple weeks, and it's looking like he's going to flunk out, unless he gets divine inspiration within the next few hours. Unless he can just turn in a blank canvas and call it postmodern.
He brings his legs up to his chest, the rips in the knees of his black skinny jeans widening with the motion, and rests his head on his forearms, staring angstily ahead. The football team’s practicing, like they always are. If they’ve ever noticed Junhui and Minghao down here, they’ve never shown it. They’re probably programmed to only recognize men in gym shorts and jerseys.
It’s stupid—Minghao doesn’t even like sports–but he can’t help watching them. There’s something transfixing about their movements, like a choreographed dance: the running, the tackling, the butt taps.
Or maybe it’s all just a little bit gay.
He and Junhui don’t know most of their names, but they’ve come up with their own monikers over the weeks they’ve kept this tradition going—Glasses Guy, Pretty Ponytail Tight End, Buzz Cut Quarterback. It’s the last one Minghao picks out of the crowd now, doing drills up and down the field. He’s elegant when he runs, like his body was made for it. He’s in his element, his feet barely touching the turf, an unselfconscious smile on his face. He looks… relaxed. It reminds Minghao of how he feels when he paints.
Used to feel. Whatever.
“Jisoo's having an early birthday thing,” Junhui says. “Right before winter break. Will you come?”
“Sure, sure,” Minghao says absentmindedly, his eyes still trailing the quarterback as he flicks the football effortlessly from his wrist. He can feel Junhui’s eyes on him, but he doesn't care. Finally, Junhui waves a flat palm in front of his face, and he startles, snapping his gaze back to his friend.
“Um, hello?” He laughs. “You have no idea what you just agreed to, do you?”
“Party,” Minghao says, barely glancing at him, his eyes already making their way back across the field.
This time, Jun’s vision follows. He clicks his tongue, mouth flattening into a smirk.
“Didn't think jocks were your type.”
Minghao scowls. “He's—they’re—not.”
He likes sensitive guys. Artsy types. Musicians, writers. Minghao would never, ever date an athlete.
Would he?
They wouldn't have anything to talk about. And even if they did, by some small miracle, it wouldn’t matter. Minghao's not in a position to meet someone new. Not yet.
As he's thinking all this, he's focusing intently on Buzz Cut’s right hand: the way his strong fingers grip the pigskin so tight he swears he can see little crescent-shaped indentations around each finger pad, as though he's holding flesh, not fabric.
He could paint that hand, Minghao thinks. Every delicate tendon. The purple shadows of his veins, the half-moons of his bare cuticles, pale pink against slightly golden skin. He starts to sketch out the painting in his mind, mentally mixing the colors on his palette, visualizing the damp canvas.
Abruptly, he's shaken out of the daydream by Jun's voice loud in his ear, one hand cupped around his mouth.
“Oi! Football boy! Over here.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Minghao hisses, punching his friend in the arm a little too hard. Jun just cackles, raises his eyebrows and avoids Hao’s eyes entirely, which look like they're shooting daggers. Before he knows it, Buzz Cut Quarterback is striding over toward them, long legs making quick work of the faraway field.
“Hey,” he says when he gets there. Casually, like they’re old friends, not stalkerish strangers lurking beneath the bleachers. He's got a sweat towel flung over one shoulder, he rests one hand against his hip in repose. He is more delicate up close than Minghao expected. There's something sensitive in the shape of his eyes. “How come you guys aren’t smoking?”
Minghao looks up at him, open-mouthed. The sun's so bright he's squinting against it, and suddenly he's self-conscious about the expression. He closes his lips into what he hopes is a mysterious smile and wills himself to widen his eyes, tears welling as his retinas burn. He wipes them away with the back of his hand, and it comes back smudged with black eyeliner.
“I think my friend here would like to know why you care,” Jun helpfully supplies after an extended silence.
“Oh. It's just— You're the cool stoner guys. You're always smoking,” the football player explains, unfazed. “Now you're not. Why?”
Jun's apparently dumbfounded by this just as much as Minghao is. He raises his eyebrows and laughs, disbelieving.
Fair enough. The situation is surreal. Not only is Buzz Cut Quarterback talking to them, he’s already noticed them. For quite some time, apparently. Minghao wonders if he should be annoyed or flattered.
“No lighter,” he finally says.
The guy nods. “That sucks,” he says as he stretches one arm behind him. He bends it at the elbow, scratching the nape of his neck with his hand. “Well, it's a nice day to sit outside and contemplate, I guess.”
“Contemplate?”
“What, you don't contemplate? You strike me as a contemplator.”
"Is that an insult?"
"Of course not." He smiles.
On the field, the team’s getting ready for a scrimmage, red and gold pinnies thrown over their athletic gear. Several of the other players are craning their necks their way, murmuring to each other with confused expressions.
Minghao says, “You should probably go."
“Huh?” Something flashes across the other man's face before he looks behind him, sees what Minghao sees, and nods in a way that almost looks reluctant.
“Hansol!” calls a round-faced, blonde-haired guy across the green. Even from this distance Minghao can see his innocent eyes and pouty lips, the face of someone who knows how to get what he wants. “Hurry up! I need you to double-knot my laces before the game starts!”
Buzz Cut–Hansol–hesitates for just a second before his feet pick up into a jog, joining his team with an easy smile.
“See you later,” he calls over his shoulder before meeting up with the blonde, who kisses him primly on the cheek. Hansol dips down to tie his shoes. Minghao pretends his heart doesn’t dip with it.
ᝰ🚬
On the second Tuesday in December, Minghao leaves Junhui hanging.
He justifies it to himself because Junhui was late last week–Jun’s late a lot, in fact–and because he didn’t bring the lighter. He hangs out around Junhui’s building after his class is supposed to get out, to try to let him know, but he doesn’t see him. Maybe he’s with Jisoo. Whatever.
He’d call him if he could, but there aren’t any payphones nearby. Minghao still hasn’t given in and gotten a cell phone, even though everyone else has one. Even though Jun thinks he’s insane.
He just can’t get high, not this week—he has a meeting with his advisor before class. He’s been getting reports that his performance has been slipping, the note in Minghao’s student mailbox said when he’d checked it the other day. There was a business card attached, a date and time scrawled upon it. The message was clear–Be there or else.
Minghao can’t argue. His advisor is right. Where he used to be invested in his classes, he’s gone glassy-eyed, shading in the margins of his notebook. Not doodling, though. He doesn’t even have enough inspiration to doodle. He just sits there, catatonic, wondering what the point of it all is.
The meeting is a life raft. It could very well save his semester.
So standing Junhui up—it’s a logistical thing. It definitely has nothing to do with Buzz Cut Quarterback, who he now knows is named Hansol, who he now knows has broad shoulders and a lopsided smile and soft eyes.
Who he now knows has a pouty, blonde boyfriend.
Dr. Choi gives his speech, but Minghao's only half-listening. He gets the gist. He has so much talent. If only he'd apply himself.
If only it were that easy.
“Did you hear me, Minghao?” Dr. Choi asks him, elbows against the cherrywood desk.
Minghao startles. He’s doing it again—zoning out. He rids the image of Hansol from his mind and clears his throat. Nods, swallows.
"The department sees great potential in you,” Dr. Choi says. His gaze is firm, but kind. “You’ll have until the start of next semester to get your work in." He goes to his desk drawer, takes a small silver key off his keyring. "Take this. It's a spare to the building. You can work on your projects whenever you need, drop them off here when you're finished."
“Thank you, sir,” Minghao manages. He pockets the key, staring down at his black Vans. He probably won't use it.
He’s too shut down and frozen to even call himself a tortured artist, romantic as it were.
He’s just tortured.
ᝰ🚬
On the same second Tuesday of December, Minghao leaves Junhui hanging, but the inverse isn’t true. As he walks out of the stone-walled lecture hall, mind reeling, he practically smacks straight into his friend.
Junhui is standing with his arms crossed at the bottom of the short stairwell, feet firmly planted as dozens of busy students stream out of the double doors, backpacks slung over their shoulders. He doesn’t say a word as Minghao approaches. Just tosses his lip ring with his tongue–a nervous tic, when they were kids he’d chew the inside of his lip until it bled; harm reduction—his brow furrowed in a mixture of hurt and irritation.
“I’m sorry,” Minghao says. “I had a meeting–”
“Save it,” Junhui says, then chucks something at Minghao. It bounces off his solar plexus and clatters to the ground. Minghao shuffles his books and papers over to one arm, crouches down to investigate.
“Your jock friend brought that for you this week,” Junhui snaps, turning on his heel to leave. “Thought you’d like to know.”
It’s bright-red, lacquered, and engraved in gold with three ornate letters: HVC.
It’s a lighter.
Before Minghao can ask him anything, Junhui disappears into the crowd.
ᝰ🚬
It storms something heavy Tuesday night.
Sleep eludes Minghao—he’s too busy hoping Junhui’s not mad at him, wondering if he’ll see Hansol again. He can’t get comfortable. The radiator clanks and blows oppressively warm clouds of air into the too-small single room, while cold wind whistles through the gaps of his single-paned windows. When the sun wakes him up, he pulls open the blinds to find a fresh, white blanket of snow. Even without stepping outside, he can feel the frigid air.
It’s the final nail in the proverbial coffin—there’s no way Minghao’s making it to class.
There are only a few more days until winter break begins, and Minghao’s gotten extensions, anyway. He leaves his room once on Wednesday to trek across campus to the library and email his professors that he’s gotten the flu. The rest of the time, he stares at the ceiling. Flips through pages of The Perks of Being a Wallflower while Chris Carrabba serenades him through his Discman. He knows he’s pathetic. He doesn’t care. Maybe he does. Care. A lot.
It doesn’t matter either way.
No one knocks on the door.
ᝰ🚬
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Minghao asks, meeting Soonyoung's eyes in the mirror. “I'm pretty sure he's still pissed at me. Maybe it's better if I—”
“Shut the fuck up,” his friend says, reaching over to fix the cuff of his shirt. “You know he'll just be more mad if you don't show. Also, I spent way too long on your makeup and outfit for you to bail now. Sorry. Not happening. Anyway, you look hot.”
He’s in all black, like usual, ripped skinny jeans and a long-sleeve shirt. But Soonyoung’s styled his hair just right, lined his eyes with dark kohl, and Minghao feels… A little less bad than usual.
They drink enough in Minghao’s room to dull his ever-present ennui. Soonyoung’s playlist is a little poppier than Minghaos’ usual, but still tolerable. Or maybe that's the alcohol. Regardless, it’s been God knows how many days and Minghao’s finally leaving his dorm. He’ll count it as a win.
“How do you do it?” Minghao asks him.
“Do what?”
“Stay single and be so happy about it.”
“Who says I'm single?” Soonyoung grins. He’s so fucking cheeky. “Get your shit. We’re going.”
By the time they're trudging along the snow-crusted campus toward the address Soonyoung printed off on MapQuest, they're well past fashionably late. It's dark save for a few street lamps, drunk coeds stumbling across cobblestones as they trek to whatever party their crushes are at for the night. Minghao is grateful that he's brought his fur hat, the one with the long ear flaps, even though Soonyoung complains that it’ll mess up his artfully gelled hair. He'll muss it back up when he gets into the party and he'll look better for it, too.
They knock on the door, and Short King from the football team greets them with a wide smile, arms stretched wide with a loud “Welcome!” before he takes Soonyoung in his arms and kisses him smack on the mouth.
“Very European of you,” Minghao mutters, wondering if he had too much to drink back at his dorm or if that just actually happened. Soonyoung flushes from his ears down to his chest and gives a shy smile before darting his eyes toward Minghao.
“So, this is Chan,” he says, looking so happy he's about to burst. “My–”
“His boyfriend,” Chan says, dragging Soonyoung through the doorway, tugging him by his waist.
Great. There goes his “single” friend.
Minghao follows them. What the fuck else is he supposed to do under these conditions? Already, this party is not what he expected.
ᝰ🚬
Minghao hates that Soonyoung was right: this was exactly what he needed.
The floors are sticky and the music is atrocious and the drinks taste like syrupy battery acid, but the lights are low and all his friends are here and everyone's laughing and, really, Soonyoung did a phenomenal job with his outfit.
Everyone's complimenting him. He looks good, and he feels good, and before Minghao knows it he's a few more drinks deep. And then he's shaking his ass with Soonyoung and Chan to Usher, and then 1,2 Step comes on, and glasses guy–whose name is Wonwoo, and is Jisoo’s friend from class, and is the whole reason this very party is happening in this very place, as it turns out—gets out a microphone and thrusts it in someone’s face.
Hansol’s face.
Hansol’s here.
And then, Hansol’s rapping Missy Elliott’s entire verse in this way that's somehow lazy and silly and kind of sexy all at the same time, blushing as he finishes to a round of cheers. And Minghao will never admit it out loud, but maybe he's been too quick to write off Top 40 music. Everything has a time and place. You can't mope around forever.
As the night wears on, Minghao decides it’s a great party, with great music and great drinks, and the best part is Jun isn't even mad at him. No, Jun's wasted, and wasted Jun forgets that he's supposed to be a mysterious punk rock Myspace star. Instead, he's giggly and playful; he looks at Jisoo like he hung the moon. Smitten, scrunching up his nose, laughing at things that aren't funny at all. Minghao barely even gags when he notices the two of them curled up on the couch in the corner, sucking face while the party rages on in front of them. They’re in their own little world. And when Minghao looks in his heart, he finds that his envy has worn thin, and he feels nothing but happiness for his friend, even if he’s alone in a sea of couples. Maybe that’s just his lot in life, and maybe that’s okay.
ᝰ🚬
It's got to be closer to morning than midnight by the time Minghao steps out onto the back lawn for a smoke, the sky a predawn periwinkle against the dark trees. He flicks his new red lighter, catching the flame against his terribly rolled joint, and sucks in deeply. It's an end-of-night ritual for him. He swears it helps the hangover the next morning.
Weed is involved in a lot of Minghao's rituals. He tries not to overthink it.
“Oh, hey, I thought it was empty out here,” comes a voice from behind him. He doesn't have to turn around to know who it is, goosebumps already pricking on his forearms under his jacket.
Minghao scoots over on the stone step, letting Hansol sit beside him. He offers the joint wordlessly–more of a polite gesture than an actual expectation. He's surprised when Hansol places it between his pretty lips and takes a well-practiced drag, letting the smoke out in lazy ringlets. Which is a little douchey, but he is a football player, after all. Minghao gives him points for not coughing.
“Didn't know you smoked.”
“Really,” Hansol asks, but it's not a question. “Why'd you think I had that lighter?”
“Touché.”
They sit for a while longer, not speaking, just listening to the sounds of the party in the background, whoops and cheers atop a tinny bassline. It should be awkward, but it isn't. The silence is somehow comfortable. Minghao gives him points for that, too.
“So,” Minghao says after a while, staring straight ahead. “Were you looking for a spot to contemplate?”
“You could say that.” He lets out a good-humored huff of air. “I needed a break. If they play ‘Hot in Herre’ one more time, I think I'm going to tear my hair out.”
Minghao laughs and pats the top of Hansol’s close-cropped head. “Be careful. You don't have much to spare.”
Hansol makes a shocked sound, socking Minghao on the arm, and Minghao rubs the spot on his shoulder. It's warm.
“Ouch, watch it. We don't all work out like you.”
“Right, like you're some delicate flower?" Hansol asks. "Sorry, not buying it. You're tougher than you look."
Minghao doesn't feel very tough these days, but he's glad he looks it, at least.
"You look good tonight, by the way," Hansol says, a little awkwardly. "Minghao."
His cheeks warm from the compliment –if he didn't know better, he'd say Hansol was flirting–before he realizes.
“You know my name?”
Hansol waits just a beat too long before he answers. “Uh, yeah, Junhui told me.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“Uh, nothing.”
Hansol’s not a very good liar.
Minghao snorts. “Don't listen to him. He's a drunk idiot.”
Minghao hands the joint back to Hansol, who declines; they're both faded enough already. Instead, he puts it out on the step, leaving a small ringlet of ash. This house has seen much worse. It'll be fine.
“I'm sorry about him, by the way,” Hansol says after a while. “Junhui.”
“What?!” Minghao asks, and he lets out a laugh. It's not that funny. He's just really high. “Why?”
“He's making out with the birthday boy,” Hansol says, watching him with a curious expression. “I mean—He’s your boyfriend, right? Unless you guys are open, or–”
Minghao starts laughing for real, so hard it hurts his sides. Yeah, he’s stoned, but he's pretty sure this would be hilarious even if he were sober. He laughs and laughs, cackling into the quiet backyard, before he finally calms down with a happy sigh.
“No, no—oh my God, no,” he says, still a little winded. “Junhui's not my boyfriend. He's my best friend.”
“Oh!"
“Sorry. You really didn’t know? Jisoo’s his boyfriend. That's why I'm here,” Minghao explains.
"Oh, right. Makes sense. Uh, I kind of just got dragged here by the team."
"The more you know." Minghao laughs again, short and quick. “God, thanks for that, honestly. I needed it.”
“Happy to be of service."
It feels, again, like they're flirting.
Which is ridiculous.
Hansol's the one with the boyfriend, not him.
“You haven't looked me in the eye since I sat down, you know,” says Hansol into the dark.
“Is that a dare?”
“I guess I'm just curious as to why.”
Because, Minghao thinks, if I look at you head-on I'll be blinded, even out here in the dark.
Because, Minghao thinks, I can't even glance at your fingers without picturing you oil-painted–all your colors, your perfect angles, your highlights and your shadows.
Because, Minghao thinks, I'm a mess, and you're off-limits.
“I'm an introvert,” is what Minghao says. He looks at Hansol's lips, figuring it’s close enough.
Hansol's lips smile, then part. “Cool, me too.”
There's a noise from behind them, and they both whip around to see the back door to the house opening and someone stumbling towards them. Minghao's chest falls when he sees it's the blonde football player, Hansol's boyfriend, who tugs him up by both hands and promptly slumps against his shoulder.
“I'm so tired, Hansolie,” he whines. Minghao has to admit he's cute, even if he hates his guts on principle. He understands how Hansol fell for him. “Walk me back, please.”
Hansol sighs, shoots Minghao a what-can-you-do type of grin. Minghao tries to return it. Hopes he doesn't look pathetic.
“Alright–let’s get you home, Seungkwan,” Hansol says, clapping him on the back before turning back toward Minghao. He's still sitting on the steps, shoulders hunched, curled in on himself. “It was nice talking to you, Minghao. I hope you have a good break.”
He startles again at the sound of his name on Hansol's lips. “Yeah, you too.”
He should be leaving, but Hansol hesitates. Seungkwan’s dragging him by the arm with impressive force, but he stays still. “Minghao?”
Minghao swallows. “Yeah?”
“Could... Could I get your number?” Hansol asks, and Minghao’s breath hitches into a tiny gasp that he masks as a cough, playing it off. Aftereffects of the weed they smoked. Seungkwan gasps, too.
“Just in case there's another party, or something,” Hansol clarifies. “You’re good people. Junhui, too.”
That's all this was. A couple guys sharing a smoke at the end of the party. He probably wants Minghao to be his plug, sees the black clothes and piercings and makes all kinds of assumptions. Minghao was stupid for hoping for anything more.
“No,” Minghao shoots back, immediately cringing. It's too quick, too harsh.
“Oh. Uh. Okay.”
“Sorry.” There's no need for him to be so rude. Hansol's not a bad guy. He's just not his guy. “It's not personal. I just don't have a phone.”
ᝰ🚬
On the third Tuesday in December, Minghao meets Junhui at the train station. Winter break is here, and he’s facing it with equal parts dread and relief.
“Oh, there’s no place like home for the holidays,” Junhui sings under his breath, kicking at some slush on the sidewalk with his boot. “You excited for a little R and R?”
“Overjoyed,” Minghao monotones.
Usually, Minghao looks forward to winter break as a time to recharge. Most days, he draws in the morning. Heads over to Jun’s house in the afternoon with his camera. They wander around their small town together, trying to make the buildings and landmarks they've grown up with look fresh, hip, artsy. And if Jun only obliges because it means he gets new photos for his MySpace, well, that's Jun’s prerogative.
This break is different, though, because Minghao can't get Buzz-Cut Quarterback out of his head. Whose real name is Hansol. Who has pretty hands and a pretty smile and lots of pretty thoughts, and, unfortunately, a pretty boyfriend, too.
“Come over tomorrow?” Junhui asks, staring at the train tracks. “If you’re not feeling too sorry for yourself.”
“Do I have a choice?” Minghao asks.
“Not really,” Junhui agrees. “I’ll just abduct you.”
“Kidnapping is a crime.”
“Not when the child is bequeathed willingly,” Junhui argues back. “Your parents love me.”
“Fuck you.”
“You love me, too.”
“Whatever.”
ᝰ🚬
When Minghao gets to Junhui’s house the next day, he finds him, predictably, in his family’s computer room, clicking around intently on their giant white desktop.
“New layout?” Minghao asks.
“New music,” Junhui says. Minghao catches a glimpse of indie_exchange on his screen. “But good idea, I should do that too.”
Jun's famous on MySpace and even more famous on Livejournal, where he posts long, confessional dispatches about his life accompanied with expertly curated mixtapes. Which aren't really mixtapes, since anyone can just download them from MegaUpload. It's so impersonal. It takes away the whole point of a good mixtape, which is created for a specific scenario and a specific person, which is not just a collection of pretty songs but a message with its own unique meaning that only the recipient fully understands.
Minghao is chronically offline. He only got an iBook when he went to college because his family basically forced him. He doesn't have a blog, just a regular journal. He doesn't read the news online. He gets zines from the record store. And he'll roll over in his grave before he uploads a mix CD to the internet. He burns them, like a normal person. It already took enough convincing for him to go from cassette tapes to compact discs.
“When’s the last time you made a mixtape for someone you know in real life, rather than just posting it?” he teases now, pulling up a chair beside Junhui.
“When’s the last time you did, you—” Junhui starts, then catches himself.
“I dunno, Jun, great question,” Minghao says. “The last mixtape I made was, oh, I don’t know…” He pretends to count on his fingers. “The day before my ex and I broke up? Yeah. That sounds—”
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s fine,” Minghao says, like he’s trying to convince the both of them. “I need to get over it."
"Um, maybe a little bit," Junhui teases, and Minghao actually lets himself smile.
"Show me what you’re doing."
Jun scoots over to give Minghao a better view of the screen, clicks onto a different page.
“What is this?” Minghao says as it’s loading.
“Oh, my God, I don’t know how you survive in the wild,” Junhui says. “This is MySpace. Hello? This is how kids these days communicate, my friend.”
But Minghao’s barely listening. His eyes gloss across the page, his fingers scroll with the mouse, until he sees a familiar face at the bottom of Junhui’s page. “What’s that?”
“That’s Hansol,” Junhui says.
“Hansol has a MySpace?!”
“Everyone has a MySpace, dummy,” Junhui says fondly. “What’s gotten into you today?”
But Minghao’s definitely not listening. He clicks, and he reads, and there’s—There’s a lot of information here. There’s a Leonard Cohen song playing, and there’s a Top 8 of all Hansol’s teammates, and there’s also a Relationship Status.
“Single?” Minghao says. Out loud. Not on purpose.
Hansol’s single.
Hansol’s… single.
Junhui’s eyes track Minghao’s cursor. “Yeah, so what?”
“How long has he been single for?”
“Dude, I really don’t know the guy that well,” Junhui says, glancing at him knowingly. “But I could find out. If you, you know, like him or something."
“No, I do not–” Minghao starts to protest, then sighs. Because Hansol’s… Single? “Whatever! It doesn’t matter.”
"Unless he likes you back," Junhui grins.
He thinks back to their conversation at the party. What else did Junhui tell you? Nothing.
"Oh, God, you didn't-"
"Relax!" Junhui exclaims. "I didn't say anything, okay?"
"You're lying."
"I may have said you-we-thought he was cute."
"Jun!"
"We! I said both of us did!"
"Is that supposed to make it better?!"
"God! It's not a crime. There are a lot of cute people in the world. Baby animals are cute. Lighten up, Minghao, okay?"
Minghao doesn't answer. Just stews, staring at the computer until his eyes hurt, not deigning to give his ex-best-friend a second more of his attention.
“I have his number, if you want to call him,” Junhui says. “Jisoo gave it to me.”
“No.”
"He was into it!" Junhui says, which sounds like pity, or self-defense, far more than fact. "Ugh, you’re so stubborn."
“I’m realistic," Minghao says. "Anyway, I already fucked it up."
It’s too soon. He knows that. If Hansol’s single, then he’s not with Blonde Football Guy anymore, and he’s probably still licking his wounds. It’s not the right time. And he already turned him down.
But still.
Hansol is single.
Something familiar flutters in Minghao’s chest for the first time in a long, long while.
“Trust me, Minghao, if I’ve learned one thing in this short life, it’s that nothing is un-fuck-uppable,” Junhui says. “Especially not for someone as special as you.”
Minghao can't fight the grin that twitches at the corners of his lips.
ᝰ🚬
The rest of winter break passes in a flash. Minghao’s mind is whirring, and his heart is soaring, and he paints, paints, paints. He doesn’t eat; he doesn’t sleep; he doesn’t see Junhui. He doesn’t even ask his parents to use the computer to look at Hansol’s MySpace. He doesn’t need to. Hansol is all he can see when he shuts his eyes at night, all he thinks of when he wakes in the morning. Part of him realizes he’s losing it, but most of him doesn’t care.
He’s barely got enough time to get all his work done, even with his extensions, but he makes it happen. He doesn’t even think about it as his brush flies across the canvas, creating shapes, blending colors, adjusting textures like a madman possessed. It’s like he has this vision, already fully formed, just beyond his reach. He can’t see it yet, but it’s there, just buried. All he has to do is paint to uncover it. To bring what’s lurking in his mind into the light.
When he finally finishes everything, he’s proud. Four new works of varying sizes and media: the smallest, an 8.5x11” charcoal sketch; the largest, a canvas that’s half as wide as Minghao’s wingspan.
It’s good, he thinks. Really good. The work is good, and—making art again feels good, too. He feels like himself again.
There’s just one issue:
The same face stares back at him in every. Single. Piece.
“I have to fucking see him again,” he mutters under his breath.
Minghao asks for a phone for Christmas.
ᝰ🚬
minghao
Hello?
hansol
Hello! Merry Christmas!
minghao
You, too.
hansol
:-)
Ygho is this? Lol
Who
Typo
I Hate T9
minghao
Oh
It’s Minghao.
From school.
hansol
Hi Minghao from school
I thought you didn’t have a phone
minghao
It has been an eventful Christmas
hansol
I’d say so haha
Fuck. Minghao’s palms are sweating as he sits in his childhood bedroom, knees pulled to his chest on his blue-checked bedspread. He keeps having to backspace and rewrite his texts on the tiny-ass keyboard. He hates this stupid phone. But he’s talking to Hansol. And Hansol’s being so nice. Fuck. He loves this stupid phone.
minghao
So, what are you doing?
hansol
Just at home with my family!
But I’ll be on campus for New Year’s Eve
minghao
That’s cool.
hansol
Yea. We have practice
…Will you?
Lol
minghao
I won't have practice, no
They've already established this. Minghao's an artist, not an athlete. Hansol should remember this. Doesn't he remember him? Maybe this was stupid. A big mistake. He never should've asked for his number.
hansol
I mean will you be on campus, Minghao?
Do you want to hang out?
minghao
Oh.
Yeah, that would be cool
hansol
Send me your room #. Lol
minghao
317 Dawes Hall
Minghao snaps his Razr shut and collapses backwards onto the bed, his heart threatening to escape from his chest.
ᝰ🚬
The last day of December is a Friday, not a Tuesday.
Minghao and Junhui take the train back to campus early in the morning. The winter air is crisp, biting; the sun reflects off the light layer of snow that accumulated overnight, making everything brighter. Snow slushes against their boots, and their arms are laden with Minghao’s canvases, the end result of his sleepless nights of painting. He’s wrapped them carefully so Junhui won’t see what’s inside.
They drop them off together at Dr. Choi’s office.
“It's nice to meet one of Minghao's friends,” he says. "Though I hope you're not the reason for his slacking as of late."
“Trust me, he’s been just as difficult with me.”
Dr. Choi leans the paintings against the wall by his desk. Minghao’s desperate for him to look at them, to validate what he’s worked so hard on the past few days, to tell him all those sleepless nights were worth something.
At the same time, he’s even more desperate for Junhui not to see them. He’ll never hear the end of it.
"Feel free to stay a while," Dr. Choi says. "If you'd like, I can take a quick look at the pieces, give you some feedback--"
“Thank you so much, sir, but we have to go,” Minghao says abruptly, steering Junhui toward the door. “New Year’s Eve. Big plans!”
Dr. Choi raises a hand in protest. “Oh, but you just—”
Junhui flashes him a movie-star smile. “Dr. Choi, the patient is doing well right now. Best not to disturb him.”
The office door clicks shut.
ᝰ🚬
Minghao gets ready alone in his room, though he doesn’t know what for.
Are they going to a party? Are they going to dinner? Are they just hanging out? He hasn’t planned this out very well. He puts on a pair of black jeans and a black-and-white-striped sweater, messes up his hair a little bit, and adds some more eyeliner for good measure. Hansol must’ve liked it last time, he thinks. If it isn’t broken, don’t fix it.
He looks at himself in the mirror and thinks he looks… Fine. He could go to a party in this. He wouldn’t get kicked out of a restaurant, either. But maybe they’ll go for a walk? He should get a jacket, just in case. He pulls back out his knee-length black coat. It fits well over the sweater. He adds his fur hat on top, just in case. Great. He’s ready for anything.
He hates this feeling, the nervous jitters. He loves it, too. God. He fiddles with the Sharpie on his desk, scribbles more black ink onto his nails.
There’s a knock at the door. Minghao opens it.
There’s a Hansol behind the door, a six-pack of beer in his arms, a smile across his perfect face.
“Happy New Year,” he says.
"Happy New Year," Minghao says back. "I can take those."
He stores the beers in his minifridge, his coat making swishing noises as he walks.
“Are we going somewhere?” Hansol asks.
“What? No. I don’t know. Maybe. We can.” He needs to slow down. Act cool. He's usually good at that. “Why?”
Hansol makes a confused face. He gestures vaguely. “You’re…”
Minghao looks down. Pats his head. Right. “Oh, I was just—I just came back from outside.” He quickly shrugs the coat off, throwing it on his desk chair and tossing the hat on top.
“Cool,” Hansol smiles. Then sniffs. “It smells good in here.”
“Thanks, I lit a candle,” Minghao says, then remembers it’s been burning several hours, the wax completely puddled beneath the wick. He’s left Hansol’s red lighter beside it, too. So much for just coming back outside. He tries not to cringe at how obvious he's being. Minghao's much better at brooding alone in his room alone than... Whatever this is.
“Can I…?” He gestures toward the bed.
“Oh, yeah. Make yourself comfortable.”
He sits, and Minghao gets them each a beer.
“Cheers.”
Glass clinks. Hansol holds his gaze as he chugs from the bottle. Minghao tries not to stare at the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he drinks, tries not to think about the liquid making its way down his throat. Tries to be normal.
But this isn’t normal. Hansol is here, in Minghao's room, when he could be doing a million other things on New Year's Eve. Hansol, who he’s just painted all winter break like a crazy person. Suddenly, he feels exactly that. A crazy person. Should he tell him? He should tell him. He can’t tell him, though, that would be…
Crazy.
“Did you have a good break?” Minghao asks, hoping this will bring forth some kernel of truth about his relationship status.
What he wants to ask is, “Why does it say you’re single on MySpace, when I saw you with a really cute, really drunk blonde guy just the other week?”
Unfortunately, that would make him seem like a crazy person.
“Yeah,” Hansol nods. “A little lonely.”
“Lonely?”
“Sure,” Hansol says.
They sit in silence, a couple feet apart on Minghao’s Twin XL bed. Just like that night at the party. It’s not uncomfortable.
“Lonely, how?” Minghao prods.
Hansol doesn’t seem to mind being prodded. He tilts his head. “I dunno. It’s corny.”
"That's okay." Minghao lets himself smile. “I’m an art major. We’re inherently corny.”
His mouth quirks. “Is that so?”
“Oh, totally,” Minghao says, taking another swig from his bottle. “We are the absolute worst. We think we’re the only people in the world to have experienced heartbreak, or sadness, or loss… Or good things, too. Like my love is more important than any other love in the history of the universe."
He's joking, but he really does feel that way. Right now, in this moment, yeah. Hansol does seem like the most important thing in the universe.
“I think it’s cool you do art.”
“Thanks.”
“Seriously,” Hansol says. “Sometimes I feel like football is, like, art with my body. A performance we put on for the crowd.” He raises his eyebrows, like he’s surprised by his own words. “Okay, that was corny.”
“Maybe I bring it out in you.”
“Maybe so.” Hansol looks at him for a beat too long, then grabs one of Minghao’s pillows, placing it between his back and the wall. He sighs. “I dunno. I guess I just always feel like the holidays would be better I had someone to share them with.”
Minghao feels like the air’s been sucked out of the room, like the furniture has fallen away, like it’s just him and Hansol suspended in space, his thumping heart the only soundtrack.
“You don’t?” he asks.
“Nah,” Hansol says. “I’ve actually never had a… A person.”
Hansol is so nice. Cute. Sensitive. Funny. How could no one else see that? How could no one want to spend the fucking holidays with him? Has the world gone mad?
Yes, it has; he already knew that. This is just another point of evidence toward his long-standing hypothesis.
Minghao thinks a lot, but he doesn’t say any of it out loud. His brain feels disconnected from his mouth. He can’t make the words come. The silence stretches out, and this time, it might be a little uncomfortable. Minghao can’t tell.
“A boyfriend,” Hansol clarifies, blushing. “I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
Minghao blinks.
“Oh, I have,” he says, dumbly.
Fuck.
“That’s…” Hansol’s flushed cheeks now extend all the way to the tips of his ears, and, fuck, how have they gotten here? Why did he say that? “That’s cool, I guess. Yeah.”
“Fuck. Sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh,” Hansol says, puzzled. “So… You haven’t had a boyfriend? Right.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it—A devastating, tiny sound. “You don’t like boys. Duh. Obviously.”
“No! I do. I have. Fuck.” Minghao squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath. “You make me nervous, Hansol.”
The overhead light in Minghao’s bedroom buzzes. There’s a crack in his window, and a tendril of December frost seeps in with the wind, making the hairs on his arms stand up straight. Or maybe that’s Hansol’s effect on him. He smells good, warm and peppery, a hint of citrus.
Hansol’s smiling. “I do?”
“You have no idea.” It feels good to admit it. To not be cool for once. “I have had a boyfriend. I don’t now. I thought I never would again, actually. It hurt too much. So I kind of decided love was a load of shit, you know? All those chemicals in our brains were just bullshitting us, and it was better to stay away from it for good…”
“Wow,” Hansol says. "That’s really romantic."
Minghao laughs. It feels really, really good to laugh.
“Shut up. I’m being serious,” he says. “I was done with all that stuff. Until…” He gulps. “Until I saw you.”
Hansol doesn’t say anything.
He does kiss him, though.
He leans over, closing the feet of space between them, and tilts Minghao’s mouth toward his. It’s slow, patient, deliberate, kind. Just like him.
“Corny,” Hansol says.
Minghao kisses him again, because he misses the feel of him already. It’s deeper this time, Hansol sliding his tongue between Minghao’s lips, Minghao pressing his mouth more firmly against Hansol’s. He scoots closer toward him until their thighs are pressed together, until he’s straddling him, one hand on either side of his pretty neck, fingertips grazing his close-cropped hair.
It feels incredible. He’d forgotten how nice this all is. To want, and be wanted in return. But something nags at the back of his brain, no matter how hard he kisses Hansol, no matter how much he wants to let go. He sits back on Hansol’s thighs, looking him in the eye.
“So who’s the blonde guy? A hookup, or something?”
“Just a friend,” Hansol says, his voice fond. “You don’t have to worry.”
Minghao nods, still grinning. He leans his head against Hansol’s forehead. “Okay, then. You don’t have to worry about anyone on my end, either.”
“Okay, then," Hansol echoes.
Their clothes come off in a hurry. Minghao yanks his sweater over his head as Hansol unbuttons his white shirt, then stands up to pull off his loose-fitting jeans. Minghao’s got a head rush. He can’t tear his eyes away from Hansol’s body. It’s even better than he’d imagined. All of it. It’s incredible. Hansol is incredible.
Hansol watches Minghao watch him. “Is this too much?” he asks. “We can–”
“No,” Minghao says. “It’s not. It’s amazing.” He lies back on the bed and unbuttons his skin-tight black jeans, shimmying out of them as fast as he can. It feels like he's remembering how to be a person again. He used to really like this.
“Alright.” Hansol laughs. “Amazing.”
Then they’re both back on Minghao’s tiny twin bed, Hansol’s body above him, warm and strong. The overhead light is way too bright behind him, but Minghao doesn’t mind. He likes seeing Hansol. All of him. He commits to memory the way the strong curves of his shoulders give way to toned biceps, the perfect sinews of his forearms, the way his muscles flex and release as he rakes his hands over Minghao’s body. He is a work of art personified, but Minghao will never be able to capture him, no matter how many portraits he paints.
Minghao loves making out. He’d forgotten this, too.
He loves the thrill of something new, the tiny spark that started in Hansol’s smile and jumped to his heart under the bleachers that second Tuesday in December. He loves the way that spark has spread throughout his entire body, his veins catching fire. He loves feeling like this. Reborn. Afraid. Excited. He loves looking into Hansol’s eyes and seeing his fire reflected back. Seeing that same raw, nervous longing.
Minghao says, “You’re so beautiful.”
Hansol smiles. He lowers his face to Minghao’s hips, tugs down his boxer briefs with his teeth. That’s… Minghao didn’t actually know people did that in real life. It's kind of a crazy move for someone who just admitted they were bitchless. It's kind of really hot.
Hansol takes his cock in his mouth, sucking with deep, hungry strokes, pausing every so often to glance up at Minghao and grin. He teases Minghao just enough, easing off to lick his tip every few seconds, making him beg for more. Soon, Minghao feels Hansol’s spit-slicked finger teasing his entrance, circling it slowly, a question in a touch.
“That feels so good,” Minghao purrs. “Please don’t stop.”
Hansol takes direction well. He eases in one finger, then two, curving them just right. He works slowly at first, then faster, opening Minghao up. The pleasure is overwhelming, all-consuming; Minghao squirms at his touch, his hands stretched above his head, fingers twisting knots into his bedsheets. His cock pulses at every flick of Hansol’s tongue, every thrust of his fingers. He could cum like this–He will, if Hansol keeps going. He hasn’t been touched like this in so long.
“I want you,” he murmurs.
“You have me,” Hansol answers.
“Sit up,” Minghao says, and Hansol sits up. Minghao likes that, the way he listens to him.
Hansol’s cock is straining against his underwear, a dark spot blooming across the grey fabric. Minghao looks at it and thinks, I’m going to paint that, too. He looks at Hansol and knows this is the first of many times he’ll see him just like this, the first of many nights he’ll study him more deeply than he has any painting for any class, the first of many times they’ll have each other. Just like this. He knows it, deep in his bones, and it’s a relief, the knowing, because if this were his only chance to have Hansol he’d be paralyzed by choice. He wants all of him, everywhere, forever.
“You can take those off,” Minghao says, and Hansol frees himself quickly, letting Minghao take in the sight of his naked cock—which is gorgeous, of course, thick and strong and somehow still so pretty, just like the rest of him.
“Will you fuck me, Hansolie?” Minghao asks, and Hansol nods.
Minghao likes that, the way he listens to him.
He finds the condoms in his bedside table, rolls one slowly onto Hansol’s cock, then applies a thick bead of lube to the tip. Hansol shivers, then smiles.
“Sorry, it’s cold,” Minghao says. "But necessary."
Hansol kisses him.
Minghao warms the lube up with his hand, slicking up Hansol’s cock, stroking it a few extra times just because he can, just because he likes watching the way Hansol’s body jerks when he glides his hand over the head, the way he shuts his eyes and submits to Minghao so completely. It’s a pretty picture. Minghao straddles his lap, lacing his hands around Hansol’s neck and looking into Hansol’s eyes. Hansol nods.
He lowers himself onto his cock with a sharp gasp, the pressure and fullness taking him by surprise. It’s never been like this before, not with anyone else. He takes him an inch at a time until he’s bottomed out at Hansol’s base, the thick, hard length of him filling him up perfectly. He rocks back and forth, finding the angle he needs to get himself off. Hansol moans, low and delicious, and ruts his hips forward instinctively.
Minghao feels his old confidence returning. He used to be good at this, he remembers. He still is.
“Do you like that?” Minghao grins. “Tell me how much you like that, Hansolie.”
Minghao starts bouncing on Hansol’s cock, up and down at a tantalizingly slow rhythm, savoring the way he hits his prostate just right. He was being so ridiculous, wasting all that time moping around this semester. Sex is fucking incredible. Or maybe sex with Hansol is incredible, specifically; maybe Hansol’s the important part of the equation. Doesn’t matter. He has him now. He always will.
“G-God, yes, you—fuck, Minghao, you feel so f-fucking perfect,” Hansol stutters, fucking into Minghao from below, in time with the rhythm of Minghao’s hips. “I’ve wanted to do this for so fucking long.”
“Oh yeah?” Minghao asks. He speeds up his pace, his thighs starting to burn, his cock bobbing helplessly, untouched. He could cum like this. He will, if Hansol keeps going.
“Touch me,” Minghao says, and Hansol does. One hand grips his ass while the other wraps around his cock, stroking him until Minghao feels his breath hitch in his chest and feels Hansol shudder underneath him. They’re both close. “Wanna get off to you finishing inside me.”
“I’m close,” Hansol breathes into Minghao’s ear, the words coming out in gasps as Minghao fucks himself on his cock harder, faster, a little sloppy. It drives Minghao wild, hearing how desperate he is for him, how badly he needs him right now. He’s going to fucking die, and he’ll be happy about it, and he’ll paint portraits of Hansol from heaven. “Jesus, Minghao, I’m gonna—”
But Minghao’s barely listening. Hansol feels so good inside him; he’s so big, he’s fucking him so well. All Minghao can do is grind himself down onto Hansol’s hips, taking him deeper and deeper. Soon, the pleasure overtakes him; he feels his orgasm hit, chokes back a sob as he cums onto Hansol’s hand, his stomach, Hansol still pumping beneath him.
Before he even has the chance to come down, to collect himself, Hansol’s there with him: His rhythm stutters and his hips jerk back, and then he’s cumming into Minghao with a wail that’s half-animal, half-human, driven mad by his own pleasure, his whole body shaking with the force of his release.
Minghao and Hansol catch their breath together. Their chests are slick with sweat. Minghao leans his head on Hansol’s shoulder, slumps his body against him, and breathes in deep and ragged and raw, like it’s his first deep breath in months. And maybe it is. Hansol’s still buried inside him, one arm wrapped around his waist.
Once his heart rate slows, Minghao lifts his head and gives Hansol another soft kiss. Just because he can. Hansol kisses him back.
It’s quiet in Minghao’s dorm room. The winter wind whistles through the windowpane. The overhead light hums. They breathe. The silence is comfortable.
Minghao starts to ease himself off Hansol’s lap, but he’s startled by a noise outside: several loud pops in sharp succession, followed by cheers and whistling. There’s a flash of light outside his window. He glances over.
Fireworks.
“Happy New Year,” Minghao says, a glint in his eye. “Ready for your first boyfriend?”
“I absolutely am,” Hansol grins, pulling him into a kiss. “Happy Fucking New Year, Xu Minghao.”
ᝰ🚬
They don’t go out. Instead, they lie tangled in Minghao’s tiny bed together, talking about nothing, getting drunk off stupid cheap beer instead of champagne like they’re supposed to. They pass a joint back and forth, cracking the window and laughing about how fucking cold it is outside. Minghao makes Hansol some instant ramen, because Hansol says he forgot to eat, and they stay up until the sun rises, the gold glow of a new year spilling over the campus. Minghao feels something flutter in his chest.
Eventually, Hansol falls asleep, his breaths evening out into tiny sighs. Minghao slides carefully out from the crook of his shoulder, tiptoeing over to his desk. He powers on his tangerine iBook G3, muffling the startup chime with his jacket. His Plexwriter’s already plugged in.
Minghao works for an hour. Two, perhaps. He’s not quite sure. It’s strange, making this in silence, but it’s worth it, letting Hansol sleep. He glances over and smiles at the way his eyelashes flutter, his chest rising and falling in easy, calm contentment.
His boyfriend.
When he’s finished, Minghao presses a button, and the Plexwriter starts to whir. The noise stirs Hansol awake. He props himself up on his elbows, rubbing his eyes.
“Minghao?” Hansol asks, his voice still heavy with sleep. “Come back to bed. What’re you doing?”
“I will,” Minghao promises. “Just a few more minutes.”
The drive slides open with a click, and Minghao gently pries the disc from its tray, still warm. Carefully, he writes their initials across the top, careful not to smudge the Sharpie. When he’s satisfied with his work, he holds it up for Hansol to see.
“I made you a mix CD.”
"You what?"
"A mix CD," Minghao says, climbing back onto the bed with an excited bounce. He drops the CD in Hansol's lap. "Come on, don't tell me you've never..."
"Indeed," Hansol says, holding the disc by its outer edges.
"Oh, we have to listen to it immediately, then," Minghao says. "Wait a second-"
He gets an idea. A reckless one. He's sleep-deprived. He's not thinking straight. He'll regret this later.
No, he won't.
Some things are too important to wait.
He gets dressed quickly, encouraging Hansol to do the same. Hansol listens, a bewildered look on his face as he tugs on his shirt, his pants, his coat, his hat.
"Have you lost it?" Hansol asks. "Where are we going?"
"I made some art over the break," Minghao says, smiling over his shoulder. "I want to show you. I think you'll like it."
"Right now?"
"It's only a twenty-minute walk."
"Alright," Hansol laughs. "You win. I'm in."
Minghao opens his Walkman, putting the CD inside and handing it to Hansol. Then he splits his pair of ear-clip headphones, handing one to Hansol and nestling one over his own ear.
"You ready, Hansol?" Minghao grins, one hand on the doorknob. "Press play."