Chapter Text
The rhythmic tapping of Jisung’s fingers against his laptop was the only sound in the dorm room. His headphones rested around his neck, tinny remnants of a beat still playing from the speakers. He hadn’t meant to get up this early, but his brain had other plans. The second the sun started bleeding through the blinds, his mind was already halfway into his to-do list.
University life wasn’t exactly what he’d expected—it was somehow both more chaotic and more peaceful. No one breathing down his neck, no church bells every morning, no carefully dressed relatives asking invasive questions about his life plans. Just a bunch of guys with messy hair, mismatched mugs, and loud voices arguing over takeout.
He liked it. A lot.
But that didn’t stop the stress from curling in his chest. He had a sound design project due next week, and nothing he made felt good enough. His production professor had that kind of quiet, judgmental face that made Jisung second-guess every sample he picked. What if he was falling behind? What if he wasn’t as good as the others?
“Dude,” a voice mumbled from the bed above. “You’re clicking like it’s a competition.”
It was Changbin. Jisung leaned back in his chair, glancing up at the bottom of the bunk. “Sorry, hyung. Did I wake you?”
There was a pause. Then a groggy grunt. “No, I was already awake. Just dreaming about strangling you.” Jisung laughed under his breath and turned the volume down on his laptop. “Noted.”
They shared a room in the dorm—Jisung, Changbin, and Chan—aka the music wing of the chaos household. Across the hallway were the rest: Hyunjin and Seungmin, Felix and Jeongin, and Minho, who had somehow wrangled himself a single room because he was the only one who actually filled out the dorm form on time.
Jisung stood and stretched, limbs stiff from too many hours hunched over. The air in the hallway was cool, and somewhere in the distance, a kettle clicked on. Chan. Always the first one up if Jisung didn’t beat him to it.
He padded into the kitchen, where Chan was standing in sweats, hair sticking up in about five different directions, squinting into a mug like it had personally wronged him.
“Morning,” Jisung said, grabbing his own mug from the dish rack. Chan offered him a tired smile. “You’ve been up?” “For a while.” Jisung poured hot water into his mug. “I’m trying to finish that loop for Tuesday’s class.” “You’re pushing too hard again.” Chan's voice was gentle, but firm. “You’re allowed to not be perfect on the first draft.”
Jisung rolled his eyes playfully. “Says the guy who once rewrote a song because he dreamt it in a different key.” “That’s called being inspired,” Chan said with mock offense.
Their laughter echoed down the hallway, and not long after, Felix and Jeongin appeared in their matching pyjama pants, yawning and blinking like sleepy cats. Hyunjin followed soon after, shirt half-buttoned, sketchbook already tucked under his arm, like it was part of his anatomy.
“Who left cereal on the counter?” Seungmin called from the kitchen. “You people are uncivilized.”
“Blame Binnie,” Hyunjin replied without looking up. “He eats like the world’s ending.”
“I heard that!” Changbin’s voice shouted from the hallway.
Jisung leaned against the counter, his heart light. There was something about mornings like this—mundane, loud, familiar—that made everything else feel manageable. Sure, he had projects piling up, and yeah, his stomach twisted when he thought too hard about deadlines, but he wasn’t alone in it.
“Anyone seen Minho?” Jisung asked, mostly to the room. “He went to the gym,” Felix offered. “Said he’d be back in time for class.”
Of course he did. Minho was probably the only person Jisung knew who kept a consistent schedule. He could almost picture him now—stoic face, wireless headphones in, towel over his shoulder, probably judging everyone’s form in silence.
Not that Jisung was thinking about him a lot. Just… enough to notice.
Jisung was back at his desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard like they were waiting for permission to move. His project had been stuck for days—half-finished melodies, loops that looped too neatly, nothing that really said anything. He hit play again. A soft piano line drifted out, followed by a fragile hum of strings. It was quiet, slow, almost hesitant.
It sounded… nice, he guessed. But too soft. Too sentimental. Like a whisper meant for someone else’s ears.
He pressed stop. Again.
Behind him, the door creaked open, and Chan’s familiar voice floated in. “Still at it?” Jisung didn’t turn around. “Yeah. I think this track hates me.” Chan chuckled, stepping into the room. “Doubt that. Can I hear it?”
Jisung shrugged, then hit play. He didn’t look at Chan—just stared at the waveform on his screen, watching it move. He could feel Chan listening behind him, quiet and focused the way he always was when someone shared their work.
When the last note faded, Chan spoke gently. “It’s beautiful. Kind of feels like a love song.” Jisung frowned, turning just slightly. “What?” “Not in a bad way,” Chan said quickly. “It’s just got that mood. Feels like you were thinking about someone.” Jisung hesitated. “I wasn’t.” Chan gave a half-smile. “Okay.”
“I just…” Jisung paused, trying to figure out what he was even trying to say. “I’ve never really… had that kind of thing in my life. So, I don’t know where it’s coming from.”
That wasn’t exactly true, but not a lie either. It wasn’t that he’d never thought about it—just that love, in the way most people meant it, never really felt real to him. It wasn’t something he pictured for himself. He never tried to. Not on purpose.
He didn’t grow up with people who talked about love like it was for everyone. They talked about marriage, sure. Weddings, families, futures. But they were always framed a certain way, set on tracks that led in only one direction. And maybe he never questioned it because there was never space to.
Chan didn’t press him further. He just nodded, like he understood without needing to know everything.
“It still sounds good,” Chan said, standing. “Sometimes we write things before we know what they’re about.”
Jisung watched him walk out, leaving the door open behind him.
He sat in the silence a little longer, the ghost of the melody still echoing faintly in his ears. It wasn’t about anyone. Not really. But maybe, without knowing, he’d been reaching for something he hadn’t put into words yet.
And maybe that was okay.
By the time lunch rolled around, Jisung had managed to convince himself that he was probably just tired. That’s why the song was being difficult. That’s why he was being weird about it. Creative blocks happened. He just needed food, maybe a nap, and to stop overthinking everything.
The common room was a mess of half-finished coffee mugs, books, and jackets strewn over chairs. Hyunjin was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the low table, surrounded by sketchbooks and charcoal pencils. He had earbuds in, but he looked up when Jisung walked in.
“You look like you’ve been staring at a screen for six hours straight,” Hyunjin said, pulling out one earbud.
“I have,” Jisung mumbled, dropping into the armchair beside him. “I think my laptop hates me.”
“Same,” Hyunjin replied, then gestured at the mess around him. “Art is pain. Want rice cakes?”
Jisung nodded, and Hyunjin slid the plate toward him without looking. His gaze was already back on the sketchpad in his lap.
“You okay?” Jisung asked after a beat. “You’re quiet today.”
Hyunjin didn’t answer right away. He pressed the edge of the charcoal to the page, smudging something delicately. “Exhibition’s next week.”
“Right. The gallery thing,” Jisung said. “You nervous?”
Hyunjin gave a small shrug, the kind that meant a lot. “It’s different this time. Some of the pieces are... more personal.”
Jisung didn’t press, just nodded and chewed quietly. He understood that feeling. Creating something that felt honest—then offering it up for everyone to see. It was like cracking yourself open on purpose.
Later that evening, most of the dorm gathered in the common area. Felix and Jeongin were sprawled across the couch in a tangle of limbs and jokes, Seungmin was doing something on his laptop with a serious expression, and Chan was trying to convince everyone to try his new experimental smoothie.
Minho had just returned from a late class, hair damp from a quick shower, and silently placed a mug of tea on the table beside Hyunjin without a word. Just a glance. Hyunjin gave him a small smile. Jisung watched the exchange with something like admiration. Minho’s way of caring was quiet, but solid. He always noticed when people needed something, even if they didn’t say it out loud.
Hyunjin cleared his throat. “I, uh… got my final proofs back for the exhibition. If anyone wants to see.”
There was an immediate chorus of yeses and enthusiastic noises. He pulled out a large folder and began handing out glossy previews, each one a photograph of a painting. Rich colours. Deep shadows. Every line felt deliberate.
Jisung took one, glancing down at the print in his hands—and froze.
It was a painting of two men.
They weren’t labelled, and it wasn’t obvious, but it didn’t need to be. They were close. Intimate. One had his hand resting gently on the other’s jaw, eyes half-lidded. There was nothing explicitly romantic, no kiss, no declaration—but the tenderness was undeniable. The way their bodies leaned into each other. The vulnerability in their expressions.
Jisung’s stomach flipped.
He blinked, stared a moment longer, then quickly flipped the print over.
His heart beat a little faster, and he didn’t know why.
“Too much?” Hyunjin’s voice broke through gently, directed toward him.
Jisung looked up, startled. “No! I mean—no, it’s really good. Like, amazing.”
Hyunjin raised an eyebrow. “You flipped it over.”
“Oh. Uh—just didn’t want to smudge it,” Jisung said quickly, even though it was a print and not charcoal.
Hyunjin didn’t press, just gave a small smile and moved on to the next person.
Jisung sat still, heat creeping up his neck. No one seemed to notice, and he forced himself to laugh along with the others as they teased Hyunjin for being a tortured artist. But inside, he felt a quiet unease. Like something had shifted slightly out of place.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the painting. Not even the whole thing—just the hand on the jaw. The gentleness of it. The vulnerability.
Why had it made him feel so strange?
He shook the thought off. It was just art. Hyunjin painted emotion—everyone knew that. He wasn’t trying to make a statement.
Still, that image clung to the edge of Jisung’s mind as the evening wore on. Long after the others had gone to bed and the dorm fell quiet, it lingered like the ghost of a song that wouldn’t quite end.
Later that night, the dorm was quiet. Not quiet like it was empty—he could still hear Chan typing from across the room, Changbin snoring faintly above him—but quiet in that way the world got when everyone else had let go of the day, and Jisung was the only one still holding on.
He laid on his back, blanket pulled halfway over his chest, laptop glowing faintly beside him, the screen gone to sleep. He should’ve shut it hours ago, but the thought of closing his eyes made his thoughts feel louder.
He stared at the ceiling.
That painting. It wouldn’t leave him alone.
It had been hours. Everyone had laughed, Hyunjin had moved on, Felix had started playing video game soundtracks on the speaker and distracted everyone, and it was fine. Normal. Just one piece of art among dozens.
But it was still in his head. That one moment, that one gesture. The man’s hand on the other’s jaw—soft, almost reverent. It felt gentle. Real. Without any possessiveness.
Jisung turned over, burying his face in the pillow for a moment, then shifted onto his side and stared at the shadows on the wall. His chest felt tight and fluttery at the same time, like the tension before a storm that hadn’t quite arrived.
He didn’t understand what he was feeling. It wasn’t like he was offended or anything. It wasn’t even about the fact that it was two guys. It was just—
It made him feel something. Something unfamiliar. Like he was on the edge of something he wasn’t supposed to look at too closely.
He thought about how normal everyone else had acted. Hyunjin, so calm and proud. The others, unfazed, encouraging even. No one had said anything weird. No one made jokes. It was just another part of Hyunjin’s work—beautiful, emotional, honest.
Why couldn’t he let it go?
His mind flashed back to the conversations he didn’t have growing up. The silence around certain topics. The way no one ever mentioned other options, as if there weren’t any. No one said “you’ll find someone you love”—they said “you’ll meet a nice girl.” It had never felt strange before. It was just how things were.
He pressed a hand to his chest, just under the blanket. His heartbeat was fast, but not scared. Just… uncertain.
He didn’t have words for any of it. He didn’t know what he was feeling. It wasn’t shame, not exactly. But there was a flicker of something uncomfortable in his gut, like a rule being bent out of shape.
What was he reacting to?
The tenderness? The fact that it was two men? The idea that maybe he understood something in that image that he wasn’t supposed to?
No. Stop. You’re overthinking it.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
This wasn’t a thing. It didn’t mean anything. He was probably just overwhelmed from working too hard, stressed about school, confused from not sleeping properly. Maybe he needed more iron in his diet or something. People got weird when they were tired. That had to be it.
Eventually, he rolled onto his other side and pulled the blanket up to his chin, determined not to think anymore.
But as he drifted into uneasy sleep, the image returned—soft colours, quiet eyes, a gentle hand resting on a familiar face.
The dorm was not busy for a Saturday. Jeongin had gone home for the weekend, Chan and Changbin were buried in the studio across campus, and Seungmin had sent a message that he was off torturing himself with psych readings at the café.
That left just three of them.
The living room felt strangely calm, the soft hum of Jisung’s nearly finished track looping from the speaker giving it a lived-in warmth. He sat cross-legged on the couch, laptop in his lap, head tilted as he listened for imperfections he knew weren’t really there. He was proud of it, quietly. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. A reflection of where his mind had been lately—restless, searching, unsettled.
Minho moved around in the kitchen, cooking something that smelled savoury and comforting. He didn’t speak much—he never did—but he placed a small plate of apple slices beside Jisung earlier, without a word, then vanished back to the stove. A silent kind of care. Typical.
Across the room, Hyunjin was surrounded by chaos: canvases, frames, discarded prints, brushes, and wires. A draft folder lay wide open, spilling out drawings and half-finished ideas. He moved with purpose, lips pursed in concentration as he rearranged the art around the space.
Jisung kept glancing over. He couldn’t help it.
There was a magnetism to Hyunjin when he worked—like his whole body got involved in the process. He crouched, frowned, stepped back, tilted his head. Like he was dancing with the pieces, pulling them into place.
“Are those the ones for the exhibition?” Jisung asked after a while, his voice carefully casual.
Hyunjin nodded without looking up. “Some of them. Still deciding.”
Jisung closed his laptop and stood, crossing the room with practiced laziness, pretending he wasn’t deeply curious. He crouched beside Hyunjin, eyes flicking over the nearest painting. Two men sat on a windowsill, close but not touching, a kind of electricity humming between them. The light in the painting was soft, gold-flecked. Familiar.
The next was more intense. A tangle of limbs under soft fabric, one figure pressing their forehead to the other’s shoulder, not quite hidden, not quite exposed. Intimate. Undeniably so.
Jisung felt his heart twist. It wasn't exactly fear he felt. But something sharp and breathless.
“I’m not sure I’ll use these,” Hyunjin said quietly, his tone softer now. “They’re... personal.”
Jisung swallowed. “They’re beautiful,” he said, though the word felt too light for what they were.
Hyunjin didn’t look at him. He just smiled a little, tugging gently at the edge of the frame. “They’re based on moments, you know…,” he said, like it wasn’t a big deal. “With people.”
Jisung’s chest tightened.
With People.
He means himself?
Jisung didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to. His mouth went dry. He stared at the painting again, heart beginning to pick up speed for reasons he didn’t fully understand. He could feel the edges of something heavy pressing against the walls of his brain—an idea, a truth—but it wouldn’t come all the way in. Not yet.
He realized suddenly, with a clarity that made him feel oddly cold: he had never met anyone—openly—gay before. Not really. Not someone he knew this closely. Not someone who moved through life with this kind of softness and certainty.
He looked at Hyunjin again, but the other boy was still adjusting a frame, unaware of the shift happening next to him.
The front door burst open a moment later, saving Jisung from the weight of his own silence.
Chan walked in first, arms full of takeout and smelling like coffee grounds. Changbin followed with his usual chaotic energy, throwing his keys somewhere vaguely in the direction of the table. Seungmin trailed in last, face expressionless until he saw the paintings.
“Oh,” he said, raising a brow. “You’re really going for it this time.”
Hyunjin looked up, only slightly defensive. “It’s an art exhibition. I’m allowed to express things.”
Minho stepped in from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. He glanced at the more intimate piece and hummed quietly. “Hyunjin’s finally going public with his poetry phase.”
“Shut up,” Hyunjin muttered, trying not to smile.
“Hey,” Chan said, stepping around the couch. “These are good. Like, really good. That one—” He pointed at the windowsill painting. “—feels brilliant. There’s a story in it?”
Jisung watched the room move around him, everyone reacting so naturally. No one was uncomfortable. No one was weird about it. No one was asking if it was okay. No one even blinked at the implication behind the paintings.
Seungmin, of course, didn’t miss the opportunity. “Should we be worried these are portraits of someone we know?”
Hyunjin rolled his eyes. “Even if they were, you’d never guess.” Minho smirked faintly. “That’s code for ‘yes, but I’ll deny it forever.’”
They all laughed. Jisung smiled with them, too, but it felt thin around the edges.
Inside, the noise of his thoughts had only gotten louder.
How is this normal to them?
Why am I the only one who feels like something’s shaking loose?
Why does part of me wish I could ask more... and part of me feel like I’m not allowed to?
He drifted back toward the couch, letting the others tease Hyunjin and debate which paintings would shock the faculty the most. Minho returned to the kitchen without another word, setting bowls out on the table.
Jisung sat with the music still playing behind him and tried to ground himself. He hadn’t said anything, and no one had noticed anything strange in his silence. That was good. He wasn’t ready for questions he didn’t know how to answer.
But the feeling was still there.
A gentle ache. A question he couldn’t phrase.
And the paintings—soft and bold and unapologetic—lingered in his mind like a melody he hadn’t been ready to hear.
The dorm had quieted, the kind of stillness that made Jisung's thoughts louder.
He sat out on the small balcony, the city stretching out beneath the dusk sky, hoodie pulled over his head like armour. The glass door behind him glowed with warm light from inside, the low hum of the others' voices muffled behind it. He wasn’t avoiding them. Not exactly. He just needed space to think.
But thinking only made it worse.
The images from Hyunjin’s paintings swam through his mind in vivid fragments—fingers laced together, eyes closed in closeness, the unmistakable intimacy of it all. He had never seen love portrayed like that before. Not between two men. Not like it was allowed to be soft. Gentle. Real.
And the way the others reacted, so casually—so normally. That unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain.
It’s not supposed to be normal, he told himself. Not how I was raised.
And yet... it hadn’t felt wrong, exactly. Just... unfamiliar. Like a language he’d never been taught, but something in the rhythm of it sounded like a song he might already know.
The glass door slid open behind him. Jisung didn’t turn around.
He recognized Minho’s footsteps instantly—quiet, measured, never in a rush. A moment later, the older boy eased down next to him, not speaking, not even looking at him at first.
Minho had always been like that—silent and steady support. His presence never felt demanding, never too much. Jisung felt the warmth of him nearby, the steady grounding of it, and something in his chest pulled tight.
He didn’t want to talk. Not about this. He couldn’t talk about this.
He didn’t even know what this was.
He kept his eyes fixed on the sky, pretending he hadn’t noticed the closeness, the quiet, the care.
Minho let a few moments pass, then—gently, without warning—reached out and wrapped an arm around Jisung’s shoulder.
No words.
No explanation.
Just a quiet, firm hug. A weight that said: I’m here. Whatever it is, I’ve got you.
Jisung stiffened for half a second, not because he didn’t want it—but because it was too much. Too kind. Too soft. Too close to breaking something open that he didn’t know how to name.
He let himself lean into it, just slightly. Just enough that he didn’t have to hold himself upright alone.
Minho didn’t squeeze tighter, didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to solve anything. He just stayed.
Eventually, the sounds of the dorm shifted—distant laughter, the soft clatter of bowls in the kitchen. Someone put on music low. The moment passed without fuss.
Minho let go without fanfare, stood, and slid the balcony door open again. Just before going back inside, he placed a warm mug down beside Jisung. Something smelled like cinnamon.
Then he disappeared, leaving only warmth in his wake.
Jisung stared at the mug for a long time.
Still confused.
Still aching.
But a little less alone.
The lights in the dorm dimmed as the night wore on. Voices faded behind closed doors, footsteps softened with exhaustion, and a familiar hush fell over the shared space. In his room, Jisung sat cross-legged on his bed, laptop balanced in front of him, the glow of the screen the only source of light.
His song was playing again. A newer version. Mixed, smoothed out. Chan had helped tweak the vocal layers earlier that week, and now it sounded polished—professional, even. But that wasn’t what kept him listening on repeat.
It was the lyrics.
He hadn’t thought much about them when he wrote the first draft. It had poured out of him in a haze, in that state where music spoke for things he couldn’t name. A melody born from late-night emotions and the strange heaviness that had settled in his chest these past few weeks.
But now...
Now, it felt like something else.
He didn’t recognize himself in it at first. But with each listen, he caught glimpses. Little echoes of thoughts he hadn’t meant to admit. Questions hiding in metaphor. A kind of yearning.
Why does this sound like a love song? Chan had asked. Are you thinking about someone?
He hadn’t answered at the time. He’d laughed it off. Said no. Because the truth was... he wasn’t.
At least, he hadn’t thought he was.
But now, with the soft piano swelling in his ears and the rawness of his own voice layered against it, something clicked—and it terrified him. Not in the dramatic, cinematic way. But in a quiet, slow-burning way. Like realizing you’ve been walking in the wrong direction for a very long time.
His mind flashed again to Hyunjin’s painting—the two men on the windowsill. Close. Familiar. Comfortable in a way that didn’t seem performative. And then, earlier—Minho’s arm around him. The quiet pressure of it. The comfort. The heat that rose unexpectedly in his chest.
Jisung dropped his head into his hands, elbows resting on his knees.
He didn’t know. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions or assume anything. He wasn’t even sure he was allowed to ask himself these kinds of questions. He hadn’t grown up with the words. There were only rules. Unspoken boundaries. Expectations that weren’t explained because they were supposed to be obvious.
And yet, here he was.
Listening to a song he’d written without understanding why. Feeling too much about a friend’s painting. Letting himself melt, just slightly, into Minho’s embrace—and missing it when it was gone.
He glanced at the lyrics on the screen. Read them again.
I don’t know what I’m waiting for
but I know what it feels like to want something more.
His throat tightened.
Maybe he’d been writing about something real all along. Something buried. Something that scared him enough to keep locked up under a thousand layers of noise and distraction and denial.
He closed the laptop softly, letting the music die out.
Then he lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Confused. Unsettled.
And, for the first time, beginning to wonder what it might mean to feel something he was never taught to recognize.