Requested by: Iliketreasure00
The first time Park Jihoon really notices you is when you leave a note in his locker, asking to see him in your classroom after class hours. You're both freshmen at Seoul's premium performing arts high school, and barely two months of the school year have passed. Jihoon already dreads the awkward confrontation, but is too polite—and too unwilling to make enemies—to turn you down.
"Park Jihoon," you say, your ears blazing red, "I like you."
He asked around about you before coming here, finding the typical background: kid from the provinces, looking for a company to enter as a trainee, multi-talented. Unlike most of the others, however, you take your studies seriously, and naturally attract the other academically inclined students in your class. Bossy, blunt, and forward—not really words to describe an idol personality.
"Um," he says, trying to find the words to say. You're watching him with a calculating look on your face, and he swears you can see right through the bullshit consoling words he's about to spout. Instead, he says, "I think we'd be great friends."
And you shrug, closing your eyes before smiling at him. "It was worth a shot. You mean it?" Jihoon is surprised to find he does, that in a school full of fake smiles and soulless civility, your honesty is refreshing. When he nods, you come closer and shake his hand to seal the deal.
It's awkward at first, especially when you join Jihoon at the lunch table where he normally eats alone. "Why'd you confess to me when we've barely said two words to each other?" Jihoon says, tact thrown to the wind. You don't seem to mind, shrugging as if you hadn't been a blushing mess the day before.
"You're driven, charming, and cute," you say. "What's not to like?"
"And this isn't weird for you?" he says carefully, poking at his food. While he's well-liked, he doesn't really have anyone whom he can trust.
You laugh, reaching out to pat his hand. "It'd be a loss to me if we weren't friends just because of a little crush. You're sweet, Jihoonie. Don't worry; I'm over it."
As the year goes on, you end up partnering together for most of your projects, since both of you are taking the same major. By far, the two of you are the most competent at your majors in your year—Jihoon helps you with your acting classes, and you're a stricter vocal coach than the one the school provides.
It's easy for the two of you to slip into a routine, your training calendars syncing complementarily. It helps that you're still in the audition process at a lot of different companies, so you can pick up his slack as a trainee. With a joint set of online notes, keeping up with different class material is simple, and any time you spend preparing for practical tests are moments for you to tutor him in math or for him to explain chemical reactions to you.
Both of you live at the school's dorms, your roommates out often to do promotions. Jihoon's room becomes your favourite study place, particularly because it's big enough for you to practice dance routines. By your second term, you've practically moved in, the late nights cramming for yet another project ending with you asleep in his absent roommate's bed.
Jihoon slips in and out of classes more often, the company he's with telling him he's likely to debut with a new group. You're constantly texting him encouragement, taking pictures of the whiteboard in classes and the black bean noodles you'll both eat as soon as he's back from training. He finds himself missing you, though he never says so. Jihoon's never been good at finding the right words to say, not the type to express emotions unless it's necessary.
One day, he enters his room with a grim expression on his face. Immediately, you ask what's wrong, and he hands you an envelope with x-rays of his knee.
"I can't debut," he says, his fists clenched tightly at his side. Without a word, you hug him, and for the first time since his short stint as an actor, Jihoon lets someone else see him cry, ugly sobs wracking his body as he pulls you close. The smell of your cucumber melon shampoo is comforting, and later, when he calms down, you hold his face in your hands.
"Not yet, you hear? 'Can't debut' yet," you say, looking into his eyes.
After that, something changes between you two, a subtle shift he can't really identify. Your friendship becomes more tactile, you leaning on him whenever you're on his bed watching choreography videos on your laptop, him resting his chin on your shoulder when you're catching him up on what he's missed.
It's after a good day for both of you—he's just signed with Maroo Entertainment, and you've gotten shortlisted as a trainee at two companies—that you decide to go out. You're both done with your homework for the next day, and the guards are fond of you and unlikely to rat you out. You leave during study period right after lunch, and both of you rent out bikes for the afternoon, a welcome break from the tedium of school and work life.
You're at a field near the school, the sun about to set, when you look over at him with a grin. "I'm grateful for the excellent chicken at lunch, the scenery we just saw, the companies who might be willing to accept my talents, and you," you say, stretching your hands in the air. "What are you thankful for, Jihoonie?"
He considers for a moment before responding. "For Maroo and the chicken, yeah." You push him playfully. "And you, I guess," he says, smirking. As you bike back to school, Jihoon feels like he could fly.
It becomes a ritual for the two of you, and you end every night with a short list of what you're grateful for. Not every day is as pleasant—both companies ultimately reject you, and you grow frustrated at having to start the search all over again. Jihoon's fate is still in limbo at Maroo, as they're unable to find a group that fits him. Somehow, though, saying thank you for something every day keeps him positive. Jihoon tells himself you're only marginally to do with it, but he can't help how much space you've carved for yourself in his heart.
Soon it's your second year, and Jihoon begins to have a reputation at school, rejecting confessions left and right with a polite smile. With you, he expresses his frustration that they all see him as this perfect prince. You shrug, saying, "You're building that image and it comes with it, Jihoonie. Only I know how much of a bastard you really are."
You laugh and he groans, but he feels pleasantly warm. Jihoon takes comfort in that, that there's someone who remembers he's still a teenager, someone who'll let him be awkward, who'll critique him when he's trying to come up with a memorable concept for himself and laugh in his face when he says something cringe-worthy. He almost dreads the day you'll have less time for him, selfishly wanting to keep you to himself.
Jihoon thinks he's jinxed it because soon you're coming to him with a bright grin on your face, talking a mile a minute about how you've been signed at a hip-hop company like you've dreamed. They've made you sign a non-disclosure agreement about the details, but he can tell it's a company that'll take care of you. You're out more often, and Jihoon sees you less and less because you're always at trainings.
You come back with stories about the other trainees. "They're really so amazing," you say breathlessly, "like I've never seen so much talent condensed in so little space." There's a light in your eyes as you describe a particular one. "He was really shy at first, but he's hilarious and so, so talented, especially when he dances!"
And Jihoon knows that look; it's the same one you'd shot at him right before you confessed to him, hopeful and sweet. He can't help but feel jealous, and it's ridiculous because you're much better friends now. He's deeply involved in your life, as you are in his, and he knows he's your best friend, the one who rejected your feelings at the beginning of it all.
But over the year he's known you, Jihoon's grown attached to the sound of your voice, to the warmth of your embrace, to the casual finger hearts you send his way when you feel him looking at you. You're dear to him, he knows, and he might even like you that way. The problem, he knows, is that he's not like you—he's not a risk-taker. The thought of what might happen to your friendship if he says anything to change the balance you have now, the thought of not seeing you in his room at the end of every grueling day: these thoughts scare him.
You're at your typical Saturday night haunt, a small coffeeshop that's often empty besides the two of you, when Jihoon tells you the news that he's been struggling to keep a secret from you. "There's this show that I'll be joining," he says, his voice muffled by the mask he's wearing. "It's a popularity competition that'll form a group of eleven at the end."
"Is this Produce101?" you say quietly, looking at him. When he nods, your face breaks into a smile, and you reach out to take his hand. "That's an amazing opportunity, Jihoon! I'll be voting for you every day! When does it start?"
He fiddles with your fingers, his face apologetic. "Filming starts tomorrow. That's why I really wanted to meet you today. Are you mad?"
"A little bit," you say with a frown. "Now I can't send you off with a cake or anything. Have you packed? We're going to my house and I'm making you a care package with the snacks you've filled my fridge with!"
You spend the rest of the night in your room, talking about everything and nothing. Jihoon feels the ball of nerves in his stomach loosen a little in your presence, and he can't help but stay out a little later than he'd promised the agency. Too soon, he asks for permission to leave, and you walk with him to your main door.
"Jihoon," you say, pulling him close. In the dim light of your hallway, he can barely make out your features, but he looks anyway, trying to memorize the face he won't be seeing for months. "You'll kill it, okay? I have absolute faith in you." You kiss him lightly on the cheek. "A good luck charm from the wicked witch of the School of Performing Arts," you murmur, and Jihoon is glad that you can't see him blush.
The next few weeks go by like a blur. Jihoon dives into it whole-heartedly, trying not to check his phone except in the shower, where there are no cameras. He knows exactly what the stakes are, what kind of image he needs to protect. Still, your silly texts and encouraging words are like quick moments that let him be himself.
[7:42 am] wow my best friend is a visual I CALLED IT FIRST
[9:05 pm] jihoonie let the kkukkukkakka die wat were u thinkin
[4:32 pm] VOTING FOR U!!!!!! u were the best in ur team obvs
Distance from you is more difficult than he thought it would be. You've wormed your way into his life deeper than he expected, and he misses the way you roll your eyes whenever someone says something awful, the random cute post-its you'd leave on his bed when you wouldn't be at your shared room.
You're in the crowd somewhere during finale night, a presence to comfort Jihoon even as he feels disappointed that he's second place. He never lets it show on his face, and he wonders if you'll know. When the cameras are off, he calls you first.
"Hey," you say, "you've made it, winkboy! I'm so proud!" Jihoon says nothing, smiling at the sound of the voice he hadn't heard in so long.
"Are you bitter you're not first?" you say shrewdly. Jihoon makes a non-committal noise, hating and loving how easily you read his mind. "You've done a great job, Jihoon." Your tone is soft, a comforting hug through the phone line, and it soothes some of the frustration in his heart. "What's important is what follows, yeah?"
"I'll see you tomorrow?" he says, the first thing he's muttered since you picked up the line. "They're giving me the weekend off."
"Sunday," you say, "I have stuff to take care of tomorrow." There's a guardedness to your tone that makes Jihoon nervous. "I love you, Jihoonie! See you!" His heart skips a beat at your words, and the reality of everything comes crashing down on him. The call ends before he can respond, and all the better.
Park Jihoon plans the Sunday meticulously. Maybe everything didn't go as planned at Produce101, but your date with him will be perfect. It'll lead up to his confession, with Jihoon finally admitting to the feelings he's kept at bay forever.
You spend the first hour at the café, him sitting on the couch beside you as he whispers the things that weren't caught on camera. You're more radiant than he remembered, and each smile and laugh you send his way feeds the flame.
"I've got something to tell you," you say, uncharacteristically shy. Warning bells go off in Jihoon's head, and he's glad for the mask because it means you can't see him frown. "Someone from my company asked me out."
He looks down for a minute, at a loss for words with you for the first time since you'd confessed, all those months ago.
"Don't be mad," you say, reading his confusion as anger. Jihoon can tell you're really nervous about telling him this because normally you can tell exactly what he's feeling. "I'm sorry I kept it from you."
"It's okay," he says, with a calmness he doesn't really feel. "When do I get to meet this guy?"
You're still not looking at him. Jihoon realizes with a start that it's because you're feeling guilty. "You know him already," you say softly.
Jihoon connects the dots—hip-hop company, dancer—and figures it out right before you say it.
"I'm sorry I asked Woojinie to keep it from you!" you say, looking at him with your brows furrowed, biting at your lower lip. "I didn't want to distract you while you were there."
"Hey," Jihoon says, "it's okay. It's okay. Let me walk you home?"
You're both quiet as you walk the familiar path. He takes your hand to reassure you that he's not mad at you, and soon he sees you relax in the corner of his eye. In no time, you're at your front door, hidden from the world's prying eyes by your gate.
Jihoon pulls off the mask and smiles at you. "What are you thankful for today?" he says lightly, reminding you of the game you used to play.
"I'm thankful I got to see you today," you say, listing things out on your fingers, "thankful I got to catch up with you, and thankful you won." You pause for a bit before saying, "What about you?"
"I'm thankful for you," Jihoon says simply. You pull him close, and Jihoon closes his eyes, overwhelmed by emotions he can't describe. He wants to laugh—he never expected you to matter this much to him. The two of you have terrible timing; you were too early, and now he's too late. He wishes there were some kind of manual, that there were a clean-cut guide on how to fall in love. Instead, there was you, your quips and grins and this warm embrace, invading the carefully protected nooks of his heart.
Still, he knows he wants you in his life, in whatever capacity. Surrounded by your clean scent, Jihoon gathers up the courage to tell you how he feels, whispering into your hair, unsure whether you hear him.
You pull back too soon. "I love you too," you say, your eyes bright. "I'll see you next week?"
"Yeah," he says, and you kiss his cheek before closing the door with a smile. Jihoon keeps his grin on until you've closed the door, and only then does he start to think about what he's lost.