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it’s three AM when his phone rings, a sound that has him guiltily dragging his eyes away from the screen of his laptop, where the cosmo website logo lies in bold letters, glowing like a hot pink ‘fuck you.’ it’s some obnoxious song with cringe-worthy high notes and disruptive backing vocals, seokmin’s ringtone, and he fumbles to press “accept” before setting it to speaker, sighing dramatically.
“lee seokmin, i know you aren’t calling me at three in the morning, a completely unreasonable time to be awake --- ”
“we’re outside your house!“ chimes soonyoung’s voice, punctuated by a bark of seokmin’s iconic hotel transylvania laughter in the background. “stop reading cosmo and come down, we’re going out!”
the words send shame burning rosy on seungkwan’s cheeks, free hand walking itself across his comforter to shut his laptop and condemning the cosmo logo to the battery-devouring torture of sleep mode. he stalks to his window, even throws open the curtain with a flourish much too showy for three in the morning. sure enough, there are two figures on his lawn, and soonyoung waves wildly once he catches sight of him in his window, bleary-eyed, clad in sweatpants and a shirt from a summer camp he attended three years ago. seokmin waves half a second later, and his palm makes a satisfying smack against his forehead as they connect.
there’s a whoop, then, one loud enough to make him flinch and pull the phone away from his ear, loud enough that he can hear it from the second story through a closed window, and he sighs, because, yeah, now he definitely can’t get out of this.
and this is how he ends up going obscenely high on the creaky swingset while soonyoung and seokmin talk about something he’s barely listening to. his mind’s in overdrive, and the repetitive rocking of the swing is soothing the clamor inside his head. the next couple weeks were bound to be busy; the theater director and the classes were beginning their annual production, and while seungkwan had adamantly insisted that rent was the way to go, the rest had opted for romeo and juliet.
again.
not that he was bitter. really. but there are only so many times seungkwan can listen to someone butcher juliet’s soliliquy before wanting to throw himself from the flimsy prop balcony. at least they had decided to shake it up a little bit this year by turning it into a half-musical rendition, which, blessedly ups seungkwan’s chances of being romeo. he tunes back into soonseok talk, when he catches “choi seungcheol,” and “over there? this late at night?” and gracelessly falls off the swing. he lands hard enough on his back to pry a wheeze from him and startled looks from his best friends, who, unsurprisingly, make no move to help him back up.
story time: when seungkwan was in middle school, when hansol vernon chwe still introduced himself as HVC to anyone willing to listen, and when soonyoung’s hair was black, he had suffered through a serious case of puppy love over none other than choi seungcheol. the star football player, fawned-over-by-everyone choi seungcheol. it was terrible. cringe-worthy. a classic case of doodling “mr. choi” in his notebooks enough times his algebra teacher had actually asked if he was planning on changing his name. a classic case of gawking after him in the hallway and actually swaying and clinging to jihoon when seungcheol so much as glanced in his direction. when seungcheol had graduated from middle school and transferred out to the nearby high school, it was very nearly the end of the world for seungkwan’s heart. it was bad.
and what makes it even worse is that he doesn’t quite believe he’s ever gotten over it, because even after all these years, choi seungcheol’s laugh still makes him want to dissolve through the floor.
he hasn’t gathered himself enough yet to actually get up off the grass, because he’s still recovering from having the air knocked out of him. so instead of trying to get up and regain his composure, catch his breath, he just lies there for a few seconds, planning on getting up when he’s good and ready. however, right before he deems himself a-okay, a wrench is thrown into his plan. said wrench is none other than choi seungcheol, leaning over him with one hand braced on his knees and the other extended out to help seungkwan up. there’s a smile on his face, one that’s shy in the upturn of his brows but wide enough that he can see all 27 of his stupid teeth. the sight of it has him suspecting he’s hallucinating, because this can’t be happening. he must have hit his head harder than he must’ve thought. maybe he’s concussed. any minute now, the trees will start whispering to him and christ, seungcheol is talking--
“---sorry if this is weird, but i saw you fall from the picnic tables and i was starting to get worried because you didn’t get up straight away. need a hand?” he sounds amused, more than anything, and it really occurs to him that his crush since middle school is offering him a hand and he’s lying there on the ground, with his chin most likely doing an impressive job of retreating into his neck. any smart comments he may have managed to say had the situation been different have vanished into thin air, so for the time being he stays quiet.
additionally, he thinks that if he were to grab his hand, he’d die. right then and there, in the middle of the park at four in the morning.
but because seungkwan is a masochist --- and, additionally, part of him just really wants to know how it feels to have seungcheol’s hand in his --- he takes the hand being offered to him gratefully, perhaps clinging just a little tighter than necessary. he lets himself be pulled up by the elder, his back unpleasantly damp because of the dew gathering on the grass, then trades seungcheol’s hand for the chain on the swing to pull himself up all the way.
from behind seungcheol’s back, soonyoung and seokmin make kissy faces at him, all too aware of his crush. seungkwan is brutally reminded of the fact that his best friends are 4 year olds.
“thanks.” he manages around the lump in his throat and the butterflies committing third degree assault to his intestines. seungcheol offers another tiny smile in lieu of actually saying anything, and seungkwan’s mind whirs back to some semblance of function, and his mouth moves before he has any time to think about what he’s going to say.
“so, what-what are you doing here?” he grimaces inwardly at the stutter in his voice, the forced informality shining through because he’s never been this nervous just talking to someone before.
the other shrugs and waves a hand towards the dilapidated picnic tables near the gates of the park.
“i like coming here when it’s late,” seungcheol says. “it’s peaceful. helps me write.”
“write what?”
seungcheol’s expression turns somewhat bashful, gaze moving down to examine his shoes and the grass at their feet.
“music. sort of. i rap,” he says by way of explanation, and seungkwan nods, offering nothing in reply but a soft “oh.” he doesn’t quite know what to say in reply to that, but seungcheol glances back up at him, and his eyes are so bright, full of passion and clearly conveying the dedication he had to his rapping, and seungkwan nearly groans aloud, because ugh, how is it legal for someone to be this cute?
“when it comes to music, do you only rap?” he’s well aware that it’s a weird question, definitely not something he’d normally ask someone, but he’s beginning to realize that when it comes to choi seungcheol, his brain-to-mouth filter is practically nonexistent.
“like, can you sing?” he elaborates, when seungcheol quirks a brow in his direction. the question makes it even stranger, but the only other “rapper” he knows is hansol, who could probably hold a note if he tried but finds screeching along to “party in the usa” much more exciting. the other laughs, sheepish, and rubs a hand down the back of his neck.
“sort of.”
“well, if you can, i hear the theatre teacher’s looking for someone who can sing to play the male lead in this year’s production.” he blurts. he’s afraid his eyes are bugging a little bit, because his mind is screaming what are you doing?
seungcheol looks amused, maybe a little confused, which he guesses is a better reaction than what he was expecting. instead of running for the hills, away from seungkwan and his out-of-the-blue theater proposal, he just extends a hand and pats him on the head, tells him, “i’ll think about it.” with another one of those stupid smiles, and then he really does it.
“i’ll see you later, boo seungkwan.” and off choi seungcheol goes, the life-ruiner.
it takes soonyoung and seokmin ten minutes to stop seungkwan from trying to throw himself off the top of the playground slide and another ten for them to get him to stop crying.
seungkwan doesn’t know why his mother is so unperturbed by the fact that her son and his two best friends come inside the house at 5 in the morning, but he saves that for another day in lieu of throwing himself face down onto his bed to wail. this proves to be a good plan for all of ten seconds before he knocks his knee painfully against the wooden frame of his bed and ends up tumbling off entirely. soonyoung lets out a low whistle and seokmin laughs again, reclining comfortably across seungkwan’s desk chair while the owner lies face down on the floor.
“i hate my life.” seungkwan moans after a few minutes of silence, and the other two share a glance before soonyoung kindly pats the top of his head.
“there, there.” says seokmin, and the glare seungkwan shoots him is withering and effectively ruined by the red mark on his cheek where it’s pressed against the floor. soonyoung nods, dropping down onto the floor next to him to pick his head up and place it in his lap.
“hyung,” groans seungkwan, hands folding over his eyes. “i told him to audition for the part I WANTED in romeo and juliet. he probably thinks i’m desperate--” at the looks soonyoung and seokmin give him, he amends, “--for someone to fill the part. not to date him.”
“seungcheol-hyung doesn’t seem like the kind of person to really be into theatre, though.” seokmin rests his chin in his hand, drumming the fingers of his free hand on the back of his desk chair. “maybe he was saying that he’d think about it to be nice...?”
“thanks, hyung. that makes me feel so much better.” seungkwan replies, expression a perfect deadpan. seokmin pouts.
soonyoung sighs, flicks seungkwan’s ear and ignores the younger’s indignant whine. “he’s right. plus, it’s football season, isn’t it? i doubt he’ll even have enough time to attend rehearsals with how busy he’ll be with practice. don’t worry about it, seungkwan. you’re a shoo-in for the part.” the spiel is punctuated with his signature toothy smile, and it admittedly makes him feel a little better, to the point where he actually drags himself up off the floor. seokmin hums thoughtfully.
“maybe he tried letting you down easy--” he begins, only to receive a pillow to the face before he can finish his sentence and seungkwan crosses his arms, only to uncross them again to point at the door.
“get out.”
he spends the next two weeks something like this: preparing for the auditions, yelling at soonyoung every time he laughs at seungkwan’s theatric intensity, and most definitely not thinking about choi seungcheol’s gummy smile and warm hands.
he knows the lines like the back of his hand and has worked up a reputation for being the one sophomore who will cry “juliet” in the middle of the hallway to assure himself he has the feeling right.
he’s fit to burst the night before, brimming with nervous energy but too terrified to crack his script open for another read. soonyoung, to his credit, tolerates his anxious fidgeting and constant zoning out until dinner, up until he asks the younger to pass the salt for the eighth time and winds up getting his attention by jamming his elbow into his arm so that seungkwan ends up with a faceful of soup and minced carrot up his nose.
he goes to sleep smelling like broth and defeat.
there’s a line of people seated in the front row of the auditorium seats, hopeful romeos, preening juliets, and… choi seungcheol.
choi seungcheol, looking sleep-disheveled with blond-purple hair swept into a beanie with his number, 8, written sloppily by the theater techs and slapped carelessly onto the basketball jersey he’s wearing. seungkwan feels, vaguely, like he’s going to throw up.
it takes all he has not to turn around back to the doors, and continue walking down the aisle leading to the seats. he takes his number from a dead-looking tech, and sits down. right next to choi seungcheol.
he turns a blind eye to how soonyoung and seokmin have moved to the side entrance of the auditorium and are now busily smushing their mouths to the tiny window on the door and fogging up the glass. the agony written on their faces and the way seokmin is fog-writing HELP goes unnoticed once seungcheol lifts a hand in a wave, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles at seungkwan, who feels warm all the way down to his toes.
they make casual conversation until the theater teacher comes in. he coaxes a laugh or two out of seungcheol, whose cheeks dimple when he smiles, learns that he’s going for the part because why not, and that his rapper name, s.coups, stands for seungcheol and coup d'état.
seungkwan feels giggly, so enraptured with the boy next to him that he barely notices that they’re moving down the list and he’s already two away from going up on stage; once his name is called, it feels like his stomach’s dropped into the void beneath him.
he climbs the stairs to the stage with shaky legs, gaze flickering to his best friends at the door, the pretty, potential juliets, and choi seungcheol, and projects the lines he’s been practicing for the last two weeks. the song goes off without a hitch, well enough that there’s a tremulous smile threatening to overtake his face as he bows, gives his thanks to the director and bounds off stage.
immediately after him is seungcheol, and, truth be told, seungkwan doesn’t really know what he’s expecting, isn’t sure if his expectations are high because seungcheol’s set his hopes up or if he’s just helplessly biased because of his crush. he gets through his lines without a hitch, facial expressions unbelievably well, and it’s a little appalling to believe that he’s never acted before; there’s feeling in his words, compassion and he puts his whole self into it.
then he sings. hits the notes perfectly and even gives that little dimpled smile, softened with shyness at the judges.
seungkwan wants to cry.
results are up two days later, pasted on the door to the black box, with their numbers written under the roles instead of names for the sake of dignity. he can’t look. he really can’t.
which is precisely why he brings jeonghan along.
jeonghan had been stuck with him in seungkwan’s first year, when upperclassmen could sign up for a program to show the freshmen around the school. he had been starry-eyed at the sight of the long-haired senior. armed with the patience of an angel and the appearance to match, he had been a godsend to seungkwan as he had flopped his way through freshman year, guiding him along with minimal breakdowns on both of their parts.
his tolerance built by two years of being around seungkwan is the only thing keeping him from wringing him by the neck as the younger drags him by the wrist to the black box entrance, ignoring the pitying looks other students throw his way. seungkwan’s white as a sheet, palms damp where they’re enclosed around jeonghan’s wrist, and he points wordlessly at the paper on the door before turning to face away from it.
“hyung,” he starts. “please read it.”
“what? can’t you read it on your own?”
“hyung,” seungkwan says again. it’s nearly a plea.
“give me one good reason why i should.” replies jeonghan; he knows he’s going to cave and read it for seungkwan because it’s kind of an inevitability with how stubborn he is, but he wants to have a little fun first.
“because if i can’t even look at it, i feel like i’m going to give myself a conniption just standing by it.” as if to prove his point, he releases his vice-like grip on jeonghan’s wrist and starts fanning himself. “see? i can feel myself getting blotchy. hyung, read it, please, i’m begging you. is my face getting red? i think it’s getting red.”
and it is, a little, so jeonghan takes mercy and scans the paper over, eyes wandering to the number to the right of romeo’s name.
“what did you say your number was?”
“7,” seungkwan is fiddling with his fingers meekly, still facing away from the door.
jeonghan makes a noncommittal noise in reply. his brows furrow.
“7 isn’t under romeo, seungkwannie.”
his heart stutters, then sinks, and he can’t help himself --- he whirls around, eyes desperately scanning the sheet of paper.
“what?!” he splutters, pressing his palms up against the door. “but -- i have to be on here somewhere, then, i can’t be another tree this year! she can’t do that! can she?” seungkwan turns to look at jeonghan with a face so anguished he shakes his head vigorously.
to try and ease his panic, seungkwan turns back to face the paper, squinting and scanning elsewhere. blessedly, there’s no 7 under the trees, or ---
he stops. stares. pinches himself on the arm through the fabric of his uniform, then slaps his own cheek because he’s not dreaming, is he? unfortunately, he’s not, and there is, in fact, a neat little number 7 written to the right of juliet’s name.
and seungkwan laughs.
“this is a mistake, isn’t it? i can’t be juliet, i’m not---” he cuts himself off by making a shrill noise in the back of his throat and immediately moving his gaze to romeo’s name, then to the right.
“seungkwannie,” says jeonghan kindly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “your face is getting blotchy.”
there’s a number 8 there, next to romeo. the very same number 8 seungkwan’s eyes had passed over on choi seungcheol’s basketball jersey, written by the theater techs when he went in for auditions. the same one he had trained his eyes on when seungcheol had gone up to say his lines, to sing his song.
seungkwan sucks in a breath.
there’s laughter down the hallway, familiar and melodic. in any other circumstance, seungkwan may have grabbed jeonghan by the shoulders and asked how his hair looked because choi seungcheol was coming down the hallway, towards the black box to check to see if his number was on the paper; to see if he had made the part that seungkwan had suggested for him, the part that seungkwan had wanted so badly himself and somehow wound up with juliet’s.
he doesn’t feel so good. his face is blotchy.
seungcheol catches sight of him, lifts a hand and waves with a smile on his face. he high-fives his friend walking with him, waits for the bucket hat to retreat before jogging over.
“hey, seungkwan-” he’s in a good mood, all smiles, blond hair spiked up and cheeks dimpling.
seungkwan opens his mouth to say hello back, managing only to make a terrible, awful sound and then empties his stomach on choi seungcheol’s shoes.