Chapter Text
Sieun knows that Hyuntak didn’t mean it, that the words were flung out in the heat of the moment, a knee-jerk reaction to seeing the club room completely trashed. His anger was flared, sharp and irrational, and Hyuntak's tongue had moved faster than his brain. But just because it wasn’t meant didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. The words still echoed in the back of Sieun’s mind, dull and bitter like the ache of a bruise that never quite fades.
After their brief scuffle and the stiff, muttered apologies that followed, an uneasy truce settled between them. But tension still crackled in the air whenever they were near each other, a subtle but constant undercurrent that even Baku couldn’t smooth over, no matter how hard he tried. Their first meeting had been a disaster, an instant collision of pride, misunderstanding, and misfired tempers. Since then, they’d barely exchanged anything beyond curt nods, clipped retorts, and the occasional cold glare.
When they did talk, it was rarely anything worth remembering. Dry, barbed insults and sarcastic remarks passed back and forth like unwanted gifts, neither willing to back down, neither willing to truly engage. And yet, beneath the surface, something unspoken lingered, a reluctant awareness of each other, maybe even the beginnings of a fragile respect neither would dare admit aloud.
Hyuntak had apologized, awkwardly, yes, but sincerely. He’d done his part. So it wasn’t really his fault if Sieun continued to be grumpy about it, right? That’s what Hyuntak told himself. Still, every time he caught Sieun looking away or refusing to speak, a strange guilt twisted in his chest. Maybe it was the way Sieun went so quiet. Or maybe it was the way his eyes, those piercing brown things, never softened.
For now, they remained stuck in this strange cold war, too proud to make the first move, too stubborn to let it go. And Baku, caught somewhere between exasperation and hope, could only sigh and watch as his two friends circled each other like rival cats, both waiting for the other to flinch first.
It’s lunchtime, and the classroom buzzes with the usual chaos, chairs scraping, bento boxes opening, laughter rising in bursts from different corners. Sieun stays in his seat, chin resting on his hand as he pokes at the lukewarm rice in his lunchbox. He’s not really hungry. His appetite’s been fickle lately, showing up when it shouldn’t and vanishing when it should.
Across the room, Baku is waving Hyuntak over with both arms like he’s flagging down a plane. Sieun watches, unimpressed, as Hyuntak approaches with a tray of bread and milk from the school store, eyebrows already drawn in suspicion. Of course Baku’s trying to make them eat together. Of course.
“Come on,” Baku says, grinning way too wide. “Let’s all eat here today. You two are already awkward enough. Might as well be awkward in close proximity.”
Sieun doesn’t look up. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Yeah, pass,” Hyuntak mutters, eyeing the seat next to Sieun like it’s radioactive. “I’m not in the mood to get stabbed with chopsticks.”
Baku sighs. “You two are impossible.”
Hyuntak ends up sitting anyway, more because there aren’t many open spots left than out of any desire to bond. The silence between them is heavy, stretched taut like a thread waiting to snap. Baku tries to fill it with jokes, some land, some don’t, but it’s like trying to light a fire in the rain.
Sieun finally speaks, voice low but sharp. “You always eat like a third grader.”
Hyuntak doesn’t even flinch. “And you always look like you hate the world. At least I enjoy my food.”
“Must be nice,” Sieun replies coolly, flicking a piece of egg into his mouth with all the enthusiasm of a funeral.
Baku groans. “Seriously. I feel like I’m eating with divorced parents.”
Hyuntak snorts despite himself, and for a second, just a flicker, the tension shifts, lightens, maybe. But it doesn’t last. Sieun goes back to staring out the window, jaw tight, as if regretting that he said anything at all.
There’s a pause, quieter this time, the noise of the classroom fading into the background.
Hyuntak doesn’t look at him, but his voice is quieter than before. “Look… about last time. I didn’t mean it like that. You know that, right?”
Sieun doesn't respond. His chopsticks hover midair, hand paused, eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the glass. Maybe he did know. But knowing didn’t erase the sting. Not yet.
Still, he doesn’t walk away.
And that, Baku thinks, watching them with a faint glimmer of hope, is probably a start.
“You said it though,” Sieun mutters, voice cold and unbending.
Hyuntak stiffens beside him, the air between them crackling again like it’s been struck by static. His jaw ticks, hands curling around the flimsy milk carton until it crumples slightly in his grip. It takes him a second to speak, and when he does, his voice is low, dangerous.
“Yeah,” he says tightly. “I did.”
Baku immediately tenses, sensing the shift like a barometer before a storm. “Hey—guys. Don’t.”
But it’s too late. Hyuntak turns his head toward Sieun, eyes sharp with barely restrained heat.
“You act like I meant it just to hurt you,” he snaps. “Like I woke up that day and thought, ‘Let me go ruin some guy’s life today.’ You trashed the damn club room. I lost it. That’s all it was.”
Sieun finally looks at him, eyes narrowed but unreadable. “I didn’t trash it.”
Hyuntak blinks. “What?”
“I didn’t do it,” Sieun repeats, calm in a way that feels more like ice than peace. “But you were so quick to assume.”
The silence after that is suffocating. Even Baku doesn’t try to step in this time. Hyuntak stares at him, lips parted slightly like he’s trying to process the words, but they don’t land until a few seconds too late.
Sieun doesn’t wait for a response. He rises from his seat, slow and deliberate, snapping his lunchbox shut with a muted click. “You’re hot-headed. I get it. But don’t pretend like you’re not the one who lit the match.”
He walks off without another word, the scrape of his chair echoing louder than it should.
Hyuntak stays frozen, hands clenched in his lap, boiling with the kind of anger that has nowhere to go, because the worst part is, Sieun’s not wrong. He had assumed. He had lashed out without knowing the full story. And now the damage is carved deep, the kind you can’t fix with a weak apology and a half-hearted laugh.
“God,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face, “he’s such an asshole.”
Baku sighs, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “but so are you.”
That earns him a glare, but Baku doesn’t flinch. He just picks up a piece of bread and takes a slow bite, watching as Sieun disappears out the classroom door.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Hyuntak growls.
“I’m not.” Baku shrugs. “But if you’re gonna be that mad about him walking away, maybe next time… don’t give him a reason to.”
Hyuntak doesn’t respond. He just slumps back in his chair, burning with frustration, guilt, and something else he’s not ready to name yet.
————————————————————————
The sun hangs low in the sky, bleeding orange over the chain-link fences of the school’s cracked basketball court. The asphalt still holds the heat of the day, warm beneath their shoes. A few stray students wander off in the distance, their laughter echoing faintly before it fades into the hush of late afternoon.
Hyuntak bounces the basketball lazily, one hand on his hip, sweat already beading at his temple. He grins across the court at Baku, who stretches with a theatrical groan like he’s preparing for war instead of a casual one-on-one.
“Don’t cry when I dunk on you,” Hyuntak says, tossing the ball to him with a flick of his wrist.
Baku catches it and snorts. “You’re not tall enough to dunk.”
“I’m tall enough to beat you. That’s what matters.”
On the sidelines, Sieun sits perched on the edge of the bench, legs folded at the ankles, elbows resting on his knees. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze is sharp, unreadable. Juntae plops down beside him with a heavy sigh, water bottle in hand.
“I don’t know why they act like this is the finals of the national league every time,” Juntae mutters, squinting out at the court.
Sieun doesn’t look over. “They’re compensating.”
Juntae huffs a quiet laugh. “For what?”
“You’d have to ask them.”
Hyuntak’s voice cuts across the court as he calls out, “Hey, Juntae! Tell Sieun to stop glaring like he’s calculating our life expectancies.”
“I’m not glaring,” Sieun says flatly.
“Yes, you are,” Hyuntak fires back, dribbling around Baku with quick, aggressive steps. “It’s like sitting next to a disappointed math teacher.”
“Maybe if you stopped playing like an overcaffeinated toddler, I wouldn’t have to look at you.”
“Ouch,” Juntae mutters, eyebrows raised.
Hyuntak grins, sweat flicking off his brow as he lands a shot that clangs off the rim. “Still not worse than your haircut,” he calls out, jogging after the rebound.
Sieun doesn’t blink. “Bold coming from someone who looks like they lost a fight with a weed whacker.”
Baku, winded but laughing, grabs the ball and passes it back. “Okay, okay, easy now. This is supposed to be friendly.”
“It is friendly,” Hyuntak says, voice dripping with mock innocence. “This is how I show affection.”
Juntae raises an eyebrow at Sieun. “You feelin’ the love yet?”
“I feel something,” Sieun murmurs, eyes tracking Hyuntak as he charges the net again. “It’s not affection.”
The game continues, a blur of sneakers squeaking and the dull thud of the ball echoing off concrete. Baku plays with calculated ease, while Hyuntak is all energy and motion, more speed than strategy, more instinct than technique.
Sieun watches like he’s studying a lab rat.
“His form’s sloppy,” he comments, not unkindly, just observant.
“Still scored on Baku, though,” Juntae points out.
“Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”
Hyuntak hears that and nearly trips mid-dribble. “I hope you realize I’m letting you sit there and roast me because I’m a generous person.”
“Generosity implies you had anything worth giving.”
Baku snorts and nearly misses a shot. “God, you two are exhausting.”
Hyuntak steps back, catching his breath. His hair sticks to his forehead. He rolls his eyes and turns back toward the court. “Whatever. I don’t need to hear this from Mr. No-Facial-Expression.”
Sieun lifts a brow. “Your comebacks are almost as tired as your jump shot.”
“Oh my God,” Baku groans from across the court, hands on his knees. “Do you two flirt with knives or what?”
“We’re not flirting,” Hyuntak snaps.
Sieun doesn’t respond. But there’s a faint twitch in the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, but close enough that Juntae catches it and raises a brow.
“Almost looked like you enjoyed that,” Juntae says, elbowing him lightly.
Sieun shrugs, eyes still locked on Hyuntak, who’s now half-heartedly trying to make a shot from the free throw line. “I like watching him get worked up. It's educational.”
“Educational?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly, “he’s proof that ego survives even in a vacuum.”
Juntae laughs again, low and surprised. “You’re colder than you look.”
Sieun doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t blink. Just watches Hyuntak jog back, wiping sweat from his neck with his shirt, shoulders still tight.
Hyuntak throws himself down onto the bench next to them with the dramatic flair of someone trying not to care how much he cares.
“Alright, I’m done. I’m not wasting my stamina on that clown again,” he says, jerking a thumb at Baku.
Baku throws his hands up. “You're welcome for the workout.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Hyuntak mutters, grabbing Juntae’s chips and shoving a handful into his mouth.
Sieun glances sideways. “You really eat like a dog.”
“You really talk like a tax return.”
Juntae nearly chokes again.
“I don’t even know what that means,” Sieun says mildly.
“Exactly.”
The sky was starting to deepen, dusk settling like a haze over the court, bleeding oranges into violets across the cracked pavement. The echo of bouncing balls had long faded, and the other students had drifted home one by one. Only the four of them remained now, Hyuntak sprawled on the bench like he owned it, Baku lazily tossing the basketball between his hands, Juntae munching quietly, and Sieun, seated with his arms folded across his chest, gaze focused somewhere far beyond the fence, as if he were watching the last traces of sunlight unravel across the sky.
The earlier banter had settled into silence. Not a comfortable one, but not hostile, either. Just stretched thin, like two people who’d said enough for now, but hadn’t quite reached the part that mattered.
Sieun hadn’t intended to bring it up, not really. But it had been festering in his mind for days, like an itch beneath the skin. The accusation, the assumption, the way Hyuntak had looked at him like he was the villain in a story Sieun didn’t even know he’d been written into. It wasn’t about the club room anymore.
It was about being seen wrong, misread, misjudged, reduced to something crude and small by someone who hadn’t even cared to ask first. And Sieun could have let it go. He usually did. But something about Hyuntak had gotten under his skin from the beginning, his fire, his arrogance, the way he walked into rooms like he was made of something louder than everyone else, and definitely not because he resembled someone that Sieun once knew. Definitely not.
“You still think I trashed that room?” Sieun asks quietly, not looking at him.
The question didn’t come with sharpness, not like it would have days ago. It came quiet and level, with the weight of someone who wasn’t accusing, just tired of carrying the silence.
Hyuntak’s chewing slows, Juntae stops crunching altogether, his chip bag rustling as he folded it in half without a word. Baku glances up from the basketball in his lap, but no one interrupts.
Hyuntak leans forward, forearms on his knees, fingers laced together loosely. For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Then he sighs, a long, grudging exhale that tugs the tension out of his shoulders.
“No,” he muttered. “I don’t.”
Sieun’s eyes flicked to him, unreadable.
“I asked around,” Hyuntak went on, voice rough with the effort of saying it. “Didn’t believe it at first, but… it was Hyoman. He and some of the others were pissed about the phone incident. Thought messing up the room would get a rise out of Baku and I. Said they thought it’d be funny.” He grimaced. “It wasn’t.”
Sieun didn’t answer right away. The name didn’t surprise him, Hyoman has always used lies and underhanded tricks to stir chaos. But the confirmation hits differently. Not because it hurt, but because of what it had cost in the meantime.
Hyuntak glances at him, then drops his gaze. “I shouldn’t’ve said what I did,” he mutters. “Didn’t mean it. I was just… angry. Thought you were just walking there, smug. Not giving a damn.”
Sieun was quiet for a beat. Then he gives a slow, slight nod, more a shift of breath than movement. “I get it,” he says simply. “I’m sorry too.”
Hyuntak blinks. “What for?”
“I wasn’t expecting it. You came at me fast. I reacted,” Sieun replies, voice low, steady, emotion carefully sanded off the edges. “I was just caught off guard.”
It wasn’t a dramatic apology. No one reached for forgiveness like it was some cinematic moment. They just sat there, the words settling like dust between them, the sharpness dulled but not gone. The issue was cleared, but the rivalry remained, something built into the way they looked at each other, clashing pieces from different puzzles. They might not hate each other anymore, but that didn’t mean they liked each other either. Not yet.
“Still think you’ve got the worst jump shot in the school,” Sieun adds casually after a beat.
Hyuntak looks at him and narrows his eyes. “Still think you’ve got the emotional range of a toaster.”
Juntae sighs. “Oh, they’re back.”
Baku grins and stands up, spinning the basketball on his finger. “At least they’re not trying to kill each other this time.”
“No promises,” Hyuntak mutters, though the edge was gone. He nudges Sieun’s shin with his foot, not enough to be playful, not enough to be hostile. Somewhere in the middle. An acknowledgment, maybe.
Sieun doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t pull away either. He just let the sun warm his face for another second longer, the air cool against the back of his neck as the last light drains from the sky.
The misunderstanding was over. But the story wasn’t.
Not even close.
————————————————————————
The classroom buzzes with low chatter and the rustle of notebooks as students shuffle into their seats, the morning light slanting through the windows in narrow strips. The overhead fan clicks softly, spinning just slow enough to be useless. At the back of the room, Sieun sits with his head bowed over a book, pencil in hand, the tip gliding across the margin in small, deliberate notes. His bag is neatly zipped at his feet, lunch packed and tucked away like always.
He isn’t listening to the conversation around him, isn’t involved in the burst of laughter that came from the group in the front. He rarely is. He prefers it this way, quiet, predictable, detached. The world made more sense when it stayed out of his way.
A shadow looms over his desk.
“Hey,” comes a voice, slightly breathless from hurrying. “You’re wanted in the teacher’s office.”
Sieun blinks, slowly lifting his gaze. The student, a first-year, maybe, looks vaguely nervous to be speaking to him. Not that Sieun blames him. His reputation tended to do the talking.
“Now?” he asks flatly, though he was already sliding his pencil into the spiral of his notebook.
“Yeah. And, uh…” The kid glances toward the other side of the room. “Hyuntak too.”
Across the aisle, Hyuntak sits slouched in his chair, legs stretched out like he owned the space, one hand holding his phone as his thumbs tap rhythmically against the screen. The glow lights up the underside of his face, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
When he hears his name, he doesn’t even look up. “Tell them I’m in the middle of something.”
“Hyuntak,” the kid says again, more awkwardly. “Seriously. Teacher’s office. Right now.”
Sieun stands, straightening his collar with a resigned breath. “Just pause the game.”
“It’s not a game, it’s a tournament match,” Hyuntak replies without missing a beat, still glued to his screen.
Sieun stares at him, unimpressed. “You’re playing a tournament before first period?”
“It’s called dedication.”
The messenger makes a strangled noise, caught between laughing and panicking. “Guys, please, just go—”
Hyuntak finally shoves his phone into his pocket with a loud sigh, pushing himself to his feet like it was the most grueling thing anyone has ever asked of him. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s get scolded and bond or whatever.”
Sieun doesn’t respond, just adjusts the strap of his bag and starts walking. Hyuntak follows behind with his usual swagger, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other raking through his hair. Their footsteps echo differently, Sieun’s measured, almost soundless; Hyuntak’s louder, deliberately careless.
As they leave the room, the door clicking shut behind them, Baku leans forward in his seat and whispers to Juntae, “Ten bucks says they get put in detention together.”
Juntae raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a bet. That’s just common sense.”
The teacher’s office smells faintly of coffee and old paper. A wall clock ticks too loudly in the stillness, and Sieun stands near the doorway, hands tucked into his sleeves. Hyuntak slouches beside him, leaning against the filing cabinet like it personally wronged him. His phone is still in his pocket, but he glances toward it like he’s trying to will the screen to light up.
Mr. Kwon doesn’t look up right away. He’s flipping through a stack of papers, jaw tight, brow furrowed with the kind of quiet fury that’s far worse than yelling.
Finally, he sets the file down.
“So,” he says, tone dry. “Care to explain why I’ve got reports of two of my students throwing punches under a bridge area?”
Sieun’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t speak.
Hyuntak scoffs. “We didn’t throw punches. It was more like… an intense disagreement.”
Mr. Kwon levels him with a look. “You’re not helping your case.”
“Wasn’t trying to.”
Sieun exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh, but close. “It’s over now.”
“That may be, but the point is it shouldn’t have happened at all,” Mr. Kwon says sharply. “You two may not like each other, but that doesn’t give you the right to act like stray dogs while wearing the school uniform. It gives us a bad reputation.”
Hyuntak mutters under his breath, “He started it.”
“I heard that,” Mr. Kwon says.
Sieun speaks up, flat and quiet. “Does this need to involve the principal?”
“No,” Mr. Kwon says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But it does need to involve consequences. Which brings us to your punishment.”
Hyuntak shifts his weight, already annoyed. “Let me guess. After school detention.”
“Worse,” Mr. Kwon says without missing a beat. “Community service. Together.”
Both of them blink. Sieun’s brow barely twitches. Hyuntak straightens up like someone just splashed cold water in his face.
“Together?” he repeats, incredulous. “You’re pairing us up? For what, character development?”
Mr. Kwon ignores the sarcasm. “The school’s greenhouse is a mess. No one’s touched it in months. You’ll clean it, organize it, and make yourselves useful. One week. After school. Both of you.”
Sieun glances at the clock. “That starts today, I’m guessing.”
“Today, and every day this week. Don’t be late,” Mr. Kwon says, standing and moving to the cabinet. “You’re lucky I’m not reporting this higher. But if I hear so much as a whisper about another fight—”
“You won’t,” Sieun says quickly, cutting off the warning.
Hyuntak throws his head back with a groan. “Unbelievable. I’m gonna die in there.”
“You’ll survive,” Mr. Kwon mutters, already filing away more paperwork. “You both will.”
Sieun turns and walks out without another word. Hyuntak lingers a second longer, staring at the back of Mr. Kwon’s head like he wants to argue but knows better. Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and follows.
In the hallway, Hyuntak lets out a frustrated breath. “A greenhouse. Dirt. Plants. You better not be allergic to pollen or whatever.”
Sieun doesn’t look at him. “I’m not.”
“Good,” Hyuntak mutters. “Don’t want you dying and leaving me stuck with all the work.”
“You wouldn’t do it either way.”
There’s a pause.
“…Fair.”
They walk in silence the rest of the way, two shadows stretched thin under the humming hallway lights, bound by detention, dirt, and a rivalry neither of them really knows how to name.
————————————————————————
The classroom door slides open with a low creak that draws a few lazy glances from their classmates. Sieun walks in first, quiet as ever, his steps light but not hurried. His gaze flicks up just once, scanning the room, then drops again. He makes his way back to his seat with the same withdrawn calm he always wears, like nothing touches him, like nothing ever could.
Hyuntak follows a few seconds later, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose with that unbothered swagger he never seems to shake. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t look ashamed. If anything, he looks mildly amused, like being called to the teacher’s office was a minor inconvenience rather than a warning shot.
Sieun sits, opens his notebook, and returns to whatever half-finished page he was working on before the interruption. His handwriting is neat, methodical. But he doesn’t write anything. Just stares at the words already there, eyes unfocused. A faint crease forms between his brows.
The teacher continues the lesson like nothing happened. Chalk clicks against the board. Paper rustles. Someone in the back yawns too loudly.
Hyuntak slumps into his seat beside the window, tipping his chair back just enough to toe the line of getting scolded. He pulls out his phone, flips it over once, then slides it into his desk like he’s suddenly above it. He stretches, arms behind his head, eyes drifting across the ceiling tiles with all the attention span of a cat in a sunbeam.
Baku turns slightly in his seat, giving them both a once-over. His expression says he wants to ask what happened but knows better than to push, especially with Sieun, who now looks like he’s somewhere far away. Not angry. Not cold. Just… muted. Like something’s sunk heavy in his chest and hasn’t risen yet.
A few students whisper. Someone passes a note. The classroom noise levels ebb and flow as the period drags on. But neither Sieun nor Hyuntak says anything.
The bell rings eventually, shrill and final. Chairs scrape. People start packing up, stretching, laughing.
Sieun moves slowly, methodically. Puts away his pens one by one, straightens the edge of his notebook. He doesn’t speak, but there’s a look in his eyes, that same faint, bitter ache, like whatever was said earlier is still sitting just under his skin.
Hyuntak passes by his desk on the way out, throwing a sideways glance that carries the faintest trace of something unspoken.
“Well,” he says, voice lazy, a smirk curling his lip, “at least we’ll be getting our hands dirty together.”
Sieun doesn’t look at him. “If you get in the way, I’ll bury you in compost.”
Hyuntak huffs out a quiet laugh. “Romantic.”
He walks off, still grinning. Sieun lingers behind, still seated, watching the sunlight crawl across his desk like it’s trying to warm something long frozen.
School continues. Voices echo down the hallway. And even though nothing dramatic happens next , no fight, no fallout, something has shifted. Just slightly. Enough to be noticed.
But only if you’re looking.
Student continue to pour out of classrooms like a tide breaking free, laughter and chatter echoing off the hallway walls. Lunch hour at its peak — noisy, chaotic, familiar. Juntae weaves through the crowd with practiced ease, his tray balanced in one hand as he glances sideways at Sieun.
“You coming or not?” he asks casually, not expecting an answer but giving Sieun the space to choose.
Sieun nods once, slow and reluctant, and follows a few steps behind. He walks with his head slightly lowered, hands in his pockets, as if trying to shrink into the seams of the building. Juntae doesn’t push, just matches his pace, silent as they make their way to the cafeteria.
Inside, it’s the usual lunchtime mess, scraping chairs, trays slapping onto tables, someone arguing over trading kimchi for fruit. Baku and Hyuntak have already claimed a spot, Hyuntak mid-bite into a giant roll of kimbap, looking entirely too smug for no reason.
“There he is!” Baku waves them over like they’re long-lost comrades, scooting over on the bench to make space. “Took you long enough.”
Juntae slides in beside him. Sieun sits across, moving with that quiet, mechanical rhythm of someone just going through the motions. He sets his tray down, doesn’t look at anyone. His brown hair falls slightly into his eyes as he picks at the rice without interest.
Hyuntak grins, mouth still full. “Wow. So the mute shows up.”
Sieun doesn’t react. Not even a glance.
Juntae looks between them, eyebrows raised. “You two not at each other’s throats today?”
“They already exhausted their daily quota of insults,” Baku says, poking at his lunch. “Apparently detention wears you out emotionally.”
Hyuntak scoffs, leaning back with his tray. “I dunno. I think he’s just embarrassed I got the last word.”
No response.
Baku notices first, the way Sieun doesn’t even lift his head, doesn’t jab back, doesn’t roll his eyes or throw one of his deadpan remarks that usually hit harder than they should. There’s no fire in his face, no ice either. Just… stillness. Like he’s fading out of the picture without a sound.
It unsettles them more than if he were angry.
Juntae looks at him, quiet for a second. “You okay?”
Sieun nods.
But it doesn’t look like okay. It looks like retreat.
Baku and the others had been surprised the day before, hearing Sieun actually talk, seeing him bite back, especially at someone like Hyuntak. Some of them had laughed, some leaned in with fascination. But that fire, however brief, is gone now. His silence has returned with full force, coiled around him like armor.
He chews without tasting. He listens without hearing. Even his posture speaks, hunched just slightly, not from shame, but from habit. Like he’s used to being overlooked. Like he prefers it.
Baku gently bumps his shoulder. “Hey. You’re allowed to exist at the lunch table, you know.”
Sieun glances at him, just for a second. Then he looks down again.
“I’m just tired,” he says quietly.
It’s not entirely untrue. Just not the whole truth.
Hyuntak watches him for a beat longer than necessary, then goes back to eating with a muttered, “You’re weird.”
But his voice lacks its usual bite.
Lunch continues around them, loud and oblivious. Someone throws a napkin across the room. A tray crashes. Juntae joins in a debate about which teacher has the worst handwriting. But Sieun stays quiet, a quiet space between their voices, not unwelcome, but not quite part of them either.
And Baku, who’s known him long enough to recognize the signs, doesn’t say anything more.
Lunch goes on.
The table chatters around him, Hyuntak arguing with Baku over something dumb and inconsequential, like which of them could outrun the other in a foot race. Baku insists he’s faster because he’s "streamlined," whatever that means, and Hyuntak calls him a folding chair with legs. Juntae chimes in just to stir the pot, fanning the flames with hesitant commentary like he’s hosting a sports segment.
Sieun says nothing.
He doesn’t need to. His silence isn’t tense now, it just is. Steady. Quiet. Familiar.
He sits with his chin slightly tilted down, long fingers holding his chopsticks like he’s forgotten they’re there. His eyes, wide, soft, tired , drift from one speaker to the next without judgment, just watching, absorbing. There’s something doe-like about them, like he’s always just a little out of reach. Always listening more than he speaks. Always calculating something no one else can see.
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t look like he wants to disappear anymore either. He’s just… present. A stillness amid the noise.
Every now and then, someone glances at him, maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of habit. Baku, especially, watches for the little tells… the slight raise of Sieun’s brow when Hyuntak says something particularly stupid, or the way his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly like a subtle internal wince. It’s his version of reacting. You just have to know how to read it.
“Say something,” Hyuntak says suddenly, pointing a half-eaten dumpling at him. “You haven’t insulted me once today. It’s throwing off my rhythm.”
Sieun lifts his eyes slowly, expression unreadable. He studies Hyuntak like he’s trying to decide if it’s worth the energy.
Then, flatly, “Your rhythm was never good to begin with.”
Hyuntak snorts, nearly choking. “There it is.”
Juntae grins. “A rare appearance from the Ice Prince. Cherish it.”
Sieun doesn’t respond to that. Just takes another quiet bite of rice, as if the conversation has moved on without him, even though he’s still holding its shape in the silence.
By the time lunch winds down, the noise level dims. Students begin to scrape chairs back and gather their things. Baku is licking his fingers and muttering something about how the school should serve bigger proportions of food “like a civilized society.” Hyuntak is stuffing the rest of his bread into his mouth like a human vacuum.
Sieun stands when they do, slow, without fanfare. He doesn’t say anything. He never announces when he’s leaving, he just starts walking, and somehow they always follow, like planets orbiting a star that forgot it was one.
Hyuntak slings an arm around Juntae’s shoulders as they file out. “Ready for your heartfelt dedication in dirt-sweeping and weed-pulling?” Juntae shyly asks
Hyuntak groans. “You better come visit me during detention. Bring snacks or something.”
Sieun glances back over his shoulder for the briefest moment, something flickering in his tired gaze, not amusement, not warmth. But something adjacent. Something close.
Then it’s gone.
And just like that, they fall back into step, four boys, different rhythms, same path.
——-—————————————————————
After school settles over the campus like a sigh, the kind that sinks into the bones, quiet and weighty. The hallways thin out, the noise dims, and the light spilling through the windows starts to shift golden, casting long shadows across desks and worn linoleum floors.
Sieun doesn’t move when the final bell rings.
The sharp chime cuts through the room like a blade, but he just sits there, hunched slightly over his desk, brow furrowed as he stares at the open textbook in front of him. The pages blur. Not from lack of understanding, but from sheer mental fatigue, the kind that clings to the corners of your vision and makes everything feel heavier than it should.
He doesn’t notice when the room empties out. Doesn’t flinch at the scraping of chairs or the shuffling of bags. He just exhales slowly and presses his fingers into his temples.
He hadn’t slept well. He rarely did these days.
When he closes his eyes, he sees Suho, pale and unmoving beneath the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital. Tubes trailing from his arms like roots, machines humming with mechanical indifference. It was always there now, in the back of Sieun’s mind. The crushing guilt. The incident. The silence of the old memories and places that used to echo with Suho’s dumb jokes or off-key singing. The fact that it was quiet now made everything else feel wrong.
His hands tighten around his pen. He needs to focus. Needs to study. Needs to get top scores, needs to hold it together, needs to figure out a way to fix everything before it all slips through his fingers.
But all he feels is tired. A kind of tired that no nap can fix.
He turns back to the problem on the page, jaw tight. The numbers swim a little, but he’s used to fighting through that. He reads it again. And again. And again.
The classroom door creaks open behind him.
“Hey,” comes Hyuntak’s voice, casual and rough around the edges, like someone too cool to actually care but too curious not to show up anyway. “Detention time, Mr. Freeze.”
Sieun doesn’t look up. Just shuts the book with a soft thud and slides it into his bag. His movements are slow, practiced, quiet, always quiet. It’s how he is. How he survives.
He stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and finally looks at Hyuntak. There's no spark in his eyes today, no retort, no challenge. Just that same melancholy glaze, like the world’s volume is turned down for him and only he knows it.
“You always look like someone kicked your puppy,” Hyuntak mutters, falling into step beside him as they exit the room. “No offense.”
Sieun doesn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Just a sidelong glance that says I’m too tired for your nonsense today. But even that carries a hint of familiarity now, like a rhythm they’ve fallen into without realizing.
Hyuntak stretches his arms over his head and yawns dramatically. “Bet you a thousand won you cry before the end of detention.”
Sieun doesn’t blink. “Bet you choke on a leaf.”
“Spicy,” Hyuntak grins, but there's a strange note of concern underneath it, the kind that shows up when he thinks Sieun’s wearing his exhaustion a little too obviously.
They head down the stairs together, toward whatever punishment awaits them. One dragging his feet, the other pretending he isn’t dragging his own.
And neither of them says what really sits on their chest.
Not yet.