rustle | exo: wip: break of serve

break of serve
— Suho/Kai, past Suho/Chen, past Suho/Jonghyun, with a dash of past Suho/Luna, Xiumin/Krystal, and Chen/Sunny on the side. PG-13. 52075 words.
— 0-15, joonmyun meets a university kid by the name of kim jongin. 0-30, he swings his racket for the first time in seven years. 0-40, he makes the mistake of watching jongin long enough for jongin’s shy smile to burn at the back of his eyelids. game, and their story begins. (Warnings: age gap, mentions of serious body injuries, self-destructive behavior)
— i originally wrote this for thegameseason but was never able to finish it ;; if and when i do continue it, most of the original plot will have to be reworked soooo, yeah! here's some sukai for all of you. have fun? c:

Joonmyun looks around him one last time and takes a deep breath. The last time he stood in front of a crowd of hundreds, maybe even thousands, was a good seven years ago. He had a tennis bag slung on his right shoulder then and a face towel clutched with his left hand. He was also wearing a headband to keep his hair away from his face and to keep every bad opportunity from foiling his chances at winning. And he was twenty-eight, not too old to be a sportsman who ran across a court that was sometimes a bit too big and overwhelming for experienced players, but not that young, either, to still be considered a threat especially with five to ten new players graduating from the juniors division into the master class, into professional tennis, every year. Even then, he hadn't been aware of the people around him. He recalls standing from his seat and walking towards the bright light filtering from the now-open doors. He recalls hearing the first few bubbles of cheers from the crowd just beyond the walls. He recalls, without meaning to, the way he'd balled his hands into tight fists that time and told himself, you have to win this. There's no other way to go but up. Then his world fell blessedly silent, void of the noise that had once prickled his ears. He heard the points being called out, yes, heard the linesmen calling his shots in, out, long and short, but that was it. Anything beyond the dull thud of the ball making contact with the hard court and familiar cues for points and misplays that he heard everyday for hours on end dissolved into cracks of white noise in the background.

He was cruising his way to victory, landing one winner after another and making shots that he never thought he was capable of. He was in the zone. He was at the top of his game. Anyone who'd followed his journey as a tennis player would say that it was his greatest year yet. It could have been the greatest match he'd ever played.

He was having the time of his life.

And then he felt something snap in his calves, sort of like a band that had been stretched too thinly and finally gave out. He felt his knees weakening, felt them making contact with the hard surface of the court. He felt the nasty shiver that crawled all the way up to his thighs. And he could feel his teeth chattering as his grip on his racket loosened almost automatically. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his side on the floor, body curled up as a burning pain bloomed on his calves, his knees, his chest.

"So, in summary, three C's," he says now, stretching the smile pulling up at the corners of his lips into a grin. He pauses, gulping down hard, trying to loosen the tight knot in his throat. It hurts a bit, but he knows better than to relapse to seven years ago smack in the middle of giving a talk in front of people aspiring to be the icons of success. And he knows better than to look Minseok in the eye after possibly zoning out for a few seconds, long enough to warrant a cock of an eyebrow from his friend. The students are still looking at him with furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips, though. All is not lost yet. "First, you'll need capital because no business will ever come to fruition without proper funding. That's the harsh reality of life. Second, connections. You'll need to tap the right people – to help you with the business you want to set up, to give you the advice that you might not like but actually need, to… basically help you lay down the foundation for a good business. Third, and possibly the most important of all, charisma. The owner's charisma is one of the fuels of a great business. Yes, creative concept is a big factor, but take away the owner and the workers' charisma from the equation and you're left with a dull, lacklustre business that loses out on the competitive advantage."

From where he is, he can see Minseok leaning back against his seat. A corner of his lips is pulled up more than the other. Half of Joonmyun wants to shove his palm into Minseok's face and tell Minseok to please stop judging me, hyung. You know all those things I've mentioned are true. The other half of him is toeing the line between actually cracking a joke on stage just to make the audience loosen up a bit after an hour and a half of serious talk on business and taking a steady road to success and just ending with a cheesy message on pursuing one's dreams. The latter sounds like a poor excuse for a good ending, so he goes with the former, smiling before leaning closer to the microphone to say, "The capital and connections, I have. Minseok-hyung over there's the one with all the charisma. But he insists that he’s not allowed to use his ’superpower’ outside of work, so!" He claps his hands, then folds his fingers so that his palms are snug against each other. He can feel the cool pads of his fingers turning warmer, can feel the thumping in his chest ease into a more comfortable rhythm easier to bob his head to. And he can feel himself thawing out after almost freezing in front of this crowd just minutes before he's about to end his part of the talk. After fulfilling his end of the deal. He wets his lips, then, and breathes in deep before continuing, "If you want to build a good business but are uncertain of managing it alone, then look for a good partner. Look for a partner who can fill the gaps in your knowledge and complement your skill set. Look for a partner who can help you grow not only as a businessman but also as a person because I'm telling you, great partnerships go beyond the four walls of your office. Find someone who knows when to pull you out of nasty slumps and when to snap his fingers in your face as a reality check.

"Find the person who isn't afraid to take the same leap of faith with you, no matter how crazy your idea might sound. Find someone who completes you."

You sound crazy, a voice at the back of his mind says, but he doesn't listen to that. Instead, he maintains the grin on his lips, tries to curl it up more at the corners in an attempt to make the smile reach his eyes. It's easier than he'd thought – all he has to do is to drag his gaze across the room and fix his eyes, once and for all, on Minseok, to find his friend shaking his head at him but rising to his feet to clap, just the same. All he has to do is to let laughter come to him in tiny bubbles that make his shoulders jump from time to time. He doesn’t even to will his mouth to work with him for once, or for his eyes to carry the glimmer that Sunyoung always said ‘gathered girls by the water cooler’. All he needs to do is to breathe out as he says into the microphone, a grin tearing at the corners of his mouth, “Thank you for having me, Sogang University. Now go make those business ideas a reality!"

Years ago, it would have been more difficult to even just try to summon a smile to his lips. Time heals wounds, he supposes, even the nastiest of tennis injuries. Time heals even the most broken of people, the most scarred of hearts.

It takes another good five, ten minutes before he's able to slip from the auditorium, bowing at professors who attended the talk and smiling and thanking students for staying until the end of the program. Minseok has had to endure more from the walk from his seat up to the doors of the auditorium, taking questions on how to find a balance between being a charismatic leader and one who can command respect from his workers. He seems to be neither bothered or too worn out to answer, though. If anything, he seems to be thrilled to be in the company of people who are eager to learn, eyes widening as he checks questions off his list, fingers counting down to one up until all the digits are folded into a loose fist. Minseok has always been that kind of person, after all. He isn't the type to deny people of the knowledge he's gathered from all his experiences, but he will wait to be approached because he isn't too keen on imposing his opinion and ideas on others.

"I heard one of the guys at the back talking about making a fanclub for you," Joonmyun mentions once Minseok has caught up, falling into step with him as they inch further away from the auditorium. It's noisy all around them, typical of a university at lunch time, but he still catches Minseok snorting and humming just beside him. And pausing in his steps to address a couple of students waving in their direction and mentioning something about 'tennis greats'. Joonmyun laughs a little at that. "'Minseok minions,' I think that was what they wanted to call themselves. Which is actually cute, you know, because you are tiny but still very–"

"Indestructible?" Minseok asks, turning to look at him and cocking an eyebrow in accord.

"Cute," Joonmyun continues, then steps to his side to dodge the light jab Minseok has just thrown in his direction. "What? You are cute, hyung. It's part of your charm. Your... charisma." The very thing that makes everyone in the office cower in fear but still smile at Minseok, Joonmyun would even add, but the gentle cock of Minseok's eyebrows has turned into a tight furrow now and he isn't sure if he wants these students at Sogang to see their new hero twisting his knuckles on the crown of Joonmyun's head. Not something that will show off Minseok's 'charisma' at all. And Minseok's lips are curled up at the corners more than they normally would, which can only mean two things: he's going to have to buy Minseok a nice cold brew for calling his friend 'cute', or drive them back to the office since he'd left his car in their office building. Drive Minseok's car still functioning on manual transmission, even, since Minseok still prefers his wonderful manual autos instead of the newer automatic vehicles that Joonmyun used to win in the grand slams a decade or so ago. The Maserati from the 2004 Wimbledon championships is still his favorite. "But anyway, I have something with Jongdae at two so we'll have to... grab a quick bite or something. Then get back on the road before one."

"Check up again?" Minseok asks, skipping a step before waving at the students calling out to them one last time. His mouth is still tugged up at the corners, but his eyes are missing that glimmer of life that he almost always carries with him save for when he's too tired to even blink. Joonmyun kind of misses it. And he can feel something lodged in his throat, making it nigh impossible to breathe. "Calves still bothering you?"

Joonmyun takes a deep breath. An injury never truly goes away, he remembers hearing an athlete say in one of those interviews he made the mistake of watching at the height of him nursing his injured calves, knees, legs, and he can't say he doesn't agree. He's seen too many tennis players fall prey to little injuries that have compounded over the years. Nadal fully recovered from the scare that was his wrist injury. The flash of the back injury Federer had back in 2013 came back to haunt him with a vengeance years after, when he'd finally hit the big three-five, and was almost forced to withdraw from the last Wimbledon championships he swore he'd participate in. Thirty-five and still in the top five of the men's singles ranking, he had to be feeling good taking a walk in the part from round one up until the quarterfinals, but come his fifth service game in the second set of his semi-finals match, he widened his eyes and wasn't able to hit his service. He was able to clinch the win in four tight sets, but the had to withdraw from the tournament just before he was to play in the final.

So yes, Joonmyun muses, his calves are still bothering him. Every time he feels something 'snap' in his legs, he freezes in his spot and balls his hands into tight fists. Every time he feels a dull ache in his knees blooming into something more overwhelming, he looks for the chair or the bench closest to him and takes quick yet careful steps to where it is. And then he takes quick breaths once he's settled down, when he can feel his limbs and his fingers again. Maybe even press speed dial '2' and call up Jongdae to set an appointment the following day just in case, just in case.

"Yeah, a bit," Joonmyun confesses after a while, then scratches his nape. The scratch of his nail leaves a zinging sting, making him scrunch his nose a little. He can feel a dull ache there, as well, crawling down the breadth of his shoulders and making him shiver. It's nothing alarming, though – the last time he had his back and spine checked, the only thing Jongdae's ortho friend told him was that he probably needed to get more rest, shift in his position from time to time while doing paperwork in the office. Breathe out, and breathe easily. Maybe try to... pick up a hobby that will help you relieve the stress from work? You play tennis, right? "I have monthly check ups with him. It's mostly just to make him feel less guilty about having to pull me out of the cafe for dinner or something."

Minseok still has an eyebrow cocked at him, only this time it's arched even higher, stiffer. "You saw him last week."

"Arthritis?" Joonmyun reasons, lifting his eyebrows as he forces a smile to pull up at the corners of his lips. "Can't I be finally showing signs of ageing like most people my age? I mean, I stopped drinking from the Elixir of Life a month ago–"

"Joonmyun–" Minseok says now, stopping in is tracks and shifting a little so that they're face to face. There's a good six, seven inches between them, just enough space for Joonmyun to breathe, but it feels as if Minseok's caging in on him, trapping him with either arm on his sides. He knows Minseok's aware that he hates this, being trapped in sticky situations, and Minseok doesn't do this often, but on the off-chance that he does Joonmyun's almost always left with a strange buzz in his stomach, in his ears. He gulps down hard, then, drops his gaze to his shoes where he's wiggling his toes and tries not to wince when Minseok rests a hand – heavy, purposeful, on his shoulder. "Look: we're not in '08 anymore. You've long recovered from that injury of yours so please, please stop thinking that every... I dunno, budging ache in your calves is from your injury from seven years ago."

Wish it was that easy, he wants to tell Minseok, but he knows better than to argue with his friend on an empty stomach. So instead he shrugs, cracks his neck, doesn't look up to meet Minseok in the eye again until he feels the dull warmth on his shoulder lift at the same time that Minseok drops his hand to his side.

"And you'll want to try to smile," Minseok murmurs soon after, as he smoothens the barely-there creases on his polo, fumbling with the part where his top is tucked in his pants before digging his hands in his pockets. Minseok's never outgrown his habit of fumbling with the hem of his tennis shirt, even carrying it over to how he fixes his clothes outside of the court. Joonmyun takes a chance, then, peeking through the slits of his bangs before looking over his shoulder to follow Minseok's gaze. His eyesight's shitty, at best, with the sun up high, but he can make out a blur of cobalt blue and black inching closer to them. A few more steps and he can see a bit more clearly now – a familiar face, one he'd seen just minutes ago. Even closer, and the soft laughter a few inches away begins to make sense. "And Kim Joonmyun aims another forehand winner straight to a professor's heart," Minseok whispers-giggles, voice soon cracking as Joonmyun looks back in front of him and pinches Minseok in his stomach. "Hey– My polo–"

It's almost hilarious how they slip back into familiar suits as soon as the department head – Professor Bae Joohyun – comes within three feet of them. Minseok looks to the side, coughing out, and glides his hand down the front of his polo one last time, and Joonmyun clears his throat and adjusts his tie as if in response to Minseok's good forehand winner down the line. Minseok smiles automatically, at the first drop of a syllable from her lips, and Joonmyun resurfaces, turning around wearing a small smile and eyes bright with wonder and welcome again. It's almost as if they've done this at least a thousand times when, in fact, it's the first time they've ever been invited to a school with the purpose of giving a talk on business and not to train aspiring tennis players how to toss the ball for a nice, clean kick serve. They're not experts at this; they're amateurs. Two former tennis players who have long retired from playing the sport and have decided to put up a coffee shop to make up for all the times they had to bail out on each other on 'coffee dates' because of practice, tournaments, life.

"Kim Minseok-ssi, Kim Joonmyun-ssi," Joohyun begins, giving the two a curt nod before continuing. "I... apologize for the ruckus back there. It's actually the first time in a while that the students have reacted that way to guest speakers. You know how most students are." She laughs a little, but soon presses the back of her hand to her lips. it's almost as if she hadn't intended to burst into light bubbles of laughter, or hadn't planned to give such an honest comment on the students in Sogang – or in any university, for that matter. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's a pleasant surprise, seeing them so... thrilled? Yes, thrilled to have just come from listening to such an engaging presentation. I know Kim Minseok-ssi is the one who's supposed to be the charismatic one but I think you two are quite gifted in that department."

Joonmyun snorts. Widens his eyes for a moment, then lets a grin surface to his lips in an attempt to salvage the situation. "Not at all," he whispers in response, waving a hand in front of him like he's turning down requests for interviews, nominations for that Player of the Year award, prestige. Years later and he still finds it difficult to let praise sink in instead of balling it up in his hand at the first opportunity and throwing it to the ground. Injuries, wounds, scars, Joonmyun muses – these things stick with us forever like quirks that we might never be able to outgrow. Maybe if he tries hard enough he'll lose that bad habit, but right now he has enough difficulty trying not to curl up in a corner whenever he hears people talk about him as one of the best players Korea has ever seen, as the other half of the best Korean doubles team that the world of tennis will ever know. As Kim Joonmyun who makes great menu designs and store concepts that go well with Kim Minseok's peculiar coffee blends. "I just learned from the best. The charisma's all his."

Minseok rolls his eyes and takes a step forward, snaking an arm around Joonmyun's shoulder and reaching up with cool fingers. Joonmyun knows this part – this is where Minseok ruffles his hair and gives him a nice scalp massage at the same time that Minseok peppers him with praise that he'd probably be shrugging off at the drop of the first syllable if Minseok isn't distracting him with the tender touch. He's seen Minseok do this a hundred times already – during reunions with some tennis players or whenever they bump into familiar faces on the street. Whenever Sunyoung comments on how handsome Joonmyun is, now that he actually fixes his hair, and how she regrets not attempting to woo him with great tennis and her even better cooking. But the ruffling never comes. Instead, Minseok just keeps his hand there, cool fingers tapping a beat Joonmyun hasn't heard in a while.

Don't go easy on me just because of my health scares, Joonmyun wants to grumble. He doesn't. Instead, he keeps that smile on his lips, allows himself to lean into Minseok's warm touch and doesn't say anything more, even as Minseok comments about Joonmyun getting better at this whole 'charming everything that walks on two legs' thing.

"Ah, I almost forgot," Joohyun says after a while, clapping her hands as she presses her lips into a faint smile. "I was hoping to show you around for a bit, give you a tour of the university on your way to the exit. It's at the far end of the campus, after all. Might as well make the trip a bit more fruitful, right?"

Joonmyun steals a glance at his wrist watch. It's almost half past the hour now and the grumbling in his stomach has become even wilder. He has to see Jongdae at two. And Joohyun's giving him the sweetest smile that he's positive Minseok will tease him about again as soon as she steps well outside of their perimeter. So he says, "That would be our pleasure," making sure to nudge Minseok in his side before falling into step with Joohyun. "i heard there have been changes since the... new move of the government to get students more engaged in sports."

"A lot of changes," Joohyun answers, then pauses to look over her shoulder and coax Minseok to move closer with a nod. "But I think there's one addition in particular that you'll like."

'A lot of changes' means the university funding going into freeing up space for another basketball somewhere west of the campus. The football field has been groomed back to perfection, as well – Joohyun's words, not his – after a terrible storm hit the city, and Joonmyun must admit that he can find no trace of the storm that was in the way the grass looks so fresh and crisp. "And that one to your right is the newest and biggest gym in the campus. It also functions as an indoor baseball field for our team and the events that we host from time to time. Though they've been pouring in more and more recently..." Joohyun tells them, dragging her hand across the breadth of the building and letting out a loud exhale before continuing. "Probably our most famous facility because only a few schools have an indoor baseball field, but that shouldn't be of much interest for you. What I want you to see is this."

Joonmyun pulls his shoulders back a little before looking in front once again, tearing his gaze from the big building that he'd been studying earlier. We could be big baseball fans, as well, he wants to retort, but the sight in front of him steals all of his attention and pushes down the words threatening to spill from his lips. There's no mistaking the familiar sight of a blue surface, or the white lines drawn across the expanse of space to define the parameters, the limits of the world one slips into as soon as he steps on the other side of the line. He knows this like the back of his hand, like the swinging motion he's been using for years to land one unreturnable serve after another. His body can move within the confines of this space – the six meters from the center, left and right, asking people to take sides, that short meter on either side of the box where the safe zone ends and trouble begins. The eight meters of breathing space where every person can move from side to side in the hope of reaching impossible shots and creating winning opportunities out of missed chances. The twenty-four long meters of hard and cold surface keeping people in that enclosed space, trapped in a dimension where only the dull 'thud' of the ball against the court and the calls of the umpire and the linesmen matter.

"We've added three more courts since Korea's close finish back in 2012," Joohyun says now, voice almost dropping to a whisper. It doesn't matter anymore, though, Joonmyun muses – all he needs to know is written on the blue surface of these six courts just a few meters away, within sight. So he inches closer, lets his feet take him where the courts are as he studies the movement of four bodies moving across the court at the center. "We were supposed to have it constructed after our win in 2008, but then–"

But then my injury scared away people who might have wanted to get into the sport, a voice at the back of Joonmyun's mind says. But then people seeing me curling up on the floor kept them from even wanting to pick up a racket and tossing a ball into the air. But then I ruined it with the silly mistake of wanting to play competitive singles with a dull ache in my knees, Joonmyun wants to retort now, but his throat feels too tight and dry that even if he tried to say a thing, he'd only end up wheezing. So he keeps walking, keeps moving forward, taking tiny steps as the figures of the players on court come into focus.

"But then the proposal for the new indoor field got approved first so the construction for the tennis courts had to take the backseat for the next few years–"

Joonmyun blinks twice. He can hear nothing beyond the bouncing of the ball on the court, can hear nothing but the squeaking of the shoes against the surface and the triumphant cries of the players on court. He squints a bit, trying to get a better visual of the players, but sunlight betrays him and glares at him with bright light. He should have gotten used to this already, after spending days, weeks, months, years tossing a ball in the air to land clean serves, earn easy points, but he's much too distracted by the blur of movement a few feet away to even think of shielding his eyes from the blinding light. The players are resuming their match now after falling into a fit of laughter, and he can't just tear his gaze from the man setting the ball up in the air with a gentle push of his fingers, a light flick of the wrist, the ball curving slightly from left to right as the man bends his knees and brackets the ball in the sky with the L of his–

"A south paw," Joonmyun whispers as he watches the man swing his left arm forward, the right hand he'd used to lock his target with pressed close to his chest. The face of the racket makes contact with the ball, but there's something about the way the man drags the strings along the top of the ball that makes Joonmyun... wince. It's common for most players to decide to shift serving styles midway through the shot, but to let it show? To actually execute the new serve he'd just decided on? To make the mistake of shifting swinging motions just as the strings make contact with the ball? "Amateur," Joonmyun mutters under his breath. Amateur service, at least, but the serve still manages to get inside the service box, just the same, and the man's opponent – one of the two shorter people on the other side of the court – has to receive the shot with a double-handed backhand just to direct the ball to the other side of the net.

Joonmyun cocks an eyebrow at that, then tilts his head to the side as the same man, the one who'd just offended him with that service, returns the ball with a nice forehand that travels straight to the corner of the doubles court. The rally isn't over yet, though – the opposing side returns the shot with a drop just a few feet shy of the middle court line, causing the server to come dashing close to the net. "I hate you, hyung!" the man says as he runs, strides long and swift, and Joonmyun can only hold his breath as he watches the man stutter in his steps, then drag his left foot over to his right at the same time that he twists his torso.

Just return it with a simple lob to the back, Joonmyun wants to cry out, you don't need to hit it with a backhand, just keep the goddamned ball alive, but no, this isn't his game to play. So instead he bites the inside of his cheek and takes a deep, shaky breath, fingers folding into loose fists that he brings close to his chest. Curls in his toes, as well, as the ball crawls along the face of the racket, hitting the sweet spot just as the man swings his left arm forward to release the ball from its hold on the strings. And the man is dancing, Joonmyun muses as he walks even closer to the court, close enough that he can make out the features of the players now, the way the server has his eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed in a thin, thin line, the way that boy who’d caught his eye earlier narrows his eyes and watches the path the ball takes, eyes blazing with focus. The man looks like he's dancing as he stretches his right arm wide open and swings it back, spine arching like a bird flapping its wings, ready to fly.

He draws the tips of his fingers to his throat and feels for the strong pulse there, rivaling that of the thumping in his chest. All of a sudden it feels like 2008 again in the tiebreaker for the first set, when he was preparing to return his opponent's serve to stay in the running for the game and maybe even clinch his first set victory in the next three points. It almost feels like he’s twenty-eight again and nursing a dull ache in his knees that he’s been trying so hard to ignore, been trying so hard to bury beneath the burning desire to win and make his country proud. He can see at least three ways that this can play out, now – the ball can touch the ground beyond the boundaries of the doubles court and be called out. The ball can hit just inside the line or maybe land right on it, earning the server's team a point they could have easily won with an easier shot, a lob to the far back of the court. Or the ball can hit the tape of the net and fall to the server's side of the court, teaching both players a lesson on not complicating shots. Back in ’08, when it was him swaying from side to side on the heels of his feet during the Olympics, he'd only come up with the first two, and maybe that was what led him to stretch the tiebreaker to 20-18 after fifteen gruelling minutes of tennis – lack of proper prediction, lack of foresight. An ginormous amount of optimism that didn't quite translate to shots and points and cost him the game, set, match, his career.

His body gives a tiny jerk at the same time that he feels his lips trembling. Not your game to play, he tells himself, and gulps down hard the last dregs of the bitter past he’d been clinging onto in an effort to ease the knot in his chest. You don’t even play the sport anymore, Joonmyun. You quit even before you could reach the top.

"On the fucking line!" he hears someone say in a voice so loud that he shivers at the drop of the first syllable. He widens his eyes, then, taking a couple of steps back, and only then does he realize that he's alone now, without a trace of Minseok on either side of him. Only now, minutes into the trance he'd fallen into, does he realize that he's closer to the court now than from where he can the faint sound of Minseok's footsteps, the crack in the white noise when Joohyun claps her hands, Minseok humming and whispering something about passions and old loves and the ghost of Christmas past. Joonmyun doesn't get it. Or maybe he just doesn't want to. Still, he inches away from the court, puts a good two, three feet between himself and doubles line and drops his gaze to his shoes where he's been wiggling his toes since the ball was called in.

From a corner of his eye, he can see two of the players, both much taller than he is. One of them is smiling, lips stretched into a grin that reaches his eyes. The tall man's wiping the underside of his jaw with the armband he's wearing, then shaking his head before adjusting the headband pulling his hair back. Joonmyun catches the sight of a logo he knows all too well, then – he'd seen that on a daily basis during his last three years of competing, had woken up to the nagging thought of having to hear Roger Federer, himself, remind him time and again that he can't keep looking over his shoulder when he's playing singles because there's no one there who will save your glorious ass even if you wish hard enough, Joonmyun. This isn't doubles, remember? Come on, you can do better than that. So this guy has to be either a fan of Federer's. Or maybe even his. After all, he's the last man in the Open Era to wear headbands on a regular basis before sun vizors became the most fashionable piece of tennis accessory thanks to Lu Han landing one win after another for China wearing a vizor in highlighter yellow.

You've stopped playing a long time ago, remember? a voice at the back of his mind says. He shrugs that off, scrunches his nose for the quickest second, then tries to put on his best smile before looking up to see the other player in earnest.

He laughs a little at the same time that sunlight hits his eyes, blinds him for a while before helping him see clearer. Ah, there you go, he almost mumbles – the service offender, the man who'd put a side spin on the single-handed backhand he'd used to return that nice drop volley to the middle of the court just a few minutes ago. The same man who looked as if he was flying with the way he glided across the court like a swallow covering long distances in a blink of an eye. The same man looking straight at him right now, eyes wide open, lips parted in a small 'o', tilting his head as if he's caught between asking Joonmyun 'who' and 'why' and 'what the hell do you think you're doing?'.

'Tall' is Joonmyun first thought. The man has nice, slender legs, toned from running or maybe even all the tennis games he's played. Joonmyun wouldn't say 'training' – this kid clearly needs a bit more polishing. He's never been fond of tall players, though. They all make him seem like a midget during awarding ceremonies, even if he's already standing on the platform and holding the trophy over his head.

The man sucks in his bottom lip. Joonmyun chokes on his spit at that. His second thought, 'actually very cute.'

A beat, and then the students are bowing in Joohyun's direction, addressing her with a smile and bright greetings of variations of it's nice to see you around, sonsaengnim. A deep voice soars his above the rest, one that sounds a lot like the tone Joonmyun heard earlier, at the end of that rally that lasted under fifteen strokes but seemed to have stretched on forever. The tallest in the group inches forward, then, asking Joohyun if she needed the courts for anything, if they had to leave, "We won't really mind, though. I mean, it's almost close to class time, anyway." But then you're stuck at three games all, Joonmyun almost argues, but he knows better than to cut through a conversation with an unsolicited comment. So instead, he takes another step back, digs his hands in his pockets, and looks to his side to meet Minseok's gaze. "Just let us know, sonsaengnim. We can pack up in five, no biggie."

"First love never dies," Minseok mutters under his breath just as Joonmyun feels their shoulders bump. He can make out the tiny smile tugging up at the corners of Minseok's mouth, can see the way Minseok's eyes crinkle at the corners as he fights to keep the grin to the confines of his lips. "Can't blame you, though – how many unis actually have six tennis courts in them? Pretty sure Seoul U only has, what, three? Four?"

And Korea University has three. And Yonsei has five, only one less than that of Sogang's tennis facilities, if Joonmyun remembers correctly. His memory's impeccable, for the most part, but from time to time he'd be experiencing lapses and forgetting the most important of things – the exact date when he last swung a racket with the intent of winning a point, the schedule for his physical therapy following the surgery he had to go through. The exact number of months it took for him to stop wanting to throw the remote of the television onto the screen, itself, whenever news on the sport came on. Whenever he saw the face of that old friend of his with whom he shared the same side of the court for half a decade.

"Three," Joonmyun mumbles now, then shifts in his position so that their elbows aren't touching anymore. Then he catches Joohyun turning on her heel to look at the students, the same smile that she'd worn when she welcomed both Joonmyun and Minseok to the univeristy scrawled on her lips. Joonmyun feels his insides turning a little, feels his heart skip a beat, and then do this tiny leap in his chest as Joohyun inches closer and says something that sounds a lot like I'd like to introduce you to two of the most influential names in the history of Korean tennis. Which isn't much of a lie, because he and Minseok have scored a respectable amount of records in tennis history, but then he'd much rather hear her talking about the sport, in general, and some of the older greats like Rod Laver, Martina Navratilova, John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors, and Kim Junsu who was the only Korean tennis player to reach the number one spot without winning the championship title in any of the four major grand slams.

“Probably time to press the self-eject button now," Minseok whispers in Joonmyun's ear. The smile on his lips remains, though. "I don't think I'm ready to talk tennis just yet. I'm starving."

I'm melting, feeling small, a bit too weak, Joonmyun's tempted to say, but he doesn't. Instead, he takes a deep breath and wills the corners of his mouth to tug up, just a little more, until he can feel his cheeks trembling a little in the prickling heat of summer.

"Ring Jongdae up then drop the call after ten seconds," Joonmyun murmurs. He clears his throat when he hears his own voice crack. "He'll know what to do."

"I said we need an escape plan, Myun, not to execute a covert mission to escape from teens who can actually play pretty decent tennis–"

"This is Kim Minseok. I'm sure you've seen him in the recent 2012 Olympics," Joohyun begins, cocking her head in Minseok direction. Minseok pulls his shoulders back automatically and gives Joonmyun a light nudge in his side that can either mean ‘get ready, kid, there’s no escaping this anymore' or 'call Jongdae now'. "He coached the doubles teams of our country back then, but he played in–"

"2008, doubles. We won all our matches there. Almost, at least, but that was a pretty amazing run," Minseok answers. Joonmyun’s tempted to snort – the memory of 2008 gives him nothing but nightmares. "But my favorite has to be 2012. Coaching a team if quite an experience, even if I just did it for one particular format."

Because I was the one who was offered the singles coaching job, Joonmyun reasons at the back of his mind. A job he’d turned down even before he could think twice about it, in fact. Back then, he knew he was a good player, be it in singles or in doubles, but with only three years of experience in competitive singles, he’d found it difficult to trust that he could get the job done without much hiccups. And if he couldn’t trust himself then how would he be able to help players who were probably ten times more uncertain than he was, right? It wasn’t enough that Roger Federer trained him for the duration of his singles career; he still felt like an absolute mess of a player without someone else on the same court to hit the balls he can’t reach, or without anyone to tell him if he’s been making the right shots, the right calls, turning tricky situations into win conditions. Submitting himself into the right defeats and missed opportunities at landing good points so he can think of better and easier ways to score without risking too much. After all, tennis isn’t just a test of technique; it’s also a test of mental toughness and just how persistent one can be before giving up and giving the point to the opponent.

“With Jung Soojung, right?” the server at the back says, voice barely above a whisper. Minseok seems to catch that, though, looking up from where he’d been looking at the shorter players in the eye. There’s a small curl at a corner of his lips. This is why you can’t play singles against Soojungie, Joonmyun wants to say. You give too much of yourself away. “You’ve been partners for more than a decade now,” the man continues to say, pausing only to wrinkle his nose a little. It’s pretty cute, Joonmyun muses; the man’s voice, deep yet soft, oddly soothing. “I mean as early as at the start of your professional career – you two were already partners then, so when you won that Olympic silver back in 2008–"

“It wasn’t much of a surprise,” Minseok finishes, voice barely above a whisper. He grins even wider. “Though we were hoping to get the gold."

“Who isn’t?"

Joonmyun snorts. Minseok nudges him in his side. He only keeps shaking his head in retaliation.

“There’s no other way but up,” the server says after a while, then drags his gaze to where Joonmyun is, making their eyes meet. “Right?” Joonmyun furrows his eyebrows a little at that. Gulps down hard – to ease the tightness in his throat or to just do something because he doesn’t know how to answer that, he can’t tell. If he were still his twenty-eight year old self, he’d have already cocked an eyebrow at the student, maybe even laughed at him as he answered, of course. That’s why we keep training. That’s why we never give up. But he’s not twenty-eight anymore. He’s halfway through his thirties and he’s long quit the sport and he gave up as soon as he was offered a second chance at hoisting that grand slam trophy a year after surgery and therapy. He could’ve had another chance at winning the Olympic gold for Korea in 2012. Things could have been different if he’d only stood from his seat instead of leaning back in. So he has no to right to act cheeky, to do more than to stare and study the question written on the shallow furrow of the server’s eyebrows. He can only breathe out in response.

“Of course,” he says after a while, when he feels his throat again. To Joohyun, he nods and says, “We’ll have to excuse ourselves, sonsaengnim. We have an appointment this afternoon and–"

Joohyun’s eyes widen for a second then it’s gone, the flash of surprise replaced instead with a smile. Standard, practiced. A product of repetition and training. To some, it’s a mask. For Joonmyun, it’s a second skin. He doesn’t hold it against Joohyun, though. So when she says, “Ah, yes, of course, sorry for keeping you!”, he offers her the most genuine smile he can muster, one that doesn’t reach his eyes but doesn’t make his cheeks tremble. He looks to his side, meeting Minseok in the eye, then they both bow to Joohyun before addressing the students with a curt nod. Taking a step back in preparation of their departure, of them returning to their side of the court, ready to serve.

“Joonmyun, Minseok, thank you for indulging me again,” Joohyun says for a last time, then rests her warm palms on their shoulders. Joonmyun doesn’t flinch at the touch, but he does feel his insides do a tiny tumble when he sees the server part his lips at the same time that the server widens his eyes, familiar syllables tracing on the shape of the boy’s mouth at the boy squints.

You’re just hungry, he tells himself. Give it a rest. He bows to Joohyun again, then, and shuts his eyes to erase the faint image of his name on the boy’s lips, the corners of the boy's mouth, his reflection so clear in the boy’s eyes.

"Clocking out early again?" Minseok asks, leaning back against his seat as he cocks an eyebrow at Joonmyun. "Wow. Didn't think I'd see the day you won't be overworking yourself. I must say, I'm actually liking this development."

Joonmyun laughs a little and shakes his head. It's the third day in a row that he's left their little office in Hapjeong before six in the evening, the third day in a row that he's spent a little under nine hours at work instead of the eleven, twelve hours he usually logs on his time sheet. There's no reason to stay, really – he's already signed all the papers on his desk, has already talked with potential suppliers that they'll be meeting for coffee tomorrow, and has already created a report and a bidding summary of the suppliers they'd had lunch with just hours ago. He's already done with his work for the day and has even already crossed off some of his tasks for tomorrow morning. That, and he clocked in at seven in the morning today; leaving before six isn't such a glorious act. It's what normal office workers do when they want to enjoy a balance of work and life.

"Still waiting to see the same development on you," Joonmyun says, then, craning his neck a little as soon as he's finished stuffing his cardigan in his bag. It's hot out and the worst that can happen during summer is for him to get drenched in sweat, but he can't take chances – most of the rain comes midseason, and he won't be seeing running down the streets of Hapjeong or even along Hongik without a coat or at least a jacket. "Though, hmm, I don't know. Might be more likely to see Soojungie picking you up from work–"

"Or you taking a train to Sogang instead of driving back to your flat–"

Joonmyun cocks an eyebrow at Minseok. "Or you making these weird, baseless assumptions–" He snorts, scoffs, laughs. Widens his eyes at this friend and even shakes his head as he fumbles with the zipper of his bag. "You know I hate taking the train. The crowd makes me feel claustrophobic."

"Nah. You just hate dealing with a lot of people. But you're too nice to say 'no' to them," Minseok argues. He cards his fingers through his hair, then stands from his seat while flexing his fingers. There's a smile on his lips as looks at Joonmyun in the eye, as he wiggles his eyebrows and leans back against the wall just behind him. "So you haven't been taking the train to Sogang, then. Still doesn't explain why I still see your car in the parking lot at eight when you're supposed to have left already at five."

Joonmyun takes a deep breath. I've been taking a cab, silly, he's tempted to say, but he knows better than to dig his own grave. Granted, Minseok will never harp on him about responsibilities that he's shit at doing or under-delivering when it comes to the quality of his work because Joonmyun is probably the best co-owner Minseok will ever have, but that doesn't dismiss the fact that anything he says will only lead him either slipping down the rocky path or jumping straight into the pit. He says 'no', and Minseok asks who's been picking him up from the office in the hot summer weather because he knows Joonmyun taking long walks at the height of the season. He says 'yes', and Minseok asks why he's been going to Sogang, if there's anything that caught his interest there, why he isn't lugging around his tennis gear with him so he can play with the kids they'd seen days ago. And he’s shit at lying, moreso to Minseok. So he stays still, unmoving, maybe not even breathing because all he can feel in his body right now is the thundering pulse at the base of his throat, the thumping of the veins in his temples, the pads of his fingers turning cold even as he tightens his hold on the handle of his bag.

"They... won't charge extra parking hours, don't worry," Joonmyun mutters after a while. He breathes out in a low exhale, the puffs of hot air catching on his bruised bottom lip and making him shiver. He should’ve applied some of lip balm. He shouldn’t have said anything at all. “I already asked."

“And I asked you something, Joonmyun,” Minseok says, syllables drawn out. There’s still a tiny upward curl at the corners of his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It stops there, just at the curve of his cheeks, holding them up and lifting some of the tension, the uncertainty, the suspicion in his features – but only just. “What have you been doing in Sogang – or wherever you haven’t been driving your car, whatever – for the past few days?"

None of your business, a voice at the back of his mind says. He shuns that away, though, meeting Minseok’s gaze through the narrow slits of his bangs. Or what would have been his bangs, if he hadn’t gotten a haircut two days ago after dropping by Sogang University to check if the four were playing on court number two again. He was curious, that's all. It wasn't everyday that he found students playing tennis, after all. Basketball and soccer, yes, but a racket sport that isn't badminton? It was almost silly to expect kids these days knew about tennis. Still, he hadn't been let down, but then the group wasn’t complete. It was just the two tall students playing against each other, hitting nice and easy forehands until they went past fifteen returns, sixteen exchanges of shots, seventeen, the rally turning from playful to intense in three minutes.

“Stop giving me easy balls!” said service offender then, hitting a double-handed backhand to return the smash from the taller guy – Chanyeol, that was the taller guy's name, Joonmyun soon discovered. Joonmyun craned his neck, trying to see better from where he was a few meters away. The sun was up high and the shade of his sunglasses was as good as non-existent. Maybe he should get a new pair after getting a haircut. Maybe he should leave, but– “We’re here to train, not to play–"

“But you’re cute when you try to hold back and not get too competitive!” Chanyeol said, teasing. He stuck out his tongue at service offender whose name Chanyeol still hadn't dropped even if Joonmyun had been watching them for a good twenty minutes already. Joonmyun narrowed his eyes at Chanyeol and grimaced. If they were competing in a real tournament then Chanyeol wouldn’t be reprimanded, but he’d be interviewed by the press about that single moment right after the match. “Look: we’ve just come from accounting class. You know that shit’s draining and kills my brain cells–"

“Whatever, hyung. You’re good at accounting."

“My point is–” That you shouldn’t hit the ball with a slice to the left side of service offender’s court because that would make it ten times easier for service offender to return the shot, but whatever. Chanyeol hit the back of the ball and made it crawl up the face of the racket before releasing it, anyway. “–that tennis is supposed to be fun–"

“Winning against you is fun,” service offender said through gritted teeth, then swung his left arm back at the same time that he dragged his left foot in the same direction. Then he held up his right hand, bracketing the ball with the L of his thumb and index finger. Joonmyun’s first thought was, who even does that these days outside of serving? Who even gives himself away by assuming a stance so readable that Joonmyun knew exactly how to counter the shot in three different ways that service offender wouldn’t be able to return it even if he tried hard? His second, why do you even care, Joonmyun? This isn't your game to play. This isn't even your sport anymore.

So he dug his hands in his pockets and balled them into loose fists, tightening them when service offender began to guide his left arm forward and bent his wrist back to just let the ball– “Bounce off the racket. Wow,” he muttered under his breath. Ballsy play. Risky play. If Chanyeol hit the ball any harder then service offender could’ve run into the risk of getting his wrist sprained, but every shift of his muscle, every inch of his body seemed as if he was so sure of the shot he was making. And it was an anti-climatic ending to a great rally, yes, but it earned service offender a point. It was a great disruption to the rhythm Chanyeol had already developed. It was the perfect example of offense used as a form of defense. Service offender’s hand wasn’t even shaking as he swung his racket back and forth after nailing the point. It was almost as if the whole scheme was executed without much effort, without putting any strain on service offender’s arm. And at the end of the day, wasn’t that the real victory – emerging from a match tired but unscathed, free from injuries and more eager than ever to play tennis again the following day?

"I hate you," Joonmyun heard Chanyeol say. Service offender only held up a peace sign close to his cheek and grinned ear to ear, baring his teeth at his opponent. Chanyeol reached out, the pads of his fingers just grazing service offender’s cheek, but soon he was dropping his hand to his side. And the smile on service offender’s lips waned. He was worrying it now at the same time that he shifted his gaze from Chanyeol’s lips to the bridge of Chanyeol’s nose then–

Don’t do it, a voice at the back of Joonmyun’s mind said. Whether he meant don’t show any of your weaknesses, kid or don’t you know it’s rude to stare, Joonmyun, he wasn’t certain. He isn’t sure of a lot of things. He hasn’t been confident of anything in his life since the day he put down his racket and ran to the other side of the court alone.

"Not Sogang," Joonmyun answers now, breathing out in a low exhale. Minseok cocks an eyebrow at him but doesn't quite prod, doesn't say a word, doesn't even budge. It's easy to get distracted here in their shared office where they can see anyone and everyone walking past the room through the glass walls, but Minseok pays no attention to the figures drawing blurs of color on the surface. Instead, Minseok keeps his careful, scrutinizing gaze on no one else but Joonmyun, only squinting a little when Joonmyun hiccups but otherwise remaining quiet for a few more seconds. "I was just in the area. Thought I'd drop by to look around and–"

"To see those four kids again."

"–and check out the courts, actually," Joonmyun murmurs, finishing with a tight-lipped smile. “Just thought you might want to host one of your tennis clinics there or something. Saw the rental rates and they’re actually cheaper than the rates in Dr. Choi’s even with membership? Can you believe that?” He means, can you believe this half truth? He did check the rates before leaving, did think of telling Minseok about the low prices so that Minseok can do more coaching stints well inside the budget of his students. He did consider calling Minseok up as soon as he found out, but then it was six in the evening that time and it as one of Minseok’s busiest hours. Everybody and their mother wanted a cup of coffee at that time, it seems. Everybody but Chanyeol and service offender who went off to by fruit shake after a nice game of tennis. “And I was thinking of donating some of my old stuff to their tennis team. I mean, what will I do with old rackets? Old gear? Old headbands?"

"For starters, you can wash them," Minseok begins. "Or have them washed, because you're lazy as fuck when it comes to chores."

"Appreciate your honesty, hyung."

"And I appreciate your inability to lie, little one," Minseok says, shaking his head. He reaches up for a minute, fingers hovering Joonmyun's hair, but not leaning in all the way to touch. “When’s the last time you picked up a racket?"

His press release is since the last exhibition match he and Minseok played alongside each other in 2010, but the truth is that he picks up his tennis racket every so often, two to three times a week. The most recent was the night after the talk in Sogang, nine in the evening, just as soon as he’d plopped down on his bed to rest and watch whatever series there is on TV until he fell asleep. It’s just there in his tennis bag just beside his bed, still covered in its plastic wrapper from five years ago. The tension of the strings is still good. The grip tape hasn’t cracked yet. And his swing isn’t so bad – he still has the rhythm of his follow-through memorized, body leaving everything up to muscle memory as soon as he wraps his fingers around the handle of his racket.

“It’s been a while,” he whispers, then, and splays the fingers of his right hand in the air. He can feel the nerves at the back of his hand tingling. He hadn’t even gripped the racket that tight when he was practicing his swing in his room. Still, he recalibrates, tries to get back on track and find his voice again, the one he uses when he’s talking to suppliers and asking them to lower their prices, to be kind to little businesses like them. When he’s trying to get out of a tight hole he’d dug for himself. “But I’m sure the tension of the strings is still good. Made sure to check. And I still have spares from five years ago so, yeah. Better put those to good use, somehow.” He presses down on his nape with three fingers, massaging the sore area. He can’t blame this one to fatigue from playing too much tennis; he can only blame lack of physical activity reminding him that it’s been years since he'd swung his racket back and forth for longer than a minute. It will take time for his body to get used to the old swing of things again. “What I’m missing is the balls. Can’t find them anywhere. Pretty sure I kept them in one of my drawers, though–"

“Better go looking for your balls, then,” Minseok comments, then pulls himself closer to his desk again. From where Joonmyun is, he can see the smile on Minseok’s lips easing into something more relaxed, more… familiar. Sort of like Minseok’s waving the white flag now – he always does when it comes to Joonmyun – and saying, y’know what? Whatever. Do what you want with your life and keep denying that you’ve been watching some university student play the sport you were once in love with. I’ll pretend I’m not hoping you’re thinking of playing again. And he can see Minseok letting his fingers hover the keys, the pads touching the surface, but Minseok's entire body is still facing Joonmyun. Joonmyun can’t decide yet if he should feel flattered that Minseok’s taking time out from work to try to get answers from him or if he should be annoyed that Minseok’s wasting precious time allot for work just trying to turn all his no’s into yeses. He settles for neutral ground for the time being and lifts his bag off his desk, dragging it closer to his sides. “And you better get going. The trains are extra packed on Fridays. I’d drive to Sogang if I were you."

Never the one to go down without a fight, a voice at the back of his mind groans. He turns on his heel, then, waving over his shoulder and walking straight ahead, past the door, well out of Minseok’s perimeter.

The trip to Sogang University takes a little under thirty minutes. The train ride to Daeheung station isn't that packed, groups of five or a bit more popping up only from time to time, but Joonmyun sticks close to the doors, just the same, looking out into the scenery in front of him instead of keeping his eyes on his feet. It's refreshing to see the sun set in the distance instead of just seeing the last dregs of it when he leaves work before seven, but that doesn't take away the weird sensation dropping to the pit of his stomach. Maybe it’s just Justin Nozuka singing in his ears making him feel queasy, he tells himself, or even the ride being a bit bumpier than the usual. He has three days’ worth of train rides as comparison. That should be enough.

Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s spending twenty precious minutes on a train ride where he can do nothing but stare at the sun setting in the distance when, in fact, he can be working at this office desk, accomplishing a fourth of his work for the following day. He’s on the train to visit a university that isn’t even his alma mater for the third day in a row to what, watch a couple of kids play amateur tennis but still be caught off-guard every so often by nice trick shots from the students aimed at the corners? To watch service offender – he still doesn’t know the kid’s name, but it’s not as if he’s been paying much attention to the conversations versus the actual matches – either team up with Chanyeol to bring Baekhyun and that other short guy down or play against Chanyeol and choke on his game somewhere towards the end? To study these students’ movements in the hope that he may play that way again soon, maybe in the upcoming Summer Olympics, even if he hasn’t played the sport in half a decade?

You’re asking for trouble, he hears a voice at the back of his mind say. And then another: and the thing is, you like it. You like it a lot.

He shuts his eyes, shakes his head, cracks his neck. Skips the next Justin Nozuka track and lets a song from 12012 fill his ears with heavy beats and sharp strings. If he checks on himself often enough then he won’t get too close with any of the four. He won’t lose control.

The sidewalks along the campus are blessedly rid of the usual clusters of students. He can still spot a few groups here and there, most of them seated on the grassy fields or on benches along the walkway, but for the most part the campus isn’t school with as much life as it was in the past few days that Joonmyun has come over for a visit. Maybe some students have already hopped on a bus to their provinces for the weekend, hoping to get back in touch with their relatives and a piece of their sanity. Maybe some have decided to hit Hongdae early and start the pre-game at half past five in the afternoon even if the real clubbing doesn’t start some four, five hours after. He won’t be surprised. He and Jongdae used to do that, back when they were still students, when he was busier with memorizing which part of the body did what and studying textbooks than studying the movement of people’s bodies, the physics of swings and shots, the trajectory promising players took before plummeting to the ground at the slightest wrong twist of the foot.

Joonmyun laughs to himself. It’s been a good fifteen years since then, the last time he got ass drunk on the day of their last exam. Minseok had texted him that time, saying, there’s a small tourney tomorrow. You coming? He replied, lol if I’m still alive by then I’m still out drinking with friends??? Then Jongdae pulled him to the dance floor and whispered in his ear, “C’mon. Last dance. Let’s go crazy together,” before slipping cool hands around his waist to pull him closer. He knew Jongdae only meant exactly what he wanted to say – that he wanted to let loose and that he knew Joonmyun wanted the same, that they were finally free from exams and other coursework so shouldn’t they just be having fun – but it was almost impossible to think of nothing else but that when Jongdae kept dropping his yes to the jut of Joonmyun’s top lip. “I know you’re hiding something, hyung. I saw you dancing in the showers the other day–"

And you probably shouldn’t have told me, he mused then, because he only ever dances when he’s in the showers or just when he’s stepped out of the bathroom, with only a towel wrapped around his waist. Or he would think exactly that if Jongdae wasn’t too close and if Jongdae stopped worrying his bottom lip every few seconds and if he wasn’t wondering if Jongdae’s lips tasted like Long Island or just the pure tequila he’d been taking shots of for the past hour or Jongdae just tasted like Jongdae. He would’ve used his brain if his head didn’t feel like a huge container where alcohol was sloshing around with every jerk of his body, with every hitch of his breath.

“You don’t want to see me dance, Jongdae–"

“You can’t tell me what and what not to want, hyung."

“Well I’m telling you now,” he said, then, clearing his throat before continuing, “That I’m a lameass dancer and–"

And then Jongdae was offering him a smug yet light-lipped smile, eyes thick and heavy with the sick mix of alcohol he’d been taking since they arrived at the club. Then their foreheads were touching and Jongdae was pulling him close, close, closer, enough that Joonmyun could smell the scent of tequila in Jongdae’s breath. And if Joonmyun really wanted to know how Jongdae tasted then the only thing he had to do was to lean in for a kiss.

He takes a deep, violent breath now, then looks around him to reacquaint himself with the surroundings. There's no hint of the sound of balls making contact with the hard court, not a single sound of squeaking from rubber shoes grazing against the surface. And it's his first time taking the entrance near Daeheung station but he's positive he's in the right place because he's seeing the blue courts right now, the familiar boundaries that have shaped him to become the person that he is now, the sun shining down on the surface of the courts but not on the players who are supposed to be there at half past five in the afternoon.

"We're... not playing today," comes a voice from behind him. Two beats, then, "I'm sorry, I guess?"

He widens his eyes at the same time that he bites the inside of his cheek. He knows this voice well enough that if he closes his eyes, he knows he'll see a towering figure on the court dashing from the far back to the front to get important points, that he'll see a fluid swinging motion from the right side of his body to the left as the owner of the voice returns a heavy serve with a backhand aimed straight to the corners. And he's heard this voice enough times for him to know that this isn't Chanyeol who laughs with his bright voice and the rest of his body, or Baekhyun who screeches at the sight of precise forehands aimed between his feet but is able to return it, anyway, or Kyungsoo who lets out a loud cry after gripping rallies that end in his and Baekhyun's favor.

Service offender, a voice at the back of his mind says. Kai, he tells himself – that's the name he heard Chanyeol calling the kid the other day, after Chanyeol hit the ball to the net at the end of a good rally. "Too tough, too tough!" Chanyeol'd said, then reached out to give the tuft of Kai's hair a fluff. Kai sort of leaned into the touch. Joonmyun took a step back. "You shouldn't have returned the previous shot, man! I'm dead sure it would've been called out if you didn't hit it!"

"But it could've been in."

"If you keep coming every single shot, you'll wear yourself out fast."

Kai peeked at Chanyeol through his bangs, then asked, "You're worried about me, hyung?"

Chanyeol scoffed like Kai had just asked him the most hilarious question. If Joonmyun were in his shoes, he'd do the same. "Of course. Always."

"Hey," comes the same familiar voice, and that's when Joonmyun looks over his shoulder. Up close, with only a few feet between them, Kai looks much, much taller. His shoulders are hunched, though, and he keeps dropping his gaze from Joonmyun's eyes to where Joonmyun's still holding his transit card and then to his feet, then back up to give Joonmyun a curious look. So maybe he isn't that tall, Joonmyun muses. Maybe Kai's one of those tall tennis players who isn't an asshole and knows how small people feel beside them. Maybe Kai should unload some of the things in his back pack because Joonmyun's certain Kai looks better with his shoulders pulled back. Or maybe Kai's just tired, and finding a familiar face hovering where he played tennis with his friends on a regular basis was wearing him out even more. "I said, I'm sorry for letting you down but we won't be playing today and I–"

Kai lets out a breathy exhale, then worries his bottom lip. One more thing, Joonmyun notes – Kai looks so young even with the last few dregs of sunset painting him with shadows and a much warmer glow. This kind of lighting is supposed to cloak people with more years, wear down on them and not make them look better at all, but Kai defies that rule and emerges from being draped with the warm lights of the sunset looking younger than ever. Exactly how young are you, Joonmyun's temped to ask, but he knows better than to scare someone off with an unsolicited comment.

So instead, Joonmyun smiles. Tries to coax the corners of his mouth to tug up even more, then breathes out a small 'hi' that tumbles from his lips better than he'd thought. "You had some... really great games this past week," he rushes when he sees Kai blinking again, like he's asking himself why he's still here, talking to some stranger who'd been watching him play tennis with his friends. Your serving has also improved, he's tempted to add, but then Kai's leaning back and furrowing his eyebrows with every passing minute. He waves his hands in front of himself, then, takes a step back like putting more distance between them will make him seem less of a creepy stalker and more of an avid tennis geek who happened to pass by Sogang University's tennis courts for three consecutive days. "Nice shots."

"Uh, thanks," Kai mutters, then purses his lips and twists them to the side. If Kai were still a baby then he'd probably be seconds away from crying because umma, there's a creepy guy talking to me and analyzing my plays– "It really... means a lot coming from a player of your calibre."

Joonmyun cocks an eyebrow. Me? he almost asks, but soon his phone is buzzing in his pocket, breaking the silence of the courts with the shrill ring it gives off. He bows to Kai in apology, then, just a curt nod that he couples with a soft, "I'm sorry, I'll have to take this."

"Hello–Jongdae?" He tilts his head to the side when he catches Kai mumbling something, when he catches Kai still looking at him with the same amount of focus that he puts into anticipating a ball he's planning to hit with a forehand. "Yeah, I'm– No, I'm not in the office anymore but I can call Minseok-hyung after this to let him know that–"

"Tomorrow, court number two," Kai whispers, pausing only to take a deep breath. Then he licks his lips, nodding a little as he adds, "Forecast says it might rain but ten in the morning should be safe."

Joonmyun lifts both eyebrows and tries to mouth something at Kai – what exactly, he isn't sure yet. All he knows is that Kai had given him a time and a place and the assurance that Joonmyun won't have to bring an umbrella at ten in the morning, and that there's only one way to piece all those bits of information together but he isn't sure if Kai had intended him to solve the puzzle at all. And that Kai is turning on his heel to leave now, adjusting the straps of his backpack before going on his way but still looking over his shoulder at the slightest, like he'd forgotten something there, at Joonmyun's feet.

"Yeah, I'll... be there," Joonmyun whispers into the receiver when Jongdae asks him if seven in the evening at Hongdae is good, when Kai snatches a glance at him in earnest before resuming in his steps, disappearing around the block. And he stares at the empty patch of space where Kai had been, replaying Kai's words in his head again and again. "I'll be there. I promise."

"Pork belly, eh?' Minseok comments, drumming his fingers on the table as the server sets plates in front of them. "Must be really important, then."

Jongdae offers a small smile even through the steam coming from slabs of pork that they're cooking. With the faint haze hanging between them, Joonmyun can only make out a few of the details on Jongdae's face – three red dots on his cheeks that mark the beginnings of pimples, then faint dark circles under his eyes. Lips curling up oh-so-slightly at the corners, but just enough to light a fire in his eyes on a Friday night in Hongdae. Years ago it wouldn't have been peculiar to be meeting here for pork belly, drinks, and a few laughs, but they're in their late thirties already. The last time they went out on a Friday night, then had dinner in one of the food stalls in Ehwa at seven then drove straight to Minseok's place as soon as they were done. They passed by a C U on their way and grabbed three bottles of soju and some beer, but never got to drinking because they were too engrossed in their marathon of I Can Hear Your Voice. Only when Seokjin came knocking on Minseok's door did they remember that they had alcohol in the fridge, that they were actually planning to drink and get drunk, but then it was already eleven in the evening. They were tired, weary, sleepy. They weren't in their prime anymore and their bodies felt at least five years older, what with work taking its toll on them. And Joonmyun felt perfectly warm with his head rested on Jongdae's chest and Jongdae's arms wrapped around him on the couch. No way in hell was he getting up just for soju. He needed a better motivation to slip out of his comfortable state, to pry himself from Jongdae's arms.

Girlfriend, Joonmyun remembers telling himself then. Jongdae had a girlfriend that time. So when Jongdae hummed against the crown of his hair, Joonmyun just breathed out, passed it off as them being too comfortable with each other. Too close, but never too intimate. Too good to be true.

"More like I'm hopeless and I'll be needing a lot of help because I can't keep putting this off," Jongdae mutters after a while. When the server returns with a bottle of soju and some Chilsung Cider, he gives her a weak smile. "I mean, I've been thinking about this for years and I got this huge 'eureka' moment a while back and I thought, why the hell have I been putting this off for the longest time?"

If you're about to come out to your friends and tell me that you've been harboring a secret crush on me for the longest time then I don't mind, a voice at the back of Joonmyun's mind says, but he doesn't listen to that. Sure, people get moments like those, flashes of realization blinding them but helping them see better soon after, but he's seen how Soonkyu has turned Jongdae from a good man into someone better, wiser, stronger. He's seen Jongdae look at Soonkyu, study the details of her face, the scars on her lips, the fine strands of her hair in a way that Jongdae hasn't looked at anyone, ever. And he knows better than to hold onto threads of his past knowing that they might snap if he pulls too hard or just give out on him without him knowing. So he only leans in in response, steals one can of the cider for himself, but makes sure to wipe the rim of the other two with a swipe of his thumb. "Moving clinics once and for all? Haven't you been planning to do that for, like, your entire life or something?"

"Nah, bigger," Jongdae whispers, ending with light laughter. He clasps his hands together and holds them up in front of him, elbows rested on the table. Minseok groans at that in an instant, sort of like Jongdae's a kid he's been training for years now but still won't learn. Jongdae only makes a small gesture to wave it off, though. "I'd give you the entire backstory, but basically, I woke up to a phone call from my mom saying Soonkyu'd picked her up to take her out for breakfast and on a spa date after that and whatever else because it's her birthday."

Minseok laughs a little, lips twisted in a weird combination of a smile and what could be a frown. Joonmyun can't tell yet. The smoke keeps getting in his eyes, keeping him from seeing clearly. "Don't tell me you forgot it was her birthday. That's a mortal sin–"

"No! I would never–" Jongdae groans, the corners of his lips pulling down, and then Minseok's widening his eyes at him, giving him a stern and focused look. Joonmyun isn't sure if he wants to know why, but from the sudden jerk of Minseok's body just beside him, he's pretty positive Jongdae's either knocked his foot into Minseok's knee or wherever else he can fit himself in. Jongdae does that a lot – squints hard to look for the smallest crack in someone's walls and carves himself a home there. "Do you even know me?"

Joonmyun snorts. Jongdae has too many masks and shields and Joonmyun knows he only needs to ask Jongdae nicely if he wants Jongdae to peel them off, put them down, but they're in their thirties now. They're much older than the juveniles they used to be. They should be wiser. And he should know better than to want to study Jongdae with only a hitch of a breath between them and hope for him to not get that insane urge to lean over for a touch less impersonal than that of a teammate's, a friend's. Much more intimate than Joonmyun and Jongdae but not so much for JoonmyunandJongdae to come tumbling from his lips in a mess of syllables.

"Anyway, as I was saying–" Jongdae takes a deep breath, then, clenching and unclenching his fists before letting that bubble of nervousness burst as he waves his hands in front of him in aimless motions. He almost knocks over one of the empty plastic glasses, but Minseok manages to pull that closer to the safe side of the table. Between them, the pork sizzles again, a stream of smoke painting Jongdae in a hazy glow. Joonmyun blinks a few times, then, adjusting. Recalibrating. The wisps of white sort of soften the hard edges of Jongdae's jaw, sort of lift the fatigue in Jongdae's features, lightening the dark circles under his eyes and coaxing the corners of his mouth to curl up into the smallest, faintest smile. "I mean, I just realized that time that shit, this girl actually loves my mother like she's her own. And–" And Jongdae shakes his head then he's laughing, lips parting into a lopsided grin, eyebrows furrowing just a little like he can't believe he's putting the pieces of the puzzle together only now. Like he can't believe it's taken him ages to realize that the same person who'd pulled him out of his medical slump after having to witness one of his patients die is the same person who's willing to not just love him for who he is, but also to care for his mother like the same blood's coursing through their veins. Like they're family, whispers a voice at the back of Joonmyun's mind.

"And you can't find a girl like that so easily," Jongdae continues after a while, pausing to thread his fingers through his hair. "You don't just– You don't meet someone like that more than once in your lifetime. You don't– You don't even know if they exist until that magical thing happens! That's the type of person you should be looking for, fighting for. But instead, she found me."

Joonmyun lifts his eyebrows, then breathes out in a low exhale. He stays still, listening for Jongdae's light laughter, for the hiccups in Jongdae's breathing. Listens as Jongdae adds, "This'll sound really cheesy but man, that, alone, should've been a sign, when I met her during those shitty times. She was the only one who was crazy enough to–"

"–ask you out," Minseok comments.

"–approach me while you two were busy hitting balls somewhere in– Where was that again? Indian Wells? Or was it in Flushing meadows?"

Around the world, Joonmyun corrects at the back of his mind, but now is not the time for them to dig up the past and lather that all over Jongdae's present. So Joonmyun answers, "Everywhere. But anyway, she asked you out because you were too chicken to make the first move even if you've been crushing on her since freshman year in uni."

"It was an study date disguised as an ice cream date, okay. Thursday is Ice Cream Day," Jondgae argues. He narrows his eyes at Joonmyun, but doesn't do anything else other than to keep their gazes linked there, through that thin fiber of their past hanging feebly between them. Time to replace that lone thread with new strings, Joonmyun muses as he keeps digging his nails into his skin where they're curled up into loose fists on his thighs. New and stronger strings. There's nothing tying them back to the past anymore. Jongdae's moving on now; shouldn't Joonmyun be doing himself a favor by looking the other way? "But... yeah. Everything's just better when she's around. Jongdeok-hyung and I were never close until she made us pair up to play laser tag against her and her friend. Umma's happier– She hasn't been sad for... a while now because Soonkyu keeps finding ways to keep her busy."

"And amused. And happy," Minseok adds at one point, then looks up to meet Jongdae in the eye. From a corner of his eye, he can see Minseok's cheeks pulling up, tugging at the corners of Minseok's mouth in accord. Then Minseok's reaching out – maybe to pinch Jongdae or to ruffle Jongdae's hair, but there's no telling yet what Minseok's planning to do with the smoke from the food blurring Joonmyun's vision a little– "Ah shit, wait. We forgot about the pork–"

More like, they chose to be distracted and now they're using the food and the smoke as an excuse for getting knee-deep into a conversation about their pasts. Nobody's calling anyone out on his shit, though, all of their eyes on the sizzling piece of pork that's fast turning a darker shade of brown on one side, so Joonmyun reaches for the tongs to turn over the slabs.

"So you're the pork, and part of you is already overcooked," he says, then peeks at Jongdae through his bangs. Or what would have been his bangs. He can't keep forgetting he had a portion of himself taken away when he left Sogang University's campus that day. It's silly. "What's keeping the other side of the pork raw, then?"

"You're using pork parallelisms. Wow." Jongdae leans back a little, cocking an eyebrow at Joonmyun and shaking his head. Then he's scoffing. If years of friendship are anything to go by then Joonmyun can safely I.D. this as Jongdae's disbelieving look – disbelief at the situation, in himself and what he's been doing, in Joonmyun, all at the same time. "Should I be flattered?"

"It's just pork," Joonmyun mutters, finishing with a frown. He can feel his insides turning, can feel a nasty gash of acid line along his throat, down to his chest until it sinks at the pit of his stomach. "So," he rushes, then reaches for the kitchen scissors to start snipping at the long slab of pork. "Why is it still raw?"

Jongdae snorts and leans back against his seat. A loud gulp, then Joonmyun's looking up again, this time reaching for more garlic and onion, some chili and then a handful of kimchi, to toss the combination onto the grill pan. He can see the peculiar twitching of the corners of Jongdae's mouth, though, can see the light trembling of his lips. Even with the smoke catching on his eyes, making him squint at the sharp and stinging pain, he can still make out the way Jongdae parts his lips just so, breathing out in a low exhale.

Cut the strings, he hears a voice at the back of his mind say. Cut them or let go–

"Because I'm scared?" Jongdae admits after a while, voice dropping to a whisper, faint laughter. "Yeah, yeah, call me weird and all but– Okay, so want to spend the rest of your life with this woman you never thought you'd meet but what if – and don't call me a negatron or anything because it is possible – what if she... can't see us spending the future together just yet? What if she's actually thinking of breaking it off with me? What if I screw up the... proposal... thing and just ruin everything?"

Joonmyun lifts one of the tiny slabs of pork for a while, checking the paler side for any traces of the burnt flesh the meat had left on the grill. He finds nothing but a nice, even sheet of brown, warm enough to breathe some life into the meat but not enough to turn it from raw to overcooked. The product of waiting for just the right amount of time, he tells himself, neither getting impatient nor enduring the itch of the wait for too long. Waiting, not stalling things out. Waiting, not watching opportunity walk away in the most leisurely pace. And maybe now Jongdae feels as if the flame's been turned up too high and the heat of his emotions is prickling his skin, making him shiver all over. Maybe Jongdae's not accustomed to the sudden burst of flames when he's been accustomed to a slow burn, a gradual simmer his entire life.

It will sting, but it won't kill you, Joonmyun whispers at the back of his mind. Etches the words on his skin, as well, as he repeats those lines in his head again and again. He turns the fire down a little, then, and rests the tongs on his empty plate for a while as he says, "That's the thing: you'll never know unless you try."

Jondgae widens his and sits up, slow and sure, spine snapping straight as he pulls his shoulders back. Joonmyun can see it, the questions scrawled on the slope of Jongdae's neck when Jongdae tilts his head to the side, the faint 'huh' threatening to spill from his slightly parted lips. The beginnings of light laughter in the way Jongdae's cheeks tremble for a quick second before he presses his lips together in a thin, thin line.

"Didn't think I'd hear that from you," Jongdae mutters after a while, then lets out a soft snort. He rubs the underside of his nose, then shakes his head as he adds, "Again, at least. When was the last time you–" Jongdae makes the ugliest noise that sounds a lot like a hybrid of a scoff and a snort. And judgment. Joonmyun can pick that out from all the sounds that Jongdae makes. Not that he's spent time studying Jongdae's voice. He hasn't. Jondgae just speaks a lot, that's all. "–that time she gave you a box of Pepero for... Valentines', was it? And you didn't know what to say so you told her–"

Thank you. For the Pepero and the affection. And I can't return your feelings but please know that it's not you; it's just how I am. Joonmyun cringes at the memory, at the way he'd turned Sunyoung down like he was ripping apart a good offer from a big name employer, tearing the sheet apart only to gather the little pieces of paper in his hands and hand them over to Sunyoung to piece together. He didn't realize what he'd done until two days after, feeling the rapid change in their doubles dynamics. Sunyoung was reaching for shots much closer to the net and leaving the back open like she didn't care if the ball would be called out – she just wanted to get the match done an over with. Granted, they were university students then and they weren't playing for a grand slam doubles title or prize money, but, "What the hell is wrong with you? This is– We have a scholarship on the line and recruiters are gonna show up tomorrow and we keep messing everything up–"

If he were in Sunyoung's position that time, he would have slapped himself in the face. It isn't easy to just shrug sadness off. It's easy to pretend, yes, but it's difficult trying to convince everybody, including yourself, that you're alright. So he said nothing more and took a step back, keeping his eyes on the back of Sunyoung's head while fumbling with the hem of his shirt. "Right. Sorry. Should've acted more professional–" Then Sunyoung was letting out a battle cry, stretching her arms overhead, twisting her torso. Meeting Joonmyun's gaze with a familiar light in her eyes that Joonmyun had always used as a beacon whenever they were down by a set, 4-5 in the second set. Whenever he felt like giving up. "So, same old tactic?" Sunyoung asked, then, and walked closer to where Joonmyun was, stopping within two feet of him. All of a sudden he felt like they could win, stage a comeback, push themselves to the limit and emerge as the winner. "You're still covering the baseline or do you want us to switch things up a little?"

"Nah, I'm good with this," Joonmyun recalls saying in response. Then he walked back to his side of their half court, eager to catch up, to win with Sunyoung. "Let's wrap this up in thirty?"

Sunyoung snorted then. It was loud enough to startle even herself, loud enough for Joonmyun to hear through the violent thumping in his chest and the thrumming at the back of his ears.

"Let's show them how real doubles is done."

"Shut up. That's all in the past," Joonmyun groans now, narrowing his eyes at Jongdae. He can feel the sharp pang of pain crawling up his nape, though, wrapping around his neck and making him shiver. Reminding him of where he is and what could have been if he'd accepted that box of Pepero from Sunyoung, or pulled Jongdae too close for comfort one of those times when the urge was too strong, or threw all caution to the wind and leaned in for a kiss. He cracks his neck, then, trying to ease the tension that has settled on his shoulders before looking up to meet Jongdae in the eye. But then the sight of Jongdae sticking out his tongue – in response or maybe in retaliation, a punishment? – greets him, jumps out at him and makes the muscles in his thighs jerk. Thirty years of age and Jongdae still hasn't lost that wonder in him, like he hasn’t gone through as much shit as Joonmyun has. Half of Joonmyun is jealous; the other half, he muses as he sucks in a violent breath, a bit enthralled.

"As I was saying–" He pauses, clearing his throat, then checks the pork on the grill another time. A deeper shade of brown now, but there are still some portions that aren't as cooked yet. He keeps the slabs on the grill, then, gathering the semi-cooked pork close to his side of the pan and just letting Jongdae add more meat. "It's worth a shot. I mean, no woman would stay with a man she'd never imagined her future with for, what, a century?"

"Just a decade," Jongdae murmurs, dropping his gaze to the meat cooking in front of them. A light flush crawls up his cheeks, painting them a nice, soft pink. Joonmyun breathes out a sigh, takes the cooked meat and transfers them to a clean plate, away from the heat and from harm. He keeps his eyes on the thin wires on the grill, on the burning coal underneath. He doesn't look up. "Don't exaggerate."

"Felt like a millennium, not gonna lie," Minseok adds after a while, then takes some of the kimchi Joonmyun had put in the grill earlier. "But I agree – just give it a shot. Besides, a guy like you's a pretty good catch. I'd be more shocked if she said 'no'."

Jongdae laughs a little and shakes his head, but there's no mistaking the way the hard corners of his mouth have softened into something more relaxed, something more natural. Something more like the Jongdae Joonmyun has come to grow up with and not the man who’s planning to pop the big question to the woman he’d been so in love with for years. "You think so?"

Joonmyun risks a quick glance at Jongdae, the drops his gaze back to the fresh batch of meat. He arranges them on the grill in neat rows and says, "I know so."

The conversation dissolves into a few more minutes of indecision, of whether Jongdae should go all out, invite the whole community to dance with him and perform a flash mob for her because, you know her, she likes big surprises from time to time, or if he should go with something more inconspicuous, intimate. A series marathon at home – "None of your horror thrillers, Jongdae, please" – with some popcorn or nachos and some beer, then lots of cuddling and kissing in between. Falling asleep on the couch and waking Soonkyu up in the morning with a kiss and a lengthy speech about spending eternity like this, in each other’s arms but not with saliva flaunted on the corners of their mouth, then getting down on one knee even if the tiles of the floor are cold and Jongdae's tolerance for anything cold is as good as none. "I think we have a winner," Minseok comments when Jongdae laughs after a few tense minutes, when Jongdae finally leans back in his seat and whispers something about silly friends, silly visions of the future, scary feelings.

"You say 'silly' but you actually mean 'brilliant'!" Minseok calls out from over his shoulder now, voice soaring above the music in the restaurant and the collective noise of the people around them. Minseok is always guaranteed to be a bit more loose-lipped after two bottles of soju and some beer, but today he sounds a bit giddier than the usual. He'd put in more soju that beer in his somaek earlier, after all; he should be more than just buzzed by now. Maybe Joonmyun will even have to drag Minseok’s sorry ass to a cab and send him home. "And it's just scary at first! You'll get a hang of it after a while!"

"Says the guy who just started going out with Soojung!" Joonmyun calls out just before Minseok disappears behind the door to the comfort room.

Minseok cranes his neck and holds up both middle fingers, then blows a kiss in his direction. Then there it is, the beginnings of laughter in the way Jongdae cackles, in the way Jongdae snorts and coughs whatever he'd just taken but went down the wrong pipe. He beats his chest with loose fists. "Love you, too, hyung!"

The noise comes to a sizzle a few seconds after, broken only by Jongdae's little bubbles of coughs as he tries to ease the itchiness in his throat. "Here, take the last shot," Joonmyun says, then, pushing the little shot glass in Jongdae's direction. He can still make out traces of his lips there where Minseok had forced him to take a shot even if he'd just stuffed his mouth with samgyupsal. It's there, on the far side of the glass, the one facing Jondgae. Years ago, he probably would have gotten so nervous about the two of them forming some invisible connection by drinking from the same side of the glass, but a lot has changed from when they were university students, dashing from one class to another. A lot has changed in just a few hours, from when Jongdae called him up while he was still just a few meters away from the tennis courts in Sogang, Kai, the guy he'd called 'service offender' for three days straight, telling him tomorrow, ten in the morning. It won't rain, trust me. Or trust the weather forecast, at least. A lot has changed since then until now, where only the table Jongdae's setting the shot glass down on separates them. "Do you want me to get another bottle? We're not driving, right–"

"Do you think she'll like it?" Jongdae asks, then breathes out a loud exhale. He taps another beat on the table, erratic this time, without any hint of a pattern. Or maybe Joonmyun's just had a lot to drink. He can still make out the lines on Jongdae's forehead, the faint traces of moles on his cheeks, the cracks of flesh on Jongdae's lips. He hasn't lost the feeling in his fingers yet, but it feels as if there are liters upon liters of alcohol sloshing around in his head. And really, his control is good on most days, but then– "I mean... Isn't it too cheesy? What if she kicks me in the balls? What if she ends up hating me for waking her up? What if–" Jongdae's voice thins into faint laughter, more desperate than delighted. Less of the Jongdae Joonmyun has watched him become, and more of the kid who looked so lost during freshman orientation until he found that vacant seat beside Joonmyun and plopped down on it without preamble. Joonmyun gulps down hard. "What if I screw everything up?"

Joonmyun... takes a deep breath. Swallows down the words threatening to spill from his lips and keeps them at bay. He can’t just go blurting things out without thinking them through. He’s tired, buzzed, vulnerable. Jongdae is, too. He goes through a list of possible responses to Jongdae’s question, then – You've never screwed anything up; how can you possibly fuck up now? Or even, if you make a really huge mess out of this and she tells you, "Not now," will you really give up? When has failure ever stopped you from trying even harder the second, third time around, Kim Jongdae? When? There are a few more at the back of his mind, but it’s already almost midnight now and his head feels strangely light, his chest unbearably heavy. He's fast losing the feeling in his fingers and his cheeks feel too hot. And Jongdae's kicking him back to the surface, the tip of his shoe digging into the side of Joonmyun’s foot under the table, as if a reminder that Jongdae's waiting for an answer, that they're in a restaurant and not in one of those cubicles in the student library back during university days, hidden from the rest of the world, where they can just stare at each other and ask for nothing in return. As if a reminder that he shouldn't be reaching out and leaning in. And that the buzzing of Jongdae's phone on the table must be a notification for a message from Soonkyu.

He looks at his outstretched hand for a second. Then, figuring he's already halfway there and there's nothing wrong with a flash of fondness, he reaches out, pinches Jongdae's left cheek, then rubs slow circles on the reddening area. Never mind that the pulse in his thumbs might give him away, or that Minseok might return from his bathroom break any minute now – this isn't 'intimate'. This is safe. If he wanted 'intimate' then he would have cupped Jongdae's cheek, bit his bottom lip, brushed it against Jongdae’s own. He would have whispered into the thinning space between them, well, why the hell not, and pulled Jongdae close for a kiss.

"Then you'll just have to try again," Joonmyun says after a while, breathing out. Jongdae wrinkles his nose a little – at the sudden prickling sensation on his skin, maybe – and Joonmyun withdraws his hand at that, dropping it to the table between them. He laughs a little. "Isn't that one of your superpowers or something? Not giving up?"

Jongdae widens his eyes for a second, shock coaxing his lips to fall open into a small 'o'. For a moment, Joonmyun thinks Jongdae's going to laugh at him silly again, maybe even call him cheesy for the nth time, but Jongdae only shakes his head and kicks him in his ankle, his calf, that tender flesh just close to his knee. Hikes the tip of the shoe further up his leg and farther from the ground. Links their ankles there, as well, as Jongdae mutters, "And yours is being painfully corny. But, uh, thanks, hyung. Always." And they remain like that, in a messy tangle limbs, away from Minseok's curious gaze when Minseok returns from the comfort room and shielded from the rest of the world. Kept in secret under the table, just beneath the fresh batch of meat they're cooking on the heated surface turning from flesh to brown to black.

Joonmyun leans back in his seat and shuts his eyes. He shivers at the contact of his muscles against the cushions, at the way fatigue crawls up his nape again, for the nth time since he's roused from sleep, and prickles his skin. Eight in the morning isn't such a bad hour to be up and about, already parked in a lot close to Sogang University, but when you're in your late thirties and you were out drinking with your friends until three in the morning the day before, being hit by sunlight feels a lot like hell especially at the height of summer.

"You don't understand," Joonmyun groans as soon as Adam Levine starts singing on the radio about beautiful weekend mornings. He turns up the airconditioning, but part of him is convinced he meant to turn off the radio. He doesn't reach out another time to 'make Adam Levine stop singing', though, just lets the band play a song for him and make him crave peaceful Saturday mornings spent lounging at home. After all, there's still a good two hours until he 'has' to be in the courts. He can still take a nap, rest up a bit and try to recharge himself. Tell himself again and again that he's not wearing his contact lenses today because his eyes feel like they're burning so he's stuck with his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

He snorts. He's long stopped wearing his glasses outside of home, but staying up late almost always guarantees his glasses some air time and exposure. The last time he risked wearing contacts after a night out, he ended up 'crying' during breakfast at Minseok's place. Opposite him, Soojung quickly rose to her feet and got him some tissues. Beside him, Jonghyun blinked a few times, asking in a soft, soft voice and an even softer graze of the thumb at the corner of his eye to wipe a tear away, "Do you need me to kiss the pain away?"

He jolts up in an instant, eyes flying wide open in accord. He can feel his heart doing these tiny jumps in his chest again, pounding against his ribs at every beat. Years after and the memory still haunts him like a fucking nightmare he can't wake up from. Years after and nothing much has changed.

Wrong, he tells himself as he tries to even out his breathing, as he sorts through whatever he can remember from last night's conversations past one in the morning. He recalls Jongdae bringing up the subject of Jonghyun dropping by his clinic the same afternoon and asking if Jongdae would like to be part of his team, if Jongdae wanted to work for him for the duration of the season. He recalls the way Jongdae had said then, "I mean realistically it's a good offer since, well, we're talking about big money here. Big money and reputation building because I think I'm pretty good at keeping athletes alive and healthy, yeah?" Jongdae snuck a glance at Joonmyun then, bumped his foot into Joonmyun's own, then trapped the tteok Joonmyun had just pierced with the toothpick. Joonmyun widened his eyes in response and tried to withdraw his hand, but Jongdae wrapped his fingers around Joonmyun's wrist and kept him there, sort of like he was saying, this is what you get for letting your guard down. You can't keep letting people see the holes in your play, Joonmyun. You can't just let them win–

"But yeah, I– I dunno." Jongdae scratches a line along the slope of his neck, then massaged his nape with his fingers. If it was autumn or winter then Joonmyun wouldn't have to endure the weird, clawing sensation at the pit of his stomach as Jongdae leaned into his own touch, the corners of his lips curling up in accord. But it's summer. And past midnight in summer either meant heavy rains or humid air and Jongdae without his usual coat, just stripped down to a simple white shirt that he often carried with him just in case. "I just– I can't imagine myself working for him, you get what I mean? I wanted to break his nose before, when you told me that the asshole said he was gonna take a break from the sport then suddenly ended up signing with another coach and a new doubles partner. Douchey move, I swear to God. Would've kicked him in the balls if I was his doubles partner–"

Nobody should ever be subjected to that pain, Joonmyun mused then, murmuring at the back of his mind. He could hear the alcohol sloshing in his brain, could hear the whispers of, but if Jonghyun ever apologized then you would've taken him back in, right? You would've said 'yes' without a second thought, wouldn't you?

"Seriously, just thinking about that makes me want to break his nose f'real. Or kick him in the balls," Jongdae continued. Joonmyun raised a finger, as if to add something, but Jongdae was quick to add even after he'd already taken too many shots of soju. "If he even has balls."

Minseok, looking up from where he'd taken the last piece of tteok, snorted and laughed a little. "He has worn out tennis balls," he added in between tiny bubbles of laughter. "Better get those replaced–"

And then Joonmyun was cracking up, scrunching his face, then cackling as he said, "Serving new balls!"

Joonmyun breathes out now in a low huff and turns the airconditioning down. So what if Jonghyun was planning to play tennis again shortly after he announced his retirement from the sport? So what if Jonghyun's loss in the 2015 Wimbledon Championships in the third round was probably a ploy to get sympathy from fellow players, the press, and the fans? Tennis is 50% luck and 50% skill; if destiny so decides to not shine brightly on Jonghyun then Jonghyun is bound to lose, no matter how well he plays. Jonghyun will be matched up against people in the legends division of the sport and taking a beating from them for being too relaxed, too complacent, too much of a douchebag even if Jonghyun, himself, believes otherwise.

"Stop thinking about him," Joonmyun tells himself one last time, then turns off the radio once and for all. If he wants to start things right his morning then he'll have to grab a cup of coffee for himself, look for a place where he can have a sumptuous meal. He has to start doing and stop just thinking.

He spends the next hour in a coffee shop about five minutes away from the train station. It's a small place, quiet enough for a cafe close to a university but still riddled with at least six, seven students at such an early hour. For a weekday, at least – he's pretty sure Soomdo is more packed during weekdays, with lines of students all hoping to grab a cup of coffee before going to class stretching past the doors of the cafe. He looks around him for a bit, taking in the details of the cafe – warm light all around him, making it less of a chore to open his eyes wide, big tables that look a lot like they've been stolen from a library at least three meters from each other. Different kinds of lights on either side of him – some lanterns to his right, then drop lights with cones resembling that of a desk lamp's to his left. It's almost as if Sogang had left some of itself in this cafe before heading off to where the campus is, providing students with an extension of the university but leaving out the stress that the Korean education system brings.

Joonmyun's first thought is wow, we didn't have this back when I was still in uni. His second, is that guy at the far end of the coffee shop the same guy who usually teams up with Kai during doubles matches? Insanely tall guy who should probably get a haircut because he looks like a fluffy dog with that hairstyle on him? Chanyeol, was that his name? And – Joonmyun squints, then gulps down hard as soon as he's able to see the details of the other man's features – is that Kai sitting opposite Chanyeol, laughing out loud but pressing the back of his hand to his mouth before turning to look in his direction and–

"Shit," Joonmyun mumbles, then looks straight in front of him, head titled away from the scene. He inches closer to the counter, then, and busies himself with scanning the menu for something something to eat, for anything that isn't the look of mild shock on Kai's face as Kai widened his eyes a little in recognition. It's not Joonmyun's intention to follow Kai around, really, but Soomdo's the only good cafe around and he won't settle for average coffee when he already knows the perks of always getting his Americano long shot instead of the normal espresso pull. So really, if Kai ever decides to stand from his seat and question why 'this old man who watched him and his friends play tennis for three consecutive days' is here, in the same coffee shop as he is, before ten in the morning, their supposed meeting time, then Joonmyun can always say, "I did it for coffee and nothing else."

But soon, Kai's laughing again at the same time that Chanyeol does, one of them even slamming his palm down on the table. Joonmyun breathes out, then, into the cup of his hands, and tells the lady at the counter, "A long shot Americano, please. And one banana tart for here."

He stays closer to the glass windows of the cafe than to where Kai and Chanyeol are, slicing off a portion of his banana pie every three minutes. He sneaks a glance to his right from time to time, though, set to the rhythm of the sudden lilts in Kai's laughter. Not that he wants to stick close to the two and hear whatever they're talking about. He's here to eat and have coffee, not to know why Kai keeps widening his eyes at Chanyeol and waving his hands in front of him as if trying to wipe Chanyeol's existence off the planet for being the corniest hyung ever. He's here to sip his coffee in peace and in preparation for the long day ahead. He has a few things to do for work in the afternoon, and he'd promised to free up his schedule for Jongdae on the off-chance that Soonkyu turned down his friend and Jongdae needed someone to drink with. And he needs time to prepare for that.

Besides, in the past three days that he's been going to Sogang to watch Kai and Chanyeol play, to study Kai's serving stance and swinging motion and to figure out how it can be fixed, he's pretty sure he know more about them than he does some of the regulars who stay at the cafe he co-owns with Minseok. A few interesting things, like Kai's inability to share the same side of the court with anyone other than Chanyeol, like Kai's discomfort with hitting balls closer to the net than to half court. Like Kai's habit of tucking the stray strands of his hair behind his ears, adjusting his wrist bands, then bouncing the ball on the surface four times – no more, no less – before actually tossing the ball in the air to serve. Like the way Kai's features lighten up visibly at the end of every good rally, be it in their favor or their opponent's. Little things like those, Joonmyun muses. He arranges all those facts in a pattern easy enough to memorize that he can tell, just by the light jerking of Kai's right arm as he bounces the ball on the court, whether he's planning to aim his serve between the opponent's legs or away from his body, hoping to make the ball bounce outside of the court shortly after marking a spot on the opponent's service box a little over twelve meters away–

He takes a deep breath then shuts his eyes, setting his fork down on the empty plate as he does so. Only three days in and he's already catalogued Kai's quirks in his mind. Three days of craning his neck and squinting his eyes in the hope of seeing those four kids playing clearer but not getting seen, and he already has a list of Kai's habits listed somewhere at the back of his brain. It's almost as if he's creating a profile for an opponent in the upcoming U.S. Open, except he doesn't have a racket in his possession. And what player, in his right mind, would even attempt to stand on court without a racket in hand, without a chance to fight back? Who in his right mind would even want to head into a match knowing that, no matter what he does, he'll lose?

You're not playing anymore, he tells himself. You've long dropped the sport, remember? And yet here he is, taking one last sip of his coffee as soon as he sees Kai and Chanyeol walking past the doors of the cafe. Here he is, walking fast enough so he can catch up with the two but not too fast that Kai and Chanyeol will be able to see him. Here he is in the vicinity of Sogang University at a little past nine in the morning, already looking forward to a potentially great match from all four players, somehow wishing he was playing with them or at least closer to the court, calling the shots, winning the games and lifting that trophy up high the same way that he did when he finally clinched his first French Open title in 2003, making him the first Asian in a long, long time to earn a calendar grand slam, winning in all four championships since he earned his first title in 2002.

Only a quarter 'til ten in the morning and Kai and Chanyeol already hit the courts, warming up for the games to come. There aren't too many students in the campus this time, so Joonmyun stays closer to the courts than to the trees at the back, still careful not to be seen with the way he watches the two from just a corner of playing area. Chanyeol tests his service first, tossing a ball in the air and hitting it with the face of the racket at the back to land a clean flat serve on the other side of the court. Another toss of the ball and Chanyeol hits it from the outside this time instead of the back, and the ball goes speeding to the corner of the service box and away from Kai's body. There isn't much of a difference in the ball toss, Joonmyun notes, none that you'll see without squinting or even in the language of Chanyeol's body, but the ball moves further away from where Kai is on the second serve and sends Chanyeol lifting his arms up in victory. It would have been an easy ace if they Kai and Chanyeol were already keeping score. And Chanyeol's service would probably be the best in the juniors division if Chanyeol was playing on a professional level and not just competing with Kai to see who has the better service.

"Not bad," Joonmyun mumbles. He laughs a little when he sees Kai frowning at Chanyeol. "Not bad at all."

"Hyung, I said service practice, not, let's demonstrate to Jongin how easy it is for Chanyeol-hyung to do slice serves. Aish–" Kai complains after a while, balled fists rested on his hips and eyes narrowed at Chanyeol. Joonmyun furrows his eyebrows a little at that, leans back as he echoes the syllables for 'Jongin' and repeats that in his mind once, twice, thrice, again and again until it rings in his ears clearer than before. But then, he muses, Chanyeol and Baekhyun had called Jongin 'Kai' in all of the matches they've played in those few hours that Joonmyun spent watching four university students play tennis for fun and not for fame. Kyungsoo didn't speak much, but from time to time he'd call Kai something unintelligible that might have been 'Jongin'. Or a gurgle. Joonmyun isn't sure. Half the time, he was too busy studying the way Kai moved across the court, the way Kai swung his left arm and returned every cross-court forehand with motion of a liquid whip so sharp and strong that Baekhyun and Kyungsoo both had difficulty trying to return Kai's sharp forehands down the line.

"Aw, is Jonginnie mad–" Chanyeol begins, but soon holds up his hands when Kai – or Jongin, whatever his name is – motions to throw a ball in his direction. Conduct unbecoming of a sportsman, Joonmyun says to himself, but he knows better than to take seriously the ghost of a grin on Jongin's features. He knows better than to jump to conclusions about people he doesn't even know outside the courts. "Fine, fine. Service practice, it is. Hyung promises to not–"

"–show off," Jongin continues. He cocks an eyebrow at Chanyeol then smiles a little, a corner of his mouth tugged up more than the other. Then, clearing his throat, he continues, "Hyung promises not to show off until it's time to play against the tiny duo because he should conserve his energy for the real match."

Chanyeol snorts. Or at least that's what it sounds like from where Joonmyun is, meters away from the center of the action. He can see Chanyeol's shoulders giving these tiny jumps, sort of like Chanyeol is hiccuping on his own laughter instead of just breathing it out, letting it slip from his lips. He can see Chanyeol letting his cheeks tug all the way up until the smile is spilling onto his skin, slithering up the corners of his eyes. And he can see Jongin almost mirroring the look on Chanyeol's features, snorting and smiling just a little but not quite giving in yet, hands curled into loose fists as he cocks an eyebrow at Chanyeol. "What?"

"What if hyung does come through with his promise and doesn't show off," Chanyeol asks, humming just before he adds, "What's in it for hyung if he plays a bit more–"

"Defensively?" Jongin asks after a while, tilting his head to the side, like a kid asking, looking, waiting for answers. “Like he’s actually playing singles and not doubles?"

Chanyeol narrows his eyes at Jongin and frowns. Strong words, says a voice at the back of Joonmyun’s mind. He’s heard that somewhere before. Whether he’s already forgotten or he chose to forget, he can’t decide yet. But no matter, he tells himself. This little tirade between Jongin and Chanyeol is not his game to play. He’s just a spectator here, an observer, someone who has no right to be feeling as if his insides are turning at the sight of Jongin rolling his eyes but smiling, anyway. He’s meters away from where Jongin and Chanyeol are; he shouldn’t be getting hit by the weird, sinking sensation at the pic of his stomach.

He’s not even supposed to be here at all.

“Says the guy who plays doubles a la singles,” Chanyeol counters after a while, then sticks out his tongue when Jongin huffs. "Says the guy who hit me in the back before with his serve the first time we teamed up–"

Jongin parts his lips, widens his eyes, lunges forward. From where Joonmyun is, Jongin looks at if he's seconds away from really chucking that ball in Chanyeol's direction or even straight to Chanyeol's face. And Jongin's lips keep trembling, like he wants to say something but he's fucking scared to just blurt it out without a joke to use as a veil of security. You don't really have to pretend to joke around, Joonmyun wants to say, so what are you waiting for? You can't just drop your racket to the floor now that he's giving you a chance to close out the set with an ace. You can't just let him win. But he doesn't. All his life, he's been groomed to be this prim and proper guy who doesn't know how to poke his nose into other people's business even if he tried to. He was brought up to be the type of person who has respect for the things that matter – opinion, beliefs, private space. So instead, he bites the inside of his cheek, presses his chest closer to the wall he's been leaning against for a while now, and waits with bated breath.

"That was an accident, okay," Jongin grumbles now, bottom lip jutted out as he looks up at Chanyeol through the slits of his bangs. It's hilarious how small he looks right now with the way he's peeking from beneath his hair, back hunched a little, chin tucked. It's both hilarious and a bit weird seeing him just curl in on himself while he's still standing on the court instead of pulling his shoulders back so he can assess Chanyeol with a challenging gaze. It makes Joonmyun's insides turn a little. It's only been a few minutes since he's last had anything to eat but already it feels like his stomach is hollow and there's a stinging sensation there, clawing along the walls of his gut without a care in the world. "It's been years, hyung. Why won't you just let it go?"

"Because letting go is hard," Joonmyun says to himself, snorting. It's the type of thing you hear people in television series or in movies or even see in books. It's the type of thing he'd say when he's not the one wallowing in the pits of despair, otherwise he'd just be laughing a little and shaking his head, saying, Because letting go is for the weak. You have to fight for what you think is right. You can't give up yet.

It takes another ten minutes for the two other players to arrive, already decked in their tennis attire. Joonmyun takes a leap of faith, then, inching around three, four steps away from the wall and stands out in the open, without anything to shield himself from the eyes of the players below. It's his first time watching them like this, but then it's only his fourth day observing these four people play against each other on the same court – court number two, never anywhere else. By now he already knows that it takes Baekhyun the least amount time to get revved up for the upcoming match, and that Kyungsoo may not seem like he's taking games seriously but boy, do his shots hit like a truck. He already knows that Chanyeol's flexible enough a player that he can alternate between covering the baseline of the court and going for clean drop shots in front when he's really in the mood to fire one forehand winner after another in Baekhyun and Kyungsoo's side of the court. It's the same thing that gets him into trouble at times, because every so often he'd forget that they're playing doubles and he'd attempt to return shots that Jongin can reach without straining his limbs too much.

And then there's Jongin who hates moving close to the net, knowing that he's better when it comes to returning shots from the baseline. The net intimidates him, Joonmyun muses. The net sort of scares Jongin off, pushes him back and away from the ball and further back until he's falling flat on his ass on the ground. It's just there, sitting low on the court and waiting for the players on the court to make a mistake, and you think it's a laughable enemy but it isn, in fact, an unstoppable force. Joonmyun gets it, that weird air of intimidation that a piece of equipment can give. It feels silly at first, but everytime you drive the ball into the net by accident due to tossing the ball during service the wrong way or hitting the ball too late leaves scars painful enough to haunt you. The double fault that cost him his round four finish in the 2000 U.S. Open plagued him for a whole year, until he was able to power through the tournament the following year without committing any double faults. Some of the messy errors he'd made in the tiebreaker against Nicolas Mahut in the 2001 French Open quarterfinals kept flashing before his eyes when he had to go up against Mahut again in Wimbledon. He'd end up winning that one, but still – there are scars at the back of his eyelids from where he's watched himself potentially end his own career with his own two hands.

He takes a deep, shaky breath and blinks a few times. Two beats and then he's back, feeling the humid air blowing against his nape, sticking to his skin, making him shiver all over. It doesn't have to be about you all the time, he tells himself. You have to move on.

"Okay, okay! Time to play!" he hears Baekhyun say. Only then does he breathe out, loosening the tight knot in his chest and thawing out his now-cooling fingers. He watches as Baekhyun locks his arms in front of him, stretching out, as Kyungsoo slips right beside his doubles partner and rests his hands on Baekhyun’s shoulders. As Baekhyun leans into that common enough a touch like he knows what is to come – Kyungsoo pressing down on the tense muscles with his thumbs, then rubbing slow circles these where it hurts the most.

Joonmyun chokes on his own spit. Too familiar, he thinks – this scene looks was too familiar for him to not see flashes of a boy flashing a toothy grin in his direction, for him to not remember how the sound of his racket clashing with Jonghyun’s normally made him wince back then and even until now. Too familiar, in fact, that he sort of plays out the next few scenes in his head even before Kyungsoo can slide his hands down the sides of Baekhyun’s arms – Baekhyun looks over his shoulder to shoot Kyungsoo a sly smile, and Kyungsoo takes a step back before kicking Baekhyun in the calf. Baekhyun snickers, and the wicked grin on Baekhyun’s lips turns into something a bit more guarded but not any less wonderful. Take away the lip mole and make the soft angles of Baekhyun’s jaw rougher, and Joonmyun has Jonghyun looking at him, lips parted just so that hints of laughter spills from them. Look: I like it when you get all aggressive with shots like that but you can’t keep giving them one backhand drive after another. You can’t give your secret away–

Joonmyun’s body gives a tiny jerk and then he’s back, eyes blowing wide and then squinting on reflex when the sun shines a bit brighter than the usual. Then he’s hearing Baekhyun say, "Remember: no height jokes or else I will knee you in the balls, Park. Keep track of your own score. Don't hit the balls too hard, please, because at this rate, we'll have to chip in for a new set of–"

Joonmyun shifts his gaze away from Baekhyun, further to the back until he finds Jongin with his chin tilted up and his eyes… wandering. Sort of like he’d just been caught and he’s dying to cover up his tracks. He’ll need a lesson in not giving himself away so easily. And Joonmyun needs to get Jongin a teacher because no way in hell is he teaching Jongin that, especially not with a racket.

"I have a fresh batch in my bag. We can use some of those if we ever… run out of balls," Jongin says after a while. His cheeks are tugged up a little, a bit flushed, but then that might just be sunlight at work. That, and Joonmyun’s crappy eyesight when he’s hit too hard by sunshine without preamble. Still, he keeps his eyes on Jongin. After all, he knows he won't be seeing the same look for the next hour or two, until Jongin drops the ball to the court and reaches over, to the other side of the net, for a handshake with both Baekhyun and Kyungsoo. Compartmentalization – that’s one thing not ever player has, but has to develop. I don’t care if you’re having a bad day, Myun, he remembers his coach telling him before. I don’t care if you’ve only had an hour of rest, or if you’re nursing a heartache. The moment you walk into a court, you’re expected to concentrate on nothing else but having fun and winning. So you have to concentrate on that. Joonmyun-the-kid-who-can’t-eat-chicken-that-isn’t-filleted has nothing to do with Joonmyun-the-player-who-ended-Nole’s-winning-streak. Out there, you’re invincible. You can make anything happen. You are your own religion.

“You sure?” Chanyeol asks. He scratches the back of his head, then draws a lone finger down to trace the curve of his cheek. The image is blurry, but Joonmyun sees Jongin take a step back, then move back in front. “Won’t you need that for… service practice later or something?"

Jongin hovers. From where Joonmyun is, it’s difficult to gauge the distance between Jongin and Chanyeol, so he resorts to studying the way Jongin slowly, oh-so-slowly, inches away, one step back to Chanyeol taking two steps forward. Jongin’s lips are still parted, sort of like he’s hoping to say something, but he hasn’t said anything since, hasn’t even made a sound. And Joonmyun would fill in the words if he could, but then he’s not even supposed to be here. Sure, Jongin sort of invited him by telling him that they’ll have a game again today at ten in the morning, court number as always. Forecast says it might rain but ten in the morning should be safe. But that’s it. Jongin didn’t say, watch us again? Study me closer this time? Help me out when I’m in deep shit of all varieties, not only that of the tennis kind? Jongin just gave him a time and a place. There wasn’t even an assurance Jongin would be there. And he, Kim Joonmyun, chose to believe a kid he’s only ever seen play tennis to not stand him up and fuck around with him and his system.

“Nah, I’m good,” Jongin answers. His voice is faint, almost breathy, but Joonmyun catches it, anyway. It’s quiet enough in the campus that he hears even Baekhyun muttering, please be gentle on Jongin’s balls. Don’t squeeze too hard. Don’t make him cry. Quiet enough that he catches Kyungsoo’s faint laughter, or the first bolt of sound when Chanyeol’s shoes squeak against the court. Quiet enough that he hears Jongin saying let’s do this! but doesn’t quite read the movement of his lips.

Chanyeol hands Jongin three balls at once, and Jongin runs his thumb along the surface of each. A hitch of the breath and Jongin's dropping one ball to the ground while slipping the other in his pocket. And then Jongin stops dribbling, tosses the ball up straight up and pulls his left arm back, preparing to serve. For a second, Joonmyun’s worried about Jongin’s loose grip on his racket, about the bad angling of Jongin’s elbow, about the way Jongin’s body seems to be keeping, keeping, keeping him from producing a clean serve, but soon Jongin’s brushing all of Joonmyun’s worries away and kicking himself off the ground, setting himself in motion.

Joonmyun gulps down hard and balls his hands into tight, tight fists. And then silence dissolves into the steady, heavy thumping at the back of his elbows, his knees, his ears, in the hollow cavity of his chest. At the base of his throat reminding him that he’s alive, and that he’s forgotten to breathe.

Jongin and Chanyeol win by a slim margin in five tight sets, 6-4, 5-7, 3-6, 7-6(7), 7-6(12).

A very slim margin, because if everything Joonmyun saw through his narrowly squinted eyes at the height of summer was real then he's certain Baekhyun and Kyungsoo could have won the fourth set if Baekhyun just hadn't played so aggressively. Baekhyun was good at doing trick shots, at reaching for the most impossible of corner balls as long as he wasn't being shuffled to the back, but at the cost of energy, stamina. Kyungsoo was good at covering all of their bases, but have a teammate slowing down and the task of making sure that no ball called 'in' rushes past them balloons into also having to look after his teammate. Kyungsoo didn't seem to mind, simply shrugged off unforced errors and nodded at Baekhyun whenever Baekhyun muttered an apology, but the language of his body was enough to let Joonmyun know that he was tired. Maybe even already giving up, even if the power of his serves were saying otherwise. Joonmyun's first thought then was wow, these two may be reckless players who know nothing but to win, but they sure are good at convincing themselves that they can still keep going even with sore limbs and scarred egos.

But then Jongin and Chanyeol's synchronicity earlier was top-notch. Chanyeol stayed closer to the sides than to the center of the court, made sure that Jongin had enough room to move around so that Jongin wouldn't have to think twice about aiming a forehand cross-court shot to the corners or even smashing the ball just a few feet shy of the net. Jongin seemed more confident about his serves, as well, no longer switching grips and swinging motions halfway through ball-setting. It was a good day for them, and a bad one for Baekhyun and Kyungsoo. Shit like that happens from time to time. After all, tennis is 50% skill and 50% luck, with a dash of optimism to taste.

"We're going ahead," Kyungsoo says before walking ahead, sneaking a glance over his shoulder and nodding in Jongin and Chanyeol's direction. Baekhyun fast catches up, skipping steps until his shoulder bumps into Kyungsoo's own, and soon the two are inching closer to where Joonmyun is. For a moment, Joonmyun considers hiding behind the trees, pressing his back to the walls in the hope that the two will pass off a blurb of pink and khaki as something 'normal walls' have, or even running away, but then that will just make him dig an even deeper grave for himself. Besides, it's not as if what he's doing is wrong. Jongin... sort of invited him to watch the match. If Jongin didn't want him to be there then Jongin wouldn't have mentioned anything about matches at ten in the morning or given him the assurance of a weather forecast or even snuck one too many glances in his direction throughout the match.

"You're delusional," Joonmyun tells himself. Blind, because Jongin could have just been looking at the trees or looking aimlessly while trying to formulate a new strategy at the back of his mind. Also, stupid for not even thinking of bringing his sunglasses even with the knowledge that he'll be basking under the heat of the sun for at least an hour. He settles on just sitting on the sidewalk, then, and tries to look busy with his phone. The only game he has here is one of those games from years ago – Bejeweled, was it? Or Flappy Bird, the game that one of Seokjin's friends kept making lewd jokes about – that he hasn't played in a century. He pulls up the first thing he sees, then – the calendar application – and goes through his schedule for the day: finish signing last batch of papers for new coffeemaker by 2 p.m., prepare to take calls from Jongdae 3 p.m. onwards. Maybe he should go buy a care pack or something, stuff said pack with pink marshmallows and one of those pink gummy candies and pink socks because if Jongdae could paint the world pink then he would have already done so twice–

Hyung, can you have strawberry frappe delivered to Jongdae's place? Just in case, he texts Minseok. Minseok's reply comes in not too long after, just a simple k that Joonmyun knows is Minseok's way of saying, I'm busy with work and really, I know you can do that, yourself, but for the sake of your wounded heart then okay, I'll make the strawberry frappe of Jongdae's dreams for him.

Thanks, you're the best :D, Joonmyun types in response. He hits the send button as soon as he finishes typing, but he lets his thumbs hover the surface just in case he thinks of another pink thing that Jongdae might enjoy. Oooor strawberry cheesecake frappe? We did that before, right? And he liked that?

Show up at his doorstep in pink. Every
*everybody win
*EVERYBODY WINS sorry hit I can't type when my hands are full

Do you seriously think noona's going to turn him down? L O L

Joonmyun stares at his screen longer than he'd want to. The glare hits his eyes, makes him squint even more, and damn, he's never regretted not bringing his sunglasses with him this much. If he did then he'd have a much easier time typing a quick reply to Minseok. If he did then he'd have thought twice about answering the incoming call from Jongdae instead of letting muscle memory screw him over another time as he swipes his thumb from left to right. "Hey," he whispers into the receiver, nonetheless, shutting his eyes at the same time that he lets out a loud exhale. He allows himself to slouch against the warm, prickling sensation of the sunlight beating down on his skin. He shivers. "Yes, you're still alive and your dreams didn't eat you up and you're proposing to your long-time girlfriend in a few hours–"

He catches the sound of footsteps coming to a halt, and then resuming its pace down the walkway. He'd look up if the sun wasn't being rude, but as it is he can't even look at his screen without grimacing at the reflection of the sun on the display. It's probably just Baekhyun and Kyungsoo stopping for a while to see who the old guy sitting on the sidewalk is, anyway. If they ever walk up to him and ask what a man like him is doing in the university on a weekend, he can always reason that all universities are open to the public, anyway.

He scoffs a little. That one came in handy back when he was still in university, when traveling to a school twelve stations and two transfers away from his own was more tiring than exciting. The treat at the end of the journey almost always made the trip worth it, but he'd soon learn that he should have known better than to not question why Jonghyun never came over to his side of the city.

"You're gonna what? Oh come– Come on, don't be silly." Joonmyun scoffs, snorts, shakes his head. If Jongdae were right in front of him right now then he'd be reaching out to pinch Jongdae's nose, and only just. But then there are miles stretched between them, and the only thing that's keeping them so closely linked with each other is these thin fibers of the telephone lines. It's better this way, though, more for Joonmyun than for both of them. Jongdae doesn't have to know that, though. "Again: she'll love it. You've known her for ten years, right? And you know what she wants? So sit back, relax, take deep breaths and–"

"I didn't think you'd come," comes a voice from a few feet away. It sounds neither like Joonmyun's own nor even Jongdae's. Heck, it sounds nothing like anything he's heard before, but something about the gravel of the tone, something about the way the warm voice just wraps around his nape and makes him shiver a little tells him this should be familiar. That he's heard it more than once already so the sound can't and shouldn't be foreign to him. The sun hits him again, brighter, wilder, and this time he closes his eyes at the same time that he holds a hand up to save himself a little. Then the images start flashing right in front of him, carving figures at the back of his eyelids – a group of four students playing tennis in the courts meters away, looking as if they're having the time of their life but not quite forgetting that they still have a match to be won. The sound of their rubber shoes squeaking against the surface, reaching his ears now and making him shiver. It's a good shiver, though, the type that he associates with watching a rare southpaw, a left-handed player, swing his left arm back and hold his right hand up, the L of his thumb and index finger framing the approaching shot. It's the same type of shiver that he gets when he sees a player aim a nice, clean backhand straight to the corners, the same feeling that he gets when he hears the cheering of the crowd, every single person in the group chanting the player's name. All of a sudden, it feels like 2003 again when he won his first ever French Open championship title. He was the underdog coming into the match, the less-favored contender, and yet he was the one who brought home the title, the wonderful experience of having conquered the clay courts that proved to be a challenge even for the best of players, the satisfaction of finally, finally, finally getting what he wants after all the hard work he's put into being the best possible player that he can be.

The sunlight filtering down on him thins. For a moment, he considers breathing out, then looking up at the same time that he leans back against the wall, but soon he's met with a familiar pair of eyes, a curl of the lip that he's been studying for a while now but still finds difficult to understand in full. His eyes still hurt from when sunlight almost blinded him, during one of those long rallies where Jongin and Chanyeol emerged the winner, but he doesn't have to squint anymore to see better now. He knows this is Jongin, or Kai, or whatever his name is because Chanyeol'd just called him 'Golden Boy earlier, the same person who'd told him that ten in the morning on a Saturday was probably a good idea to drop by Sogang University to watch four boys playing against each other and against themselves on a tennis court.

"Hi," Joonmyun whispers now, breathing out into the receiver. On the other end of the line, he can hear Jongdae's muffled gurgles, probably wanting to ask if Joonmyun had even been listening all this time, so Joonmyun answer, "Trust me, she won't turn you down. If she does–"

"Be prepared to drink with me. Or just marathon all of Julia Roberts' movies," Jongdae mumbles. He sniffles. Joonmyun laughs a little at that, but he keeps his eyes on Jongin, still. "I'll pay for the pizza, don't worry. You're... allergic to pineapple, right?"

Joonmyun takes a deep breath. Years ago, he would've flipped out in his mind, maybe even let out the weirdest, ugliest gurgle, but Jongdae's about to get engaged in a few hours. And really, he should know better than to hang onto whatever sliver of red thread there once was between the two of them. It's still there, lost among the white strings, carefully hidden beneath all the bright white, but that's the point – it’s just there. If Jongdae ever wanted to pull Joonmyun closer then he would have tugged hard on that red strand a long time ago. And if Joonmyun wanted to make things happen, if he had enough courage to coax Jongdae to let those walls down, to give up and to give in, then he would have yanked the string a few times before drawing it closer to his body in one fluid motion.

That's the point, he tells himself. It's long over. No, they didn't even happen. He repeats that to himself a few more times, again and again until it's all that he can hear above the deafening white noise. Move on and let go. So he reassures Jongdae one last time with a few soft whispers, then looks up at Jongin in earnest to address him with an apology. "I'm sorry, my friend was, uh... He just needed me for a bit–"

"I said, I didn't think you'd actually come," Jongin says another time, syllables more drawn out now like he's still trying to piece things together – the ridiculous match, winning in five tight sets, how Chanyeol almost lifted him off the ground and twirled him in endless circles. Joonmyun showing up, staying, and talking to him at such a proximity, nothing more than six inches between them, keeping them apart. "Thanks. For taking time out to... watch our match. It means a lot to m– To us.”

Joonmyun takes a deep breath. "Those were some really great games. Gripping, even," he says after a while, when he feel the tension in his throat ease. He can still feel his thrumming pulse at the base, though, sort of keeping him from breathing easily and from feeling anything else but the prickling sensation on the inside. It sort of feels, tastes strange, the mix of blood and metal and something he can't quite place because it isn't anything he's felt in the recent past, but– He blinks a few times when Jongin shifts in his position right in front of him, shielding his eyes from the bright light. Part of him's relieved that he no longer has to deal with the sun, but a voice at the back of his mind keeps saying, So you think it was a good idea to keep the sun from shining so I can see you better? Is that it, Kai or Jongin or Golden Boy? Is that what you want? "Although the last set... I guess Baekhyun and Kyungsoo could've done better? Could've given you a more exciting end to the match?"

Jongin laughs. It's faint, barely there, sort of like Jongin'd just breathed it out in a fit of surprise. "Yeah. Baekhyun-hyung does that a lot. That's why he rarely ever wins five-setters," he says, then pauses to worry his bottom lip. "I mean, he's a good player, don't get me wrong, but he keeps pushing himself to reach impossible shots and he ends up wearing himself out and Kyungsoo-hyung sort of has to double-up on his efforts and that's just–"

Joonmyun bites a corner of his mouth. It's not the first time he's heard Jongin's voice but it is the first time that he's hearing the boy talk fast, words tumbling from his lips one after another like they've been sewn together in one fluid stroke. Like if he stops, he'll lose his momentum and it will take time for him to finds his words again. And maybe Jongin is like that, Joonmyun muses, because in all those days that he's watched Jongin play alongside his friends, Jongin has only ever spoken for around thirty minutes out of seven, eight long hours.

Not that he's been counting, or trying to commit to memory the way Jongin moves across the court, the way Jongin's muscles shift at the first bounce of the ball to the surface like every dull thud is a sign of bad things to come. He hasn't been arranging Jongin's habits in his head puzzle pieces slowly coming together – the way Jongin has to dribble the ball on the court three times before gripping the ball time, the way Jongin has to take a deep breath before giving the ball a tight squeeze and releasing it up into the air. The way Jongin draws his left arm back like an archer pulling at the string of his bow, ready to strike down the target in one deadly shot–

"–tiring. It's... tiring," Joonmyun finishes, breathing out in a loud exhale. He squeezes his balled fists until he can feel his nails digging into his skin, restoring the feeling in his fingers that he didn't even realize he'd lost. There's a dull ache in his cheeks, as well, for some strange reason. He shrugs that off and clears his throat, instead. "I mean, of course you'll have to look after your partner when you're playing doubles but your primary goal is to always, always, always–"

"Make things easier for your doubles partner?" Jongin tries.

Cute, Joonmyun muses. If Jongin isn't much taller than he is then he won't have any second thoughts reaching up to pinch Jongin's cheeks. And if they knew each other beyond the confines of the court then maybe, maybe he'd even press his palms to Jongin's cheeks to cup them and to make Jongin look at nothing, no one else but him.

"Pull off great plays that can get you out of tough situations, actually," Joonmyun continues after a while, voice dropping to faint laughter. He lets out a low huff, then says, "Your first responsibility as one half of a doubles team is to always be ready to clean up after your partner's blunders. Or to capitalize on the good points they've made. You don't... You're not supposed to pull each other down. There's–"

"–no other way but up," Jongin finishes. He licks his lips, slow and tentative, then sucks in his tongue halfway through. "I'm sorry, I keep interrupting. I–"

Joonmyun laughs – laughs, because he knows that quote from 2004, from that one interview of the Korean Olympic tennis team with Martina Hingis, their coach at that time. When they were asked what their plans were after winning the Summer Olympics, Hingis said, "Well, we've already won the Olympic gold for doubles and two silvers for two other tennis events. I guess we'll just have to improve that record to a landslide gold for the Koreans, right? I mean, once you're already at the top, at your prime, there's no other way but up. You keep aiming higher until you have to punch the sky."

"And then you'll find an entirely new world of possibilities," Joonmyun recalls Jonghyun saying then, as Jonghyun drummed his fingers on Joonmyun's thigh under the table. To the public eye, they were simply driven, motivated Koreans who knew nothing but to push themselves even harder by the minute, but beneath the pleats of the cloth draped over the table, covering half of their bodies and their secrets, they were just kids who wanted to retreat to their hotel room once and for all, order in food and drinks and hang that 'do not disturb' sign on their door knob because no one would ever want to walk in on two boys kissing.

He looks up, into Jongin's eyes and then dragging his gaze to where Jongin's jutting out his bottom lip. If he has to describe Jongin in two words, it would be 'painfully cute'. Alternatively, 'predictably unpredictable'. "It's fine, I swear. I know you kids get excited from time to time. It's normal. I'd be surprised if you weren't–" He scratches a line along the slope of his neck, then continues, "–if you weren't at least reeling from the good match. There are... certain points, certain games that stick with you in a good way.

Jongin parts his lips. He looks like he's second away from blurting out a retort, but instead he thins his lips into a straight line and puffs out his cheeks for a quick second. A blink and then it's gone, replaced instead with that neutral look he wears when he's about to serve – three bounces of the ball to the court, a tight squeeze on the ball, and then he releases it up in the air, hoping to aim a nice, clean serve to the other side of the court.

"Of course, you'd know," Jongin says after a while. Joonmyun leans back in an instant, furrowing his eyebrows, then, "I mean, of course you'd know how players feel right after a match. The... adrenaline rush and stuff, or a high of sorts that you come down from making great plays." He twists his mouth to the side this time, eyes shifting from the lock of their gazes down to the base of Joonmyun's throat and then to his feet. Or maybe Joonmyun's just making things up. Maybe he's just seeing things differently, what with some rays of the sun peering from the sides of Jongin's figure, setting Jongin aglow. His eyesight's been playing tricks with him more recently these days; most of the past is blurry but it's still there, familiar figures that have plagued him for days, months, years. "Or even just the thrill of playing, of running on court to chase great shots and–"

And the sun's washing Jongin out now, shining even brighter than before. Light spills from the corners and traces yellow lines along the curves of Jongin's cheeks, the slope of his neck, the tip of his collarbones, even spilling onto the corners of his mouth as he smiles, the corners of his mouth pulling up even more. And Jongin keeps talking about the match that was, how they had the match in the bag just three games into the fourth set, at that exact moment when he launched one ace after another to close out the game without even making Chanyeol move. It's only half past twelve in the afternoon and Joonmyun's self-scheduled deadline for weekend work isn't until two hours and a half after. And he has time. So he stays in his spot and listens even as the sunlight prickles his irises, gaze fixed on Jongin's own, laughing at the reflection he sees in Jongin's eyes – the way he looks so small beside Jongin, the way he keeps biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smiling too much, and the way a grin blooms on his lips when Jongin realizes that he's been talking for the past minute to a stranger who doesn't seem to mind this weird arrangement they've gotten themselves into. Not a single bit.

Joonmyun is running. Or at least that's what it feels like, because he can feel sweat trickling along the curve of his face, all the way down to nestle on the dip of his neck, to his collarbones. His chest feels tight and heavy, and this throat feels so dry. He can't even swallow his own spit without wincing a little, like he's trying to push something down his throat but the rest of his body is rebelling against him. And his legs are burning. He can feel a dull ache on the insides of his thighs, in his calves, wrapping around his ankles, can feel the thundering pulse on the back of his knees and his elbows, but for some reason the world around him isn't shifting, moving. It's still. Maybe he's been jogging in place, or maybe there's something wrong with his vision and it's fucking him up again. And if he has been running for a while now then he should at least get a better glimpse of the end of the road, the finish line he's long been working towards.

He gets none of those, though. Instead, he sees an expanse of blue, then white lines on either side of him. He lifts his gaze a little and finds more lines, each a few meters apart. Not intimidating, but a bit imposing. He shivers a little. Further up now, and he spots a net hanging low at the center, From where he is, he can see the breaks on the tape of the net, can see some of the strings of the net thinning. And seriously, he should be throwing a fit now because making players hold a match with equipment as worn out as this isn't right. It's almost a sign of disrespect to the fans and the spectators, to the players. It feels like a disrespect to the sport, itself.

A few more blinks, then a thick crowd of people comes to settle in the dome. It's pretty amazing seeing the seats get filled so fast, but part of him feels like running back to the waiting area because no way in hell is he playing in front of a crowd of thousands. He should be accustomed to being under the spotlight now, to being famous, but– He drops his gaze to his empty hands, to his rough jeans, to his bare feet. Feels the material of his shirt, as well, and frowns when he feels the soft cotton against the pads of his fingers. He’s never set foot on court without at least being in proper tennis attire, let alone without a racket in his hand. So he looks around, scans the place for – a familiar face, his tennis bag, maybe even some tennis officials in the area so he can ask if they've seen a red tennis bag lying around. If he squints hard then maybe he'll see Hingis somewhere, his coach, or maybe even Becker and McEnroe who have been trying to get him into their side of the playing field. Singles – they've been trying to get him to play singles instead of doubles, but then he can't just leave Jonghyun hanging. They still have a year in their contract left. He can't just–

He spots an official now, and all at once Hingis' figure starts to blur. "I think someone got my bag?" he begins, then, waving his hands in front of the official when he doesn't get a response. "He–llo? I said, I think someone got my bag. It's a Fila. Bright red bag with a gold tag. And there should be... at least five rackets in there? All Wilson, I don't really use anything–" The official's figure begins to blur, as well, and soon Joonmyun's left to chase after the last few wisps of what used to be the person right in front of him. “Hey, wait– What do you mean play's been suspended–"

He hears something a few feet away, just a faint noise that might just be crackles of light in the silence. It's grows a bit louder, though, like a light buzzing sound ringing in his ears and making him shiver all over. And he'd say it might be footsteps except it's one continuous drone. It isn't the dull 'thud' of the ball against the court during service and rallies, either. But then he isn't even in a tennis court, he muses as he looks around a second time, and then a third when his vision – no, when the scene around him starts to blur. And then everything's getting sucked into a blackhole – the people about to watch the match, the benches nearby, then the net. The ball boys and the linesmen, as well, hovering the entrance a few seconds, and then disappearing in the thick sheet of shadows in a loud ’thwack'. Soon, he's alone in the court, in the dome, on the safe side of doom, without an opponent or a racket or a ball to play with. So what's the point in staying? What's the point in hoping to understand things when he can see the blackhole getting even bigger, darker? What’s the point in hoping he can be saved if the blackhole’s fast approaching him now, like its finally spotted its prey and it’s ready to attack. He should just turn on his heel and leave now. He should shake off the weird sensation and just snap out of it–

Two beats, and then he's feeling a violent breath of life rip through his chest, assaulting his lungs. He blinks a few times, trying to shake off the heavy feeling at the back of his eyelids. He tries to refocus his vision. It takes longer than expected, though, the blotches of white turning into a thick expanse of light at the fifth blink. He starts feeling around him, then, gripping the sheets around him tight and–

Choikang Changmin stats screaming something about a girl being the light of the morning like a rising sun or something. He shivers when Choikang Changmin hits that high note, shuts his eyes again as the song slips into the last sequence of beats before the song things into silence. And then he pushes himself up on his arms, body propped against his limbs, before lifting his pillow and turning off the first alarm in a series of four.

He looks out of his window now, breathing out a little when he sees part of the city still mostly covered in a pale blue light. Sunrise shouldn't be until around seven, according to last night's forecast, but then everything that happened yesterday is already a blur. Everything that happened after one in the afternoon, at least. Part of him is convinced that staying under the sun fried his brain and the better half of his senses, because as soon as Chanyeol had appeared a few meters from where he was chatting with Jongin (for the most part, it was Jongin talking about the match and him giving non-commital grunts, soft laughter, and short comments from time to time as a response), he bit Jongin goodbye, mumbled something about having to work on 'stuff' and enjoying the match and you really shouldn't be dragging your left foot to the right for too long when you're doing a backhand–

"You think so?" Jongin had called out after him. He stopped in his tracks, risked a glance over his shoulder, and found Jongin with his head tilted to the side, lips parted into a small 'o'. He wanted to retrace his steps then, walk alongside Jongin, maybe get Jongin to talk more about that forehand drive straight to the corners of the court that he'd made that earned them their first service break in the fourth set, but he really did have work to do. He was fast losing time and his resolve to keep walking to where he'd parked his car earlier. He was seconds away from turning around again and facing Jongin to indulge him in whatever he wanted to find out. "I've... found that it sort of helps with my timing, though–"

Been there, done that. Trust me, Joonmyun was tempted to counter then, but instead he just gave Jongin a wave before resuming in his steps. He had mountains of work to attend to and his car complaining under the heat of the sun. He had his pulse hammering on the most tender parts of his body, reminding him that he'd forgotten to breathe again. And he had his heart racing in his chest for some weird reason that he wasn't sure if he wanted to figure out. So he kept walking, willing every fiber of his body to not look back even if Jongin was saying, "I'll try fixing that! Tell me what you think after the next session?"

"There won't be any," Joonmyun muttered under his breath. He could feel his chest tightening, could feel his throat going dry. He grimaced. Digging deep into his pocket, he fished for his phone and sent Minseok a quick text. Gonna be in the office until late tonight. Need to do lots of things. Take care of Jongdae? he typed in haste, the movement of his fingers timed with his quickening pace as he made his way to the parking lot. Sorry for the short notice but just remembered that I have a meeting tomorrow so probably not the best time to–

It's a Sunday, Joonmyun. Rest, came Minseok's reply. And that means resting from overthinking every single thing.

Joonmyun ran a thumb along the handle of his car door, then pulled it open. He slipped his keys in the ignition, then breathed out as he heard his car roar to life. On the radio, Jason Mraz was singing about the odd thing about falling in love, but Joonmyun couldn't be assed to turn it off anymore. It had been ages since he'd last felt the most insane urge to pick up a racket and show a rookie how to do a proper backhand, how to assume the right receiving stance, how to be conscious of your ball toss, how to know exactly where you want to hit the ball so you could execute that one serve you'd long been wanting to pull off.

It had been years since he last wanted to play.

He shakes his head now and gulps down hard, then stretches his arms overhead. There are more important things to attend to, like the tragic reality that he'll never be able to fall back into sleep after getting up from bed, or the reality that his stomach is already rumbling at such an early hour. That's what you get for making bad decisions, he hears a voice at the back of his mind say in a shrill voice. It makes him shiver. That's what you get for putting down your defenses, for giving yourself away.

It takes him another five minutes to figure out that he's too lazy to whip up anything for breakfast, so he resolves to stepping in the showers for a bath before leaving eat elsewhere. Somewhere closer to the office than home, preferably. These days, it's becoming more difficult to look for that one place that can fit both categories. Living in Hapjeong where the main office of the coffee shop he co-owns with Minseok is is close by has its perks, but at the same time it becomes a bit difficult to dissociate things in Hapjeong from work. He steps out of his building and already he feels like he has to get the gears of his mind working. A few more steps forward and his mind slips into autopilot, making a list of the things he has to accomplish for the day with every step he takes. And then once he gets settled into a coffee shop that isn't his, he just keeps thinking of ways to improve both this coffee shop and theirs–

"Stop," he mutters to himself this time, sputtering in his speech when warm water and soap suds catch on his bottom lip. Halfway through his thirties and still unable to control his own thoughts. Closer to forty now than thirty and he still can't tell when he's about to slip into this sickening state where he dissects every single thing that comes his way, be it a comment from Minseok that says, I'm not sure how you got these figures, Joonmyun. I'll take care of this or–maybe you can try fixing it tomorrow?, or a text message from Jongdae that reads, hey :3

He takes a sharp breath, then leans back a little. Right, Jongdae should be done with the proposal any minute now. He should be calling up either Joonmyun and Minseok and sharing the good news with them and–

"Stop," he tells himself again, holding that last note longer than the usual before tilting his head up. He's going to build a new life with Soonkyu now. You have to stop pulling him back to your blurry past. And you have to help yourself, Joonmyun. If you don't then no one else will. He focuses on the prickling sensation on his skin, then, and the way he feels his muscles loosen soon after, Focuses on the way warmth rolls down from his spine to the rest of his body until can feel his limbs again. The force of the water falling down on his face should help him keep himself in check. It should help wash away all the strange thoughts that he shouldn't be thinking of at such an early hour. He just has to do his part and try hard enough.

When he looks back in front and opens his eyes, he sees a different face, a different figure, hears a different voice at the back of his mind. And he shakes that thought off all too quickly when realization hits him like taking a flat serve to the gut, the fire in Jongin's eyes burning images at the back of his eyelids, an insatiable urge in the palms of his hands, and the desire to pick up a racket again and play.

Joonmyun keeps a list for almost everything – outfit options for a normal day in the office, a list of things he has to accomplish before the day ends. A comprehensive list of sweet coffee that he won't come within a three-foot radius of, and a list of peculiar coffee beans whose names he can't be bothered to pronounce even if he tried but do, in fact, yield a great brew. A list of both the good and the bad things that have happened to him through the day just so it can be easier for him to look past all the stress that work gives him and see the pot of gold (or coffee beans) at the end of the race. On a good day, he fills the 'good' column with at least five, but on most days he's lucky to get two items on that column that don't involve discovering new coffee blends and sipping the best coffee he's tasted in the past six, seven hours.

Today, on the list of good things: he's already crossed off everything on his to-do list and it's only four in the afternoon, and he's finally tasted one of those biscoff cookie-flavored macarons that Minseok often tells him about but never buys for him. And then there’s also Jongdae calling him up earlier to deliver the good news about his engagement ("She only hit me once, right before I could say will you–" "Kim Jongdae, if you say that one more time, I swear to God–”), and and then telling him that he was probably not going to be the best man.

"I'm sorry," Jongdae had said somewhere towards the end of their conversation. Joonmyun could hear the sincerity in Jongdae’s voice, in the way the volume dropped to just barely above a whisper to the way Jongdae still enunciated each and every syllable like they all mattered. And they did. "I wanted to make you my best man but I promised Lu Han I'd give that position to him because he was the one who... sort of pushed noona– Soonkyu and I to get even closer, you know what I mean? And he helped me with coming up with pick up lines and–"

Joonmyun snorted. He was halfway through swallowing the last few gulps of coffee and if he didn't have his mouth full with the miracle liquid then he would've choked on his drink already. Honest to God, if he was feeling worse than the usual then he wouldn't be giving a shit about this coffee at all, but it was one of those 'okay' days. He even felt like things could get better, somehow. That was a miracle that didn't happen everyday, ever since that incident years ago when he lost his chance at bringing home his first Olympic gold in singles. So he laughed into the receiver in response even before Jongdae could ask him about the snort, even before Jongdae could ask about the weird gurgling sound he'd made just a few seconds ago.

"It's fine, I swear. Don't worry about it." He gulped down hard, then took a deep breath before continuing, "But you do have to run your vows by me before you deliver them, okay? I mean, I trust you to know what you want to say but–"

"You feel bad about this, I just know it."

"Dude, I don't. Trust me." Joonmyun couldn't say, and I'm actually glad you wouldn't be making me go through the pain and agony of being so involved in wedding preparations so I'm telling you, it's alright. Thank you for taking into consideration my crazy schedule at work. Thank you for having a crazy friend like Lu Han who I'm sure will be able to take care of you better I will. Thank you for thinking of me. "I'm a shitty liar, you know that."

"The shittiest," Jongdae replied, laughing a little. Joonmyun took a deep breath at that, shut his eyes tight, clenched his fists. It would take a bit longer to develop a new knee-jerk reaction to this, but he'll get there. He's positive he will.

And then on the list of bad things, in no particular order: Seokjin just called a few minutes ago to remind him about their 'dinner date' at seven, "I'll pay as long as you take time out from your busy schedule to help me decide on cupcake flavors. Please?" There's a new proposal for new coffee mixes that Minseok won't touch on his desk because Minseok has a tendency of being too nitpicky when it comes to coffee that Joonmyun has to... weed out the bad ideas from the good to avoid seeing the look of disappointment on Minseok's face. And then, underlined thrice, he can't stop thinking about the way Jongin kept trying to toss the ball further to the left during the long match against Baekhyun and Kyungsoo on the opposite side of the court.

More like, he can't piece together the two realities, that Jongin has zero control over his ball toss when he's trying to go for something that isn't a flat serve and yet he's so good at aiming for the corners when working on his ground strokes, especially when he's using his forehand.

"Great control on the forehand, by the way, even if you're already hitting on the right side of the court," he'd commented last night, just before Chanyeol could catch up with Jongin. He could see the tuft of the man's hair, a bit flat compared to when Jongin and Chanyeol had just been practicing their service and their smashes. Must be from Chanyeol wearing a cap the entire duration of the match. "Though you'll want to add more spin to that if you want more control. Same goes with your service–"

Jongin scrunched his nose for a split second, then he was mumbling, "I know how to do it in theory, but–"

But the kid is hopeless, he tells himself now as he draws the bundle of papers for the proposal closer to his body, then grabs the first pencil he can reach. Jongin has talent, has muscles that can recognize the difference between the bounce of that of a fast ball versus a heavy one, has eyes that can see the holes in his opponent's plays, but that's it. Beyond the natural talent and instinct, he doesn't know how to put these gifts to good use. Sure, 80% of the time his shots graze the inside of the court, but that's not enough – what is power without accuracy and technique? What is talent without the skill to hone it to perfection? What is a beautiful form, footwork, and grace without understanding of the physics of the sport?

You're too engrossed with the technicalities of tennis, he recalls Jonghyun telling him one time. See, this is what keeps you second-guessing every damned thing. C'mon, Myun, have fun for once. Just relax, let your limbs do the thinking, then play. Don't– Don't calculate shot speed and all that shit. Just play. He'd only brushed Jonghyun off in response, only shrugged, then took a deep breath as he stared at the blisters on his palm. He went into his Olympic doubles final with hands that are better off resting than gripping a racket right, knowing that he might put himself in danger, but hey, that's not important anymore. At least they won. At least they made their country proud. And at least he got a chance to make history happen. He was set to receive treatment for his blisters and his aching calves and all was good; this was as good as his 'happily ever after' could get.

"Chill. It's not doing anything to you," he hears Minseok saying now, when he surfaces from his trance with eyes wide open. Minseok's head is tilted to the side, lips parted just so but tugged down, for the most part. It makes Joonmyun's insides turn a little, makes him taste blood and metal in his mouth, behind his teeth. If years of being friends are anything to go by then he knows that Minseok will give him a virtual kick in the balls for being so distracted during work hours any minute now. So he grips the pencil in his hand tighter, takes a deep breath, and holds it in when he feels the wild thumping in his chest, beats trickling to the back of his knees, his elbows, the base of his throat. "And you don't have to do that today. You just finished signing a thousand papers, Joonmyun; take a break."

But work, but friend obligations, but I need to keep myself busy because only then will I be able to not think of anything related to Jongdae. Only then will I be at peace. He says none of those. Instead, he takes a deep breath and gently unfurls his fingers from being curled into tight fists, dropping the pencil to his desk and not bothering with the faint doodle he accidentally draws on the clean sheet of paper.

"Seriously, though, banana walnut latte?" he groans when the silence becomes too thick, unbearable, when he feels a familiar shiver crawl up his nape and wrap around his neck. Minseok snorts in response, shakes his head, but doesn't tear his gaze from Joonmyun just yet. "Do you think this will work?"

"Anything can and will work if you try hard enough."

"Hyung," Joonmyun says now, catching the last sound between his teeth to buy time. "That was a serious question."

"And I gave you a serious answer. Do I look like the type who'd joke around?" Minseok scoffs this time and shakes his head, but the way he has a soft, easy grin on his lips softens the blow a little. It doesn't make Joonmyun's insides lurch as much, but it does make insides turn for a few quick seconds. Nothing too alarming; he's experienced worse. "You claim your tolerance for spicy food is shit but you can empty out an entire bottle of kimchi if you wanted to. You say you used to be shit at any athletic activity and look where you are now."

Joonmyun laughs a little and rolls his eyes. "Hyung, we're talking about coffee, not me."

"Are we, now?" Minseok hums. He presses his lips into a thin line, but soon a smile blooms at the corners of his mouth. Part of Joonmyun wants to shove his hands in Minseok's face, rearrange Minseok's features so Minseok can stop giving him that knowing look and making him feel like he's laid himself out in the open for extended periods of time, but then this is Minseok – Minseok who has seen him grow from a juniors player to a professional, Minseok who was one of the few people who knew when to call him out on his shit and when to let his little mistakes slide. Minseok who knows him better than he knows himself, the first person he saw when he woke up in the hospital feeling numb in his shoulders and fingers, the only one who had the courage to tell him that, "You... injured your shoulder. And your elbow, as well, but it's your shoulder that's mostly injured and you'll have to go through therapy for the next few months and–"

"You mean I won't be able to play–" Joonmyun recalls looking around then, recalls looking at either side of him like something isn't right, recalls feeling a biting pain in his right shoulder when he tried to push himself up so he could see the people around him. Jongdae had just arrived, Soonkyu in tow, and at the foot of his bed Soojung was curling her hands into tight fists. To his right was Federer, and if this were the year 2004 again then Jonghyun should be on his left– "–Are you saying I won't be able to play tennis for the next few months? But– But–"

"It's for the best," Federer said, then rested his hand on a patch on the bed where Joonmyun's hand was. "Now, if you show signs of improvement, then, well and good! But don't rush it. Nothing ever good comes out of rushing recovery. You'll only end up injuring yourself all the more–"

"Jesus, Joonmyun, snap out of it!" Minseok tells him now, waving his hands in front of him. Joonmyun looks up in an instant, at the same time that he takes a deep, sharp breath. He chokes on his own spit, though, coughing out when he feels something lodge in his throat and keep him from breathing easily. And he can hear Minseok laughing a little, nothing more than faint giggles, but for the most part Minseok's still looking at him with a focused gaze, careful and assessing. And Minseok has never been as calculating around him than he is on court. "Okay, that's it. You, my friend, are punching out early and calling it a day."

"But–"

"But you're done with work. But you have your boy to visit in Sogang and your kid to have dinner with somewhere. I dunno where Seokjin hangs out these days. He's busy with that new talent of his. Jimin? Yeah, I think that's the kid's name. Really cute." Minseok walks over to where Joonmyun is, slipping behind his chair and rubbing slow circles with his thumbs on Joonmyun's shoulders. "Now, if you don't get up and gather your things in the next five minutes then I'll be the one to dump all your stuff in a bag and take you home. Or to Sogang. Or wherever."

Sogang University, court number two. Get your details right, he almost blurts out. But he doesn't. He manages to save himself with a snort in lieu of giving Minseok a response, instead of saying that yes, dropping him off at the university would be ten times better than having to take the train to Daeheung station with a bunch of people at the height of summer. Thank you very much. He'd rather walk a few good minutes from the station to the school rather than to endure Minseok's endless teasing about him watching the university kid play a sport that he claims he's stopped loving seven years ago. "Fine, fine, I'm getting to it," he mutters, doing his best to sound like he's grumbling, but to no avail – his body's default reaction to all things Minseok is a heavy sigh and leaning his head on Minseok's shoulder. And he's a creature of habit. People like him take time to for new routines. People like him find it difficult to let go. "'Guess I'll hang out somewhere while waiting for Jin. He doesn't get off from work until 6:30, I think."

"Whatever, I'm sure he can," Minseok retorts, scoffing. He keeps a warm hand on the small of Joonmyun's back as Joonmyun gets back to his feet, but leans back against his chest. He gives Joonmyun's hair a quick ruffle, something Joonmyun only hums to in response. Joonmyun's always hated wearing wax and gel in his hair, anyway; Minseok's just doing him a favor. "He just wants to spend more time with his boy. I'm not kidding. I saw them this weekend in the courts and geez, if he isn't crushing on the kid, then–"

"Don't assume, hyung," Joonmyun says, voice lilting, then nudges Minseok in his side. When Minseok turns to him with narrowed eyes, he sticks out his tongue for the quickest second. "It's bad to assume."

"You'd know that well, alright," Minseok says, humming. He laughs a little when Joonmyun motions to pinch him in his side but ends up missing by a few centimeters when he pulls away. "Of course, you'd know."

So a little past four in the afternoon sees Joonmyun struggling with his parking spot, then, just a few blocks away from Sogang University. He'd have arrived sooner, but then he was sidetracked by a few calls from many different suppliers all offering new coffee machines at a lower price, and then some of their baristas running an experimental mix with him that involves too much caramel that dissolves into a nice, velvety vanilla flavor. Still, the trip is faster than he'd expected – it's been ages since he's last driven to this area, after all – the roads not as congested as they would be at six in the evening, but then it's not even the start of the rush hour yet. Part of him feels good that he decided to leave for his tennis appointment early, but part of him feels weird, maybe even uneasy, that he's out of the office with the sun still shining a bright yellow instead of orange.

"Aaand, there you go–" he mutters under his breath once he finds a perfect fit for his car in the lot. He's not exactly the worst at slotting his car in a good spot, but parallel parking has always been a bit of a challenge for him. He recalls reasoning with Minseok a few years back, "I mean, c'mon, you have to be at least a bit scared doing that, right? What if you accidentally ram into the car on both ends? What if– What if they try to get out of their spot and end up bumping into your car and–" And Minseok'd shaken his head in response. And Jongdae's rolled his eyes and breathed out in a heavy exhale. And Seokjin'd pointed out, after taking a loud gulp of his Chilsung Cider, "Look, hyung. You're just paranoid. You find it difficult to trust others. It's just a car, for God's sake. Stop overthinking every single thing."

And you have the nerve to call me hyung, he wanted to counted then, but there was an ounce of truth to it. Until now, even, when Joonmyun looks over his shoulder once, twice, thrice in an attempt to assure himself that nothing bad will happen to his car. It's in good hands. He takes a deep breath, then, and sneaks one last glance at his car before double-checking if it's been locked properly, then walks ahead, keeping his eyes on the characters for SOGANG UNIVERSITY gleaming under the light of the sun.

The trip from the parking lot to the university takes no more than five minutes. He catches a glimpse of Soomdo to his left, then a C U to his right. Greenery on either side of him a few more steps forward, then there should be another convenience store at the corner of the next block if he remembers correctly. Only five days after and he seems to have memorized the little details in the community already, the way the security guarding the gates stands with his body tilted to the left just a little, or the peculiar creaking of the hinges whenever the gates open to let vehicles in. The way his feet almost automatically take him to the tennis courts, except he'll always end up taking in the sight of the fire trees just opposite the courts before he turns to look to his right to focus–

He blinks a few times and pinches himself on the cheek to reel himself back to this moment. Trances – he has to stop slipping into those, has to outgrow that stupid habit of falling deep into the pit of his thoughts and struggling to stay afloat. He has to grow out of that skin and slip on a new suit, something better, more professional. Less of the uncertain athlete that he was when he walked out of that hospital wearing an arm brace and confidence dangling from the sleeves of his shirt, and more of Kim Joonmyun who now owns a coffee shop franchise that's seeing a rise in popularity among university students in the entirety of Seoul.

And yet here he is, kilometers away from the office and his house, craning his neck in an attempt to look for four familiar faces, familiar bodies that he has spent time studying at least an hour every day. Here he is for the fifth day in a row, curling his right hand into a loose fist when he sees Jongin tossing the ball into the air, just a bit more to the right than the usual, then pulls his left arm back, poised to hit his serve. Here he is now, wondering how Jongin is planning to swing his left arm forward because his stance is unreadable even if Joonmyun's supposed to have seen too many serving poses by now that he should be able to judge the type of ball coming his way in a blink of an eye.

"That's a slice," he murmurs, then brings his fingers close to his chin. The harsh light of the sun makes it a bit difficult to see clearly, to examine the sudden shift of Jongin's muscles as the face of his racket hits the ball, but there's no mistaking the way the ball takes a curve to the right as soon as it is released from the hold of the racket, then hits the service court just on the line before bouncing away from Baekhyun. That's a nice, sharp side spin there, one Jongin has been trying hard to achieve in the previous game that Joonmyun had watched. He recalls, all of a sudden, the way Jongin kept shaking his head at the missed service ace opportunities the day before, the way Jongin blew at his bangs before tossing the ball in the air straight up, no tricks and flairs, and went for a clean and heavy flat serve to the T of the service court so that he wouldn’t make any more errors in his second serve. And he recalls, as well, the way he found himself shaking his head whenever Jongin hit his balls to the net or out side, whenever he heard Jongin groaning even meters away from where he was.

But he can only marvel at the way Jongin hits another slice serve now, when the ball lands closer to Kyungsoo than to the lines serving as the boundaries for the service box. There are no machines to calculate serve speeds and Joonmyun only has his gut to trust, but he's about 70% sure that this serve is faster than the previous. Faster, heavier, more difficult to return because it's moving away from Kyungsoo's body as it bounces outside the court. "Holy–wow," he hears someone say, then, and he only laughs to himself when he sees Jongin widen his eyes, when he sees Jongin clutching his racket close to his chest as he adds, "Did I just– Is that actually–"

Joonmyun laughs again. A bit louder this time, because there are no students around him right now, no one just shoot him a curious or a judging glance whenever he gasps or curses under his breath or stomps a foot on the ground at unfortunate misses. And not only at Jongin's misplays – he feels his insides turn when he sees Kyungsoo almost slip as he approaches the net, feels something lodge in his throat when Baekhyun ends a great rally with an accidental loose grip and hits the ball to the tape of the net. Heck, he even balls his fists when Chanyeol comes too close to the ball and has to bend his wrist backwards just so he can return the shot at all. He knows it's painful. His body is aware of the pain, lives in the shadow of dull aches of the past. But that doesn't mean his limbs are no longer familiar with the feeling of relief, success, triumph over one's opponent and even oneself.

And then his body gives a tiny jerk, nothing too alarming that he only feels it as a light shiver prickling his nape. He lifts his gaze, then, a deep breath when he sees Jongin with his face tilted up, a grin pulling up at the corners of his lips. What the hell are you doing, he wants to ask Jongin, but soon Jongin's pressing his lips together, lifting his eyebrows, then tiptoeing on his feet as if the added distance can bridge these long meters between them faster.

Silly kid, he wants to say. Silly talented and focused kid. But then his throat feels too tight and heavy for a clumsy enunciation. So he takes a deep breath and nods – an exaggerated bob of the head – and tries his best to smile.

A small smile glimmers at a corner of Jongin's lips. Or maybe the sun's fucking with his vision again, poking holes of light on his irises and blinding him. It's been happening more recently – two suns colliding, washing out everything around him until all he can focus on is Jongin's blurry figure in the distance, a marker of a place familiar enough to be called home.

The real match begins around ten minutes after, on Baekhyun's signal and after Baekhyun complains, "Okay, enough with service practice. Jonginnie's getting too good at this already. He's gonna kick our sorry asses now with his serve!" Kyungsoo only laughs at that, but there's no mistaking the way Kyungsoo furrows his eyebrows as he assumes his place on court. There's no mistaking, as well, the way Jongin sort of flinches when Chanyeol reaches over to ruffle his hair and says, "Bring it home, golden kid."

"Stop calling me that," Jongin grumbles. From where Joonmyun is, he can see a corner of Jongin's mouth tugged up more than the other. "And it's not doubles if you're not playing with me."

Joonmyun snorts. Part of him is thankful for the lack of noise around him because then he's able to hear whatever the kids are saying on court, whatever is happening that his eyes can't make out without squinting hard, but part of him just want wants to gather a load of people so he can watch without having to feel that he's stalking a bunch of kids and eavesdropping. Then again, they're playing out in the open. What were they expecting, for people to just walk past them and not watch or even chance upon their conversations? Take the match if you want to keep everything private, Joonmyun wants to say. Get a fucking room if you want to dance around instead of playing–

Chanyeol laughs a little. He leans away from Jongin but keeps his fingers there, threaded in the strands of Jongin's hair, shielding the crown of Jongin's head from the sun. It almost looks intimate, if not for the way Jongin keeps shifting his gaze from where he's eye to eye with Chanyeol then to his feet and then back up. But soon, Jongin's leaning into the touch, just a gentle tilt of the head before he pulls away with a jerk of the body.

"I meant that in a generic sense, by the way," Jongin adds once Chanyeol has dropped his hand to his side. Chanyeol moves closer, tilting his head, and wow, Joonmyun muses. If Chanyeol ever feels like brushing his lips against Jongin's cheek then all he has to do is lean forward. He's bad at figuring out whether or not people like him even if they're already being obvious – Jongdae told him this before, when Sunyoung kept giving him gummy treats for no reason at all – but he's skilled at reading people, dissecting speech, figuring out the language of people's bodies. Years of playing tennis have taught him to know what the most subtle of eye twitches, or how to decipher the scratch of the nape, the twist of the mouth, the way a player bounces the ball on the court before throwing the ball up into the air, ready to serve. And just by looking at Chanyeol and Jongin right now, he already knows two things: that Chanyeol might just be a bit too fond of Jongin but he just doesn't know it yet. He has no clue about it at all.

"You mean to say I'm not your favorite doubles partner?" Chanyeol widens his eyes for a few seconds, then squints them at the same time that he lets out a loud gasp. It sounds more like a breathy sigh than anything else, but Chanyeol still hasn't lost that look in his features. Sort of like he's waiting how long Jongin can last without cracking up or fighting back with a brush of his knuckles on Chanyeol's cheek. He presses the back of his hand to his forehead, then, as he shakes head and mutters something about getting hurt by 'Jonginnie's sharp words', but he stays there anyway. Keeps jutting out his bottom lip like it will make a difference as he says, "You mean I'm not your favorite hyung?"

Jongin rolls his eyes, shakes his head, scoffs. On the other side of the court, Joonmyun sees Kyungsoo gesturing at Baekhyun, racket gripped tightly in his hand as he makes slicing motions as if saying, if he keeps delaying the game then I'm banning him from life. "You're my favorite when we're winning," Jongin answers after a while. He pulls away, then, taking a step back, then swings his racket back and forth as if pushing Chanyeol further away. "So if you want to get your fan back then win."

Chanyeol hovers for a second, lips parted and chest held up high like he wants to say more, then he's breathing out in a loud exhale. His shoulders slump forward. Joonmyun squints, trying to see better, but soon Chanyeol's pulling his shoulders back and tilting his head up high. And then Chanyeol's bouncing on the balls of his feet as he moves from side to side, already geared for battle. Never mind that Joonmyun can't see Chanyeol's face properly, that he can't tell whether Chanyeol is smiling as Chanyeol focuses on the movement of Baekhyun's body or if Chanyeol's biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from making a face during play – all that matters now is the way Chanyeol kicks on the ground as if in an effort to remind himself that if there's one thing he should be focusing on, it's this match and not whatever is going on in his head.

Don't assume, Joonmyun, it's bad to assume, he tells himself. He gulps down hard, then, and listens to the sound of rubber shoes squeaking against the surface, to the sound of cheers from either side of the court, to the thumping in his chest – heavy and loud.

It happens a few more times throughout the match, Joonmyun catching Jongin looking, stealing a glance at him. The first two or three times, Jongin craned his neck, looking over Chanyeol's shoulder until their gazes met and the hard edges of Jongin's mouth softened into a smile. The next three, Jongin made a couple of bad points, hit the ball out wide or just grazed the tape of the net, thus making the spin of the ball change. Other times, he swung his left arm too late or dragged his left foot over his right too long that he wasn't able to have the approaching shot hit the sweet spot of his racket for optimum power and control. Jongin kept his lips pressed into a thin, thin line then, kept shaking his head, but he bounced back quickly and was able to score the next three points for them. Sometimes, it took him longer, but at least Chanyeol was there to cover for him. Teamwork – the word echoed in Joonmyun's mind that time. That was teamwork at its prime.

Teamwork. He laughs now, then rolls over so that he's lying flat on his stomach. Half past twelve midnight and he's still having trouble sleeping through Jongin's loud cries of hyung, what the– put me down! in his ears. You'd think that two bottles of soju and some beer will help him find his sleep faster, easier, but no. Now, he's stuck with nothing but a burning sensation at the back of his eyelids and a dull ache in his ribs.

His phone gives off a shrill ring just a few inches away. It's almost one in the morning and he has every right to not pick it up, but then there's only one person who calls him past ten in the evening. And when said person calls, it's almost always urgent. The last time he has to take a call at eleven in the evening, Jongdae was stuck in a highway with a flat tire and no spares in his trunk.

"Sorry, I didn't know who else to call," Jongdae had said then. He worried his bottom lip, bit the inside of his cheek, fumbled with the hem of his shirt as Joonmyun carried his spare tire from his car to just a few inches shy of Jongdae's feet. From a corner of Joonmyun's eye, he could see Jongin parting his lips then pressing them thinly together again. That was Jongdae-speak for You know I hate being an inconvenience, hyung, but I'm really, really sorry. I'm sorry I had to be stupid and drive around without a spare. I'm sorry I had to call you at ass o' clock in the morning just to help get myself out of this mess. I'm sorry it had to be you.

"It's alright. Just buy me yummy coffee after this," Joonmyun'd replied, then. He bent his knees, crouching low, then tugged at a leg of Jongdae's skin-tight pants. "Well, don't just stand there. This is your car we're fixing, right?"

Jongdae widened his eyes, then nodded in Joonmyun's direction. Fucking wrong move, Joonmyun thought when Jongdae mimicked him, bending his knees until their knees touched and their arms were pressed so close together. It was also summer then, and it was nigh impossible to anything without at least sweating a bit. And Jongdae felt warm. "Right. Sorry. I'll just– Y'know what? I'll just take care of this, hyung. You go inside and rest. I'm good."

Thanks, Joonmyun muttered at the back of his mind. He pushed up, then, straightening out, and stepping well out of Jongdae's two-feet radius. "Cool."

"It's 1 a.m.," he tells no one in particular now, burying his face in his pillow even more. His phone rings a few more times, each a minute apart, but he maintains his resolve this time, shutting his eyes tight and focusing on the sound of tennis balls bouncing on the court, the squeak of the rubber shoes against the surface of the court, and the steady thumping of his heart in his chest, a rhythm easy enough to fall into step to that he soon finds himself drifting into a peaceful slumber.

The ache in his temples haunts him the whole day, though, on his way to work and even as he does his job. He'd have called in sick, but the new coffee mixes are pending approval and he knows that Minseok already has a lot on his plate. He may be an asshole on court, deliberately aiming shots that are impossible to return between the opponent's feet or sometimes just a few inches shy of them, but as soon as he drops the racket to the ground he's slips the 'good guy mask' back on. Minseok insists on calling it a mask; his friend claims he's a tiger disguised as a cute little cat. And he insists on getting his shit done as quickly as possible when Minseok narrows his eyes at him and tells him to go home.

"I promise to go home as soon as I finish imagining these drinks can be good in another lifetime," he mumbles as he goes through each item in the ingredient list, tapping his index finger on the paper as he tries to put the mix together in his head. Coffee in a blend that tastes 50% strawberry and 50% too-much-sugar shouldn't be too bad, but, "I don't think our goal is to get our customers giddy then make them crash thirty minutes after?"

Minseok snorts. He sets a mug of hot chocolate to Joonmyun's right, then makes space for himself on Joonmyun's table. It takes no more than a light upward push for him to find a comfortable spot, and soon he's tossing in some marshmallows and sprinkling... something that smells a lot like coffee. "So how do you plan to tear the idea apart nicely?"

"I'm nursing a headache," Joonmyun groans. "I don't know how to be nice when I'm sick. Besides, aren't you supposed to be the more 'charismatic' one between the two of us?"

Minseok rolls his eyes and gives Joonmyun's hair a light fluff, just enough to make Joonmyun shiver all over. "Bullshit. You have all the charm. The only people I've ever charmed are my family and you–"

Joonmyun widens his eyes in response and mouths me? as he shakes his head. He regrets it soon after, when Minseok pinches him on the cheek and ruffles his hair in earnest. "Hyung, headache. I'm serious. Do that one more time and I'll crap all over your name and unload your shit on the employees–"

"But I'm the more charismatic one, right?"

"Urgh, just shut up–" Joonmyun tries to jab Minseok in his side when he hears Minseok laughing, but all he ever ends up doing is resting his head on Minseok's thighs, breathing out long and deep, then closing his eyes.

They sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, Minseok playing with Joonmyun's hair and Joonmyun repeating a mantra in his head as he tries to calm down his active mind – Relax. You don't have to accomplish everything today. Take it easy. There's time. All of a sudden, it feels like 2008 again, after one of those therapy sessions where he'd made little progress yet Minseok still cheered him on, told him that healing takes time. And it will be hard, but you'll get there eventually. So don't rush it. Baby steps, Joonmyunnie, baby steps. And Minseok was right. In a few months, he'd be able to write properly again, do simple tasks like pushing Soojung in Minseok's direction and choking it up to a miscalculation of force. The same year, he was able to lift things again, move out of the old flat he once shared with Jonghyun and into his new house in Hapjeong that remains to be his home up to this day. He'd be able to swing a racket again, do the same old trick shots and aim for the corners with a forehand that according to Vijay Amritraj, renowned tennis player and commentator, was probably one of the best shots in the sport. He'd be able to serve again, do the American Twist that he so loves.

But he never played in the competitive scene after all the surgeries and the therapies. He'd pick up a racket and do some fun matches with Minseok, but as soon as someone offered to keep track of the scores, he'd shake his head and drop his racket to the ground. That was it, he thought, his days as a great tennis player were long gone. His reign was over. And he knows very well what happens to the fallen tennis greats who try to rise up the ranks again.

"Have you... ever considered playing again?" Minseok says after a while, breaking the thin sheet of silence hanging between them. Joonmyun looks up in an instant, wincing when he feels the pulse in his temples throb even harder, but he keeps his eyes on Minseok just the same. "As a distraction, I mean. I know you're pretty set on never playing competitively ever again."

Joonmyun snorts. "Good that you know," he mumbles, then sits up so he can see Minseok better. "And as a distraction? I don't know, hyung. It just– You know what happened. And you know what tennis did to me, so–" He shakes his head and laughs, but it comes out sounding like he's choking on his own spit. And his throat feels like he’d dragged barbed wires along the walls. It makes him wince a little. "It's– Tennis shouldn't even be an option."

Minseok shrugs. "Figured you'd say that, but eh. It was worth a shot," he mutters, kicking his feet in the air, but his lips are still curled up at the corners in that particular smile. Joonmyu winkles his nose at that, frowns, breathes out in a loud exhale because he's no stranger to this. The first time he saw Minseok wearing the same annoying grin, he ended up being paired off with someone he didn't know because Minseok wanted to play doubles with 'that cute girl who might just be the woman of my dreams'. Sure, he'd done Minseok a favor then and allowed his friend to get to know the pretty and skilled girl better, but at what expense? His sanity? Because he's sure as hell that the moment he and Jonghyun pulled off what had to be one of their greatest doubles stunts yet, he already knew that there was no breaking away from Jonghyun's hold, from Jonghyun's gravity. The moment he yelled yours! as he crouched low close to the net and then heard the squeak of Jonghyun's rubber shoes soon after, he knew that he was going to have a hard time getting rid of the sound of Jonghyun's laughter at the back of his mind.

So he says now, "What," even before Minseok can continue. Minseok lifts both of his eyebrows, twists his mouth to the side, but makes no move to speak. "I know you're going to say something. Spill."

Minseok chuckles. "I figured out a way to salvage the mix? How about we do away with the frappe syrup and use vanilla as the base, instead?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"Oh, do I?" Minseok asks, voice dropping to a hum. He sways a little from side to side as he leans back against his arms, then kicks at the air another time. "So you've still been visiting your kid, huh?"

Joonmyun breathes out in a loud exhale. It isn't so much a visit if he stays there for two hours, sometimes even two and a half, but he'd rather not go into the specifics of his 'Sogang Schedule'. "He's not my kid," he argues, biting the inside of his cheek before he can say more. But then it is true – Jongin is just a player with exceptional intuition when it comes to receiving shots and returning them. Jongin's just another one of those guys he's spotted from meters away, in the same way that he found Jimin in the public courts firing one speedy service after another and asked Jimin if he was interested in polishing his serves even more. If he wanted to learn how to balance power, control, and the speed in his serves so that he’d be able to score more points than sweat stains on his shirt from straining his body. Joonmyun hasn't even talked with Jongin outside of that one Saturday, a little past lunch time, when Jongin seemed to be dying to talk to someone about the technicalities of the match because Baekhyun and Kyungsoo were already much too tired to discuss and Chanyeol took too much time packing his things and needed to focus on just that. Heck, they're not even acquaintances! Joonmyun caught Jongin’s name in the wind by chance and Jongin keeps looking at him like he can recognize Joonmyun’s face from one of those matches around a decade back that was broadcasted around the world. That’s coincidence at work, and friendship requires a decision, action.

So Jongin's not his kid. Jongin's just a university students who happens to know how to properly hold a racket and swing it about. Jongin's just an ordinary guy.

"Your... talent, then."

Joonmyun snorts. "You make me sound like a recruiter," he mumbles, then leans back against his seat even more. "I can weed out the bad from the good, that's all. Everything else, I leave up to you and Jin."

Minseok tilts his head. He's furrowing his eyebrows now and pursing his lips, sort of like he's thinking what he should say next and thinking about it twice. Which is unusual for Minseok since they've been friends for a long, long time now that Joonmyun's positive they've both developed a vocabulary for each other. Minseok likes exchanges quick, short, punchy, so Joonmyun makes sure to respond as soon as he can form a coherent thought in his mind. (And these days, it's been taking him longer to string his words together.) Joonmyun's all about the set up leading to the topic, building a story from a single seed of an idea, so Minseok takes his time recounting events to Joonmyun even if it pains him sometimes because they're wasting precious seconds for the sake of better communication. And right now, whatever Minseok is trying to communicate goes straight to Joonmyun's stomach, making his insides turn. Half of him is curious as to what Minseok has to say; the other half, scared.

"Why have you been going to Sogang, then?" Minseok asks. He lets out a loud exhale. "Five days in a row, man. Five days. And it's not as if the place is –"

"It is," Joonmyun retorts. "It's just– It's not even ten stations away."

Minseok cackles. "Got you."

Joonmyun shuts his eyes tight. "Fuck."

The conversation dissolves into them trying to turn the crazy mixes their baristas have proposed into drinks that are good for human consumption. Minseok gets really into it about five minutes into trying to come up with a creative name for their 'cookies and coffee cream frappuccino' that doesn't involve 'Oreo' and 'espresso', but from time to time he'd fall silent, lean back against his arms and just stare. Joonmyun catches him a few times and holds his gaze, but for the most part Minseok doesn't say anything. If he ever wanted to bring up the subject of playing tennis again or at least trying to get 'untrained' enthusiasts to take the sport seriously, then he could have broken the thickening silence between them much earlier, before Joonmyun pushed himself away from his desk and get back up on his feet, ready to deliver the news to the baristas.

"Are you sure you want to push through with the cinnamon and nutmeg latte?" Joonmyun asks before turning on his heel, before inching closer to the door and slipping from the room. "I mean, it sounds good in theory but won't that be... a bit too much?"

Minseok laughs a little. From where Joonmyun is, Minseok looks like he's about to shake his head again and call Joonmyun a scaredy-cat with the way he has his lips pursed, but he doesn't. Instead, chuckles one last time, letting an easy smile surface on his lips and letting Joonmyun breathe.

"There's a reason why we're testing them first, Myun," Minseok begins, pausing only to gulp down hard and adjust the glasses perched on his nose. "We won't know unless we try."

On Joonmyun's tenth visit to Sogang University, he bumps into Jongin on his way to the courts.

Not that he's been counting. He'd just chanced upon his online timesheet earlier and found that he's been leaving the office before six in the evening at least nine times this month. Most of the time, he'd be heading to the university to check on 'his kids' – Minseok still insists to call them as such – but other times he'd go all the way to the vicinity of Hannam for cupcake consultations with Seokjin while he watched his friend train the kid he'd found playing in the street courts some five, six months ago. Sometimes, he won't leave the Hapjeong area at all and just head straight home after a tiring day, maybe even bring home some work from time to time. The point is, and he'll remind himself this time again, that he hasn't been keeping track of all his visits to the university. He gauges the time he spends craning his neck, straining his calves and thighs as he tiptoes to see better, by the amount of progress Jongin has made, by the difference between Jongin dragging his left over to the right side of his body before firing off a nice one-handed backhand and Jongin taking just one step from left to right with the same foot and then gripping the throat of his racket by his non-playing hand, now able to guide his racket forward better, easier.

Jongin'd stolen a glance at him that time, as well, looking over his shoulder, torso still twisted in that beautiful backhand form that Joonmyun has only ever seen in professional tennis very few times. They were playing in court number one that time and Joonmyun didn't have to squint hard to be able to make out that wicked grin tugging up at the corners of Jongin's mouth, spilling onto his cheeks. So he nodded in acknowledgement, freed his hands from where he had them dug in his pockets. Curled his fingers into a loose fist and lifted it to check level. He looked around for an audience then stuck out his thumb, then nodded again in lieu of the words Jongin wouldn't be able to hear again with all the distance between them, pulling them closer together, pushing them apart.

Joonmyun stutters in his steps now, leaning back a little and squinting to see Jongin better. It almost feels like the first time they talked to each other, really talked to each other using words and not just eye contact, a quirk of the lips, body language. It feels like that one fine Saturday except Jongin's covering the sun better now, shielding Joonmyun from its wrath but not from the glow it gives him. Jongin isn't shifting his gaze every so often anymore, instead looking straight into Joonmyun's eyes and not giving in to the temptation of staring at his feet.

And Jongin isn't saying anything, not making a sound beyond the beat he's tapping on the ground with his foot, when before he couldn't stop talking about the match that was, what he did well, what he could've done better. It's almost as if they both need something to hold onto – a match, a failed service, a well-executed backhand drop shot, anything related to tennis. But then Jongin isn't even in his tennis gear, instead decked in a plain orange shirt that's faded somewhere towards the sleeves and tattered jeans that have seen better days.

Joonmyun's first thought is 'cute'. His second, 'stop moving around because the sun is blinding me–'

"Uh, hi," Jongin begins, worrying his bottom lip a little before dropping his gaze to his feet. Joonmyun laughs a little at that, even shakes his head when Jongin makes a strange gurgling sound at the back of his throat like he's trying to push down words that he could be saying if he'd just come fresh from a match, slick with sweat, adrenaline singing through his veins. Days ago, Joonmyun probably would have been bothered to be on the receiving end of a university kid staring at him with a focused gaze and a peculiar kind of light in his eyes, but days of observation has taught him that Jongin doesn't know any other way to look at things, people. Jongin is the type who marvels at every single thing as if he's just discovered something new about the shoelaces that he's been wearing since forever. He's the type who'd let out a triumphant cry at each saved break point until he's able to close the game with a comeback from 0-40. He's the type of guy whose body would jerk at every bounce of the ball following a really tense rally even if he's the one serving the ball. (And then he'd laugh a little after that but not let it show because he has to serve; Joonmyun has seen Jongin mutter something like that at least three times now. Not that he's been watching the movement of Jongin's lips.)

Some nights, on the train back to Hapjeong, he wonders if Jongin has ever experienced anything so saddening, so heart-breaking that he'll cease to look at the world with so much wonder. And then he'll berate himself for that, sometimes even press his palm to his forehead and beat it against his fast-warming skin as he mutters to himself, don't lose your sense of wonder. Don't grow up too fast. Don't be like me.

"Hey," Joonmyun answers after a while, taking a deep breath as he summons the corners of his lips to curl up into a smile. Jongin hovers. It takes a few more seconds before Jongin sort of thaws out, blinking a number of times before inching away, taking a step back. Putting more space between them and allowing Joonmyun to breathe. He hasn't been counting. He's long stopped keeping track of numbers when he dropped his racket to the floor seven years ago. He's not about to look back. He squints when sunlight glares at him in earnest, then, but he doesn't pull away yet. These twelve inches between them are enough to let him gather his words again, the ones he's learned to push down his throat whenever he watches Jongin and the others play because there's too much distance between them, anyway, so what's the point in breathing out words and speaking up? "You're... here."

Jongin snorts. Laughs, then shakes his head before gulping down hard, Adam's apple bobbing in the column of his neck. "Well, I study here," he mutters in response. The corners of his mouth tug up almost automatically, but he still has his head hung low, tilted to the side, still has his shoulders slumped and back hunched for some weird reason Joonmyun can't seem to make sense of yet. "You, however–"

"I'm an alumni," Joonmyun argues even before he can think twice. He tries not to bite the inside of his cheek, tries not to give himself away, but he isn't able to keep himself from adding, “The J-looking building near the back gate? I had that built."

Jongin cocks an eyebrow at him this time. Half of him's convinced he's gotten even shittier at lying, but then that's not the type of skill he aims to be good at. Besides, it's not everyday that he needs to craft lies believable enough for Jongin to stop eyeing him with such a discerning gaze. Heck, he doesn't even need to explain why he's here. After all, the campus is open to everyone; who wouldn't want to give himself a tour of the campus ten times, discovering something new – in the surroundings, in the way Jongin swings his left arm back and holds his right up in front, bracketing his shots, in the way Jongin shifts in his position as soon as the ball is called in and looks over his shoulder in search of a familiar pair of eyes – at every turn of the head and hitch of the breath?

"Right. You had the Loyola Library erected. Cool." Jongin rubs the underside of his nose and tilts his head back a little, exposing a column of flesh, the tiny spots of rashes on his skin from... staying under the sun too much, from training too hard and resting too little? From craning his neck and titling his face in the direction of the sun all the time just so he'd meet Joonmyun's gaze meters away? Joonmyun can't tell. So he takes a deep breath, tucks his chin a little, looks away and rubs at his eyes to ease the burn of the sun at the back of his eyelids. "You were alive already in 1960?"

Joonmyun worries a corner of his mouth a little. He should've researched on Sogang's history before attempting to rewrite it and make himself an alumni of it. “Not that. I meant–“ He’s in trouble, that’s what he means, and will you please just stop questioning me– but then he digs an even deeper grave for himself when he continues, “I meant the other building. Much closer to the exit at the back."

“Oh. Xavier Hall, then? Wow.” Jongin nods in thought, slow and deliberate, then laughs a little. “1976, then? Just. Wow, I didn’t think you’d be that old."

Joonmyun swallows hard. If he leans back a bit more, he’ll be able to see the small smile on Jongin’s lips a bit more. And the way Jongin’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. Fuck history and facts, really. He's always been good at academics but he's long dropped his extensive knowledge on schools all around South Korea in favor of developing a memory bank of tennis matches he's gone through and players he'd gone up against. So maybe he should have just said the truth. Maybe he should have just said that, Hey, long time no see! You're not in your tennis gear but you have your tennis bag with you. And it looks like you have everything you need except your tennis uniform. So, would you recommend me to waste more time standing in front of you when you won't be playing, anyway, or would it be better for me to just leave? Jongin's well aware of his presence already, anyway. It's not as if they haven't been exchanging glances for the past ten days, not as if Jongin hasn't been giving him the prettiest smile when he nods in Jongin's direction at the end of a breath-taking rally. He's certain Jongin knows all too well that he devotes at least an hour to watching tennis matches played by a bunch of amateur aspirants but expert enthusiasts on court number two. Jongin probably knows by now that he doesn't fancy serves where Jongin pronates his arm to reach the ball sooner, to be able to add more spin to the ball, because he shakes his head and gives Jongin a thumbs down when the ball catches the net. And he's positive he looks nothing like the mysterious match observer that he's been for the past week and a half with the way that he's cocking an eyebrow at Jongin now, up, up, up, until he can feel the pulse on his left temple give a strong throb.

"Try harder, hyung. You'll always be a shitty liar–" He recalls Jongdae telling him one of those drunken nights after their last exam for the semester. Jongdae had his head rested on Joonmyun's lap then, and Joonmyun had his fingers tangled in Jongdae's hair. "Look: I know the whole 'I'm suddenly finding myself falling in love with the girl who's liked me for the longest time' is a thing in dramas, but seriously, you liking Sunyoung? That's like... you being good with directions or something. Or knowing how to read maps."

"Hey, I resent that," Joonmyun'd argued then but said nothing more, like if he ever did then he’d just screw things up and give himself away. Jongdae hummed a melody under his breath for a while, voice cracking every so often, and the next thing Joonmyun knew Jongdae was filling the four corner of their dorm room with his loud snores. So Joonmyun stayed there, slid his hand south to cup Jongdae's jaw with his warm palm, and breathed out as he traced the jut of Jongdae's bottom lip with his thumb. If he'd liked Sunyoung all this time then he wouldn't have thought of kissing Jongdae then, tasting beer and soju and dried laver in Jongdae's mouth. He wouldn’t have thought of memorizing the wicked contours of Jongdae's mouth, the slope of his neck, the curves of his body with his lips, wet and warm. He wouldn't have thought of breathing Jongdae in every single day of his life at all.

Stop, he tells himself this time, and tries to refocus his eyes on Jongin. Jongin looking at him with cocked eyebrows now, his mouth twisted to the side in one of those looks that Joonmyun hasn't seen yet. Not that he's seen Jongin up close enough times to know how Jongin quirks up his lips every single time, or enough times that that he’d already be able to make a catalogue of all things Jongin that aren't the way Jongin tosses a ball in the air, swings his arm, moves from one side of the court to another. He hasn't.

You're a fucking shitting liar, Kim Joonmyun, he hears a voice at the back of his mind say this time. It sounds a lot like him, except a bit younger. Maybe the twenty-something him who’d felt so torn between staying by his best friend’s side and becoming a doctor and grabbing that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and following a dream he never knew he wanted to turn into a reality. When will you ever learn?

He's just about to resurface with a retort when Jongin shakes his head and waves a hand between them. He feels his body give a tiny jerk, just enough to make his breath hitch and to make him taste a weird mix of blood and metal in his mouth. But from where? "Doesn't matter anymore," Jongin says after a while, pausing only to adjust the strap of his tennis bag slung on one shoulder. Spare rackets shouldn't be that heavy, though; maybe Jongin even has books there for school. Joonmyun will have to call him out on that, but not today. "The others won't be around to play. Senior school stuff," Jongin continues, then he's worrying his bottom lip, shifting in his position, scratching the slope of his neck with a nail as he looks at Joonmyun in the eye to ask, "Do you... want to come down to the courts or something?"

Joonmyun gulps hard. The last time he stepped inside a court has to be a week ago, one of those days when none of the four kids he'd been watching for days now showed up. But that was all that he did – he walked over to one of the service boxes and just stood there for a good five to ten minutes. He tried to imagine himself dashing from one side of the court to another, trying to reach for shots at the baseline because Jonghyun is shit when it comes to hitting from the back. Granted, Jonghyun isn't as bad as some players he knows, but still – Jonghyun's baseline play has always been subpar when watched alongside his net approaches, the drop shots in front, running from either side of their box to reach for shots from the opponent that can be easily mistaken as an unforced error but is, in fact, a good ball.

"It's okay if you don't want to," Jongin mumbles now. He rubs the underside of his nose before scrunching it, the creases on Jongin's face making him look like some eight-year-old who's disappointed that he can't get what he wants. "I mean, if you're more comfortable standing there while watching me practice then okay, suit yourself, but there are benches down there and it would be more comfortable–"

And Joonmyun can have a better view of Jongin's form from the benches. He'll be able to see better how Jongin swings his arm as he practices the proper stance for receiving a ball, or figure out once and for all why Jongin misses some of his kick serves when he's been tossing the ball the right way. And maybe this time Jongin will hear his comments, his feedback, instead of them just lifting eyebrows at each other and flashing each other a thumbs up. Words, not just actions – he's discovered that those are also important in doubles. It's not enough that you know the language of each other's bodies. You have to know when to use your words when needed, and how to use them to enable your partner, to empower him.

Joonmyun laughs to himself. He's not even Jongin's trainer or coach. Heck, Jongin doesn't even seem like he wants to be coached. The kid just looks like he wants to enjoy the sport, whether alone or with others. But from time to time Joonmyun would see a fire in Jongin's eyes that tells him that maybe Jongin wants more than to just wrap his fingers around the handle of the racket and just swing it about. Something about the way Jongin crouches low, eyebrows furrowed as he focuses on nothing else but the ball the server is dribbling on the other side of the court, tells Joonmyun that Jongin wants to win.

But you don't coach players anymore, a voice at the back of his mind says. You don't even play the sport for real now– "Aren't there any rules against–" Joonmyun says in a rush, pausing when he feels two strong beats pulsating at the base of his throat. He swallows around the lump and presses on even if he can taste blood in his mouth again as he says, "–visitors who aren't students of the university using the facilities?"

Jongin snorts. "I thought you were an alumni."

"I'm not," Joonmyun confesses, pressing his lips into a thin line as he finishes. There's still laughter bubbling on Jongin's lips, dangling from the corners of his mouth but keeping them tugged up. Spilling onto Jongin's cheeks and crawling all the way up to make the corners of his eyes crinkle. The sun's casts Jongin a warmer glow now and ah, there you go, says a voice at the back of Joonmyun's mind as the hard edges of the grin on Jongin's lips soften into a smile. Now he knows where Chanyeol got his nickname for Jongin. "Not bluffing this time. I don't have an ID to prove anything."

Jongin breathes out, faint and warm, into the thin space between them. They're still a good ten inches apart, the tips of their shoes touching, but Joonmyun somehow feels like they're much closer now with the way Jongin's breath tickles and prickles his skin where it catches. And they're looking at each other in the eye in earnest even if the light from the setting sun is sort of blinding Joonmyun, making his vision blurry, washing Jongin out.

"I know," Jongin replies, then adjusts the strap of his bag one last time. He takes another step back and then to his side, then gives Joonmyun one last night before continuing, "I know."

They walk along a narrow passageway before settling onto court number two. Joonmyun looks around, checking the courts on either side of him, and laughs a little when he notices the faux grass surface on the courts to his left. It almost brings him back to the first ever grand slam he's won after graduating from the junior level to the professional scene, that championship he claimed victory over the previous champions with Jonghyun where they were both so sure that the ball caught the tape of the net after Joonmyun had served an ace and even challenged the linesman's call even if the point had been awarded to them.

Gentlemen's tennis – that's what their side of the tennis spectrum is called. It's only right for him to be living up to the name, the brand, the responsibility they've been given the minute they started playing in the professional scene.

"You four ever played on grass?" he asks Jongin as soon as they pass a little gate leading to the middle court. Jongin looks over his shoulder, widening his eyes at Joonmyun as if in question, then tilts his head. Joonmyun won't be surprised if the four haven't even thought of playing on grass – after all, it's one of the trickier surfaces to play on. If the clay court makes players slow, makes it nigh impossible for players to fire off a winner after another instead of making their opponents commit unforced errors, then the grass court is all about speed and power. It's about finding a nice balance between strength and accuracy because the surface makes it possible for spins to take a wild turn all of a sudden, resulting in bad bounces, all about aiming for the corners or even the lines, themselves, to be able to score good points without having to worry about misfortunes caused by the blades of the grass. Heck, he hadn't even stepped on a grass court until his coach back in his junior tennis days – David Ferrer, who'd rendered him shocked and speechless for at least ten minutes the day they met – told him that he probably should start training for the grass even if it was still the Australian Open season and Wimbledon wasn't happening until five, six more months after.

The first time he played on grass for a practice match, he went down 3-6 in the first set before managing to score great points with his service and winning the second set 7-5. On the third set, his legs decided to give up on him because, "What the– Coach, I don't have enough training for this! I–I'm too slow and the balls are all too fast and I can't reach most of the balls–"

"So you choose the ones you think will earn you a clean point or put you in the best position," Ferrer replied, then rested a warm hand on his shoulder. "And now that you know you have to be faster, to be more... agile, you can adjust your play style accordingly. Do you think you'll be able to win games by playing more from the baseline than by moving closer to the net?"

Dammit, Joonmyun thought then. Looks like he needed to try a different approach to tennis and still be able to revert to his usual style whenever he was off the grass. He was back to square one, back to relearning the sport, all of his knowledge and familiarity with the style he'd come to develop through the years stripped down to just knowing how to wrap his fingers around the handle oh his racket and the rough surface of the ball.

Then he'd team up with Jung Soojung in mixed doubles for the next few months leading up to his first Wimbledon championship, only to lose against the reigning champions from Serbia. People often called them the Djokovic babies; Joonmyun called them 'trouble', because they'd run into them in an ATP 500 even and drive themselves to the brink of losing, only to stage the best comeback the junior tennis scene has ever seen. Still, it felt like a win even if they were holding a silver plate that looked inferior to the championship trophy the players from Serbia had up in the air. They weren't even expecting anything more than a fourth round finish; getting past all the more experienced doubles teams and emerging second from the top was not in their plans at all.

"The faux grass court, you mean?" Jongin says now, cocking his head in the direction of the courts at the back. Joonmyun nods in response, curt, then shivers when he feels the heat of the sun prickling his nape. "Baekhyun-hyung and Kyungsoo-hyung attempted to play there before but–"

"But?"

Jongin laughs a little, then drops his tennis bag to one of the benches nearby. It lands on the surface with more than just a dull thud, then a strange jiggling sound somewhere towards the end. Coins, maybe? Or even a bell? Joonmyun recalls using one of those before, during practice with Soojung, to call each other's attention right after committing a bad stroke, or to stop each other from pronating their arms too much for fear of suffering from a pulled muscle. It fades all too soon, though, because the next thing Joonmyun knows he's hearing Jongin unzipping the bag and pulling out his racket. "Well, they were doing well until Baekhyun-hyung twisted his ankle and fell on his ass. And by 'well' I mean they were at least returning each other's shots–"

Joonmyun furrows his eyebrows. "Did they even warm up there?"

"That's what I told them – that they should warm up on the court they'll be playing at but no." Jongin lets out a loud exhale, shoulders slumping forward, but soon he's pulling them back and standing tall again. Gripping his racket tight in his left hand and doing little swinging motions with a flick of the wrist, nothing that requires too much They just... played there. Started hitting balls. And they'd adjusted pretty quickly? But then the grass was a bit slippery and Baekhyun-hyung was wearing one of those worn-out shoes and–"

And that's what happens when you dive head-first into the unknown, a voice at the back of Joonmyun's mind says. This time, he lets the same voice fill his ears, lets it summon a rush of heat to come crawling up to his nape until he's tilting his head back in a wild shiver. "And Baekhyun fell flat on his ass."

Jongin snorts. "Yeah, pretty much," he confesses, then hums. "And then he ended up eating some of the 'grass' on the ground. He wouldn't stop talking about it for days."

Joonmyun laughs. Not one of those tiny giggles that he usually does when he's trying to keep himself from cackling too loudly, but a sharp peal of laughter that he thrusts back down his throat when he shuts his mouth and clasps his hands over it. His eyes go wide in realization, and then he shaking his head and mumbling something that sounds a lot like I'm so sorry but just imagining someone accidentally eating the fake grass on court is hilarious and–

"It's okay," Jongin says once he's come down from the high, chest heaving. The tiny leaps of his shoulders give him away, though, drawing Joonmyun's attention to the bubbles of laughter escaping his lips from time to time. They're... kind of nice, Jongin's lips, the way they part just so to let a smile surface on his lips and curl up the corners of his mouth with the lightest of tugs. Jongin's bottom lip is chapped, probably from being worried too much – Joonmyun's seen Jongin do that a lot, especially when his team's down 0-30 and he's about to launch a second serve to the other side of the court – but the harsh red sort of breathes more life to them, makes them look more plump and soft and– "We all couldn't stop laughing at him when it happened. I mean, just imagine–"

Joonmyun shudders, but if anything it feels like the beginnings of a new fit of laughter. He isn't even done yet, little giggles still stuck in his throat, tickling the walls. "I don't need to imagine your friend with fake grass stuffed in his mouth."

"–Baekhyun-hyung frowning at all of us before he can even realize that he has grass– Just play along, alright?"

Joonmyun's body gives a little jerk. I don't just play with people I don't know that well yet, he almost says, but then Jongin's still smiling at him, eyes so close to turning into half-moon crescents once more. "You mean he looks like goat, right?"

Jongin snorts, too sharp and too loud that even he widens his own eyes at the sound he's made. He can be both surprised at what he's done and maybe affronted that Joonmyun just called his friend a goat, Joonmyun still can't tell, so instead he focuses on the way Jongin's mouth twists to the side before easing into something more relaxed, a natural grin. Still, Joonmyun takes a deep breath and holds it in where he feels the heavy thumping in chest the strongest. And he curls his hands into loose fists as he waits, waits, waits for Jongin to speak up.

"Wow," Jongin mutters, voice so soft he could've just been whispering. And maybe he is – he still has that dazed look on his face, eyes a bit too soft at the corners like he's had too much to drink, and lips hanging parted in an awkward grin that, for some strange reason, still looks pretty on him. Youth, a voice at the back of Joonmyun's mind says. This is the gift of being young at work. "Just– Don't let Baekhyun-hyung hear you saying that. He'll throw a fit."

Joonmyun widens his eyes a bit, then breathes out in a low exhale. He can feel his chest loosening, can feel the tightness in his throat easing. He can no longer taste acid and metal in his mouth (but he can taste the dumplings and odeng he and Minseok had ordered from one of the food stalls in their area; Jongdae loves those, as well). Feeling his tongue again, he licks his lips open, hoping they'd thaw out as he says, "Throw a fit? You mean just flail his arms about, right?"

Jongin cocks an eyebrow at him. For a second, Joonmyun's worried that he might have dug another grave for himself again, but soon Jongin's rolling his eyes and shaking his head, saying, "Yeah, you got that right." And then Jongin's nodding, again and again until he turns into one of those cat figurines that Minseok has in his car. Soojung had given it to him on their first 'date' after dancing around each other for what seems like an eternity already. That was also Joonmyun's first time third-wheeling because it was supposed to be Whacky Wednesday, and that meant him and Minseok going out for a couple of drinks. That time, though, Minseok seemed to be more interested in Soojung's Strawberries and Cream frappuccino than anything else. "He's a funny guy but he... puts on this really serious face once the game begins. Wouldn't want to mess with him, nope."

As do you, Joonmyun almost says. He doesn't. Instead, he tilts his head to the right, blinking a few times when the last dregs of the sun catches on his eyes. Jongin has this particular look whenever he serves, where he takes a deep breath and narrows his eyes as he faces front. Then he'll press his lips together in a thin, thin line and nod before tucking the stray strands of his hair behind his ears. He'll squint harder after that, like he's trying extract something from his opponent – answers, techniques, a win? Joonmyun can't tell yet. All he knows is that Jongin does all these things in succession before promising to himself with his fingers curled into tight fists that, yes, Jongin, you're going to ace this serve and score a point for your team. You're going to land nothing but winners on the other side of the court after that, you hear me? Yes, you are going to lead your team to victory. Make no mistake, Kim Jongin. You are going to win.

He laughs a little. It sounds a bit silly, Jongin's entire routine, but it gets things done. It pushes Jongin to do better, do more than he thinks he can. And at the end of the day, isn't that what's important? Pushing your own limits and outdoing your best performance every waking moment? Giving every match your all until there's nothing more to give?

"Well, you don't seem like the type who'd ever mess with anyone," Joonmyun says, shifting his gaze to his side when he catches Jongin lifting his arms and stretching them overhead. Jongin gives a low grunt in response, or maybe he's just trying to string his words together first instead of letting them tumble from his lips, blurting them out. In all the days that Joonmyun has seen them play, he's always taken notice of how Jongin leans in and lets his lips hang parted for a quick second, then pulls away even before Chanyeol can ask him what the matter is. The way Jongin forms a strategy in his head but goes through the steps at the back of his mind again and again like he's 99.9% certain about how things will pan out now. "You sound... polite."

Jongin chuckles. "Thank you," he whispers, then clears his throat before continuing, "Are you... going to stay for a while? I mean, there won't be any matches. I'll just be practicing and stuff."

Unless I play with you, Joonmyun almost says, but he shuns that thought even before it can take root in him, make him think of even sillier things like calling up Minseok and Seokjin and inviting them to Sogang so they can have an exciting doubles match while he teams up with Jongin. So instead, he just nods, tells Jongin, "Show me your kick serve. Or an American twist, since you've been practicing that for a while now." Never mind that he's just given himself away, that he's just shovelled himself into the ground in one fluid motion with what he has just said. Jongin isn't complaining, and Jongin's just smiling at him, and Jongin's moving to the far end of the court, assuming his place in the service box meters away.

"Ready?" Jongin asks, holding the ball up in the air and craning his neck to see better. The white lights in the courts flicker for a while, and then they're glaring at Jongin in earnest, giving him a sickly glow, washing him out. "Just– Just let me know if you are."

Joonmyun nods and settles on the empty space on the bench, just beside Jongin's tennis bag. He leans forward and blinks a few times, recalibrating. He keeps his eyes wide open.

Jongin releases the ball into the air, and the match begins.

"So how exactly did you throw the balls that your arms still feel like hell three days after?"

Joonmyun narrows his eyes at Seokjin and frowns. It's been three days since he's stepped on Sogang University's tennis courts for the first time to watch Jongin practice his serves, three days since he'd volunteered to pick up the balls that Jongin had hit earlier so that Jongin wouldn't lose his momentum during training. Three days since he'd demonstrated to Jongin different ways of tossing the ball into the air and how the toss affects the success of the serve you're trying to pull off because it's all about knowing where to place the ball and knowing where to hit it. And how will you be able to hit the right spots if the ball's too close or too far away? Think, Jongin, think–

"I pitched them. Like this." Joonmyun picks up one of the tennis balls even before Seokjin can shoo him away, then holds it with both of his hands. He's shit at sports that aren't tennis and running, but he does remember having a pretty good pitch back in university. He and Jongdae were in P.E. class then, and while it was ten times easier to just play basketball as a team sport, they'd decided to do baseball because the bat sorta looks like a racket so that'd make things easier, right? Joonmyun likes to believe that they're only half wrong, because even if they did have a hard time being agile instead of being quick and throwing balls at each other (one time, Jongdae threw the ball straight at their professor who was just behind the catcher and blamed his lack of control over his right arm), they still had a lot of fun. And he'd seen some of his blockmates who made the mistake of choosing basketball showing up in their next class drained, almost lifeless, and boy, has he never felt better about his decision to go with the other sport his entire life.

"No, no, no, you are not–" Seokjin slips his fingers between Joonmyun's own on the ball and tugs at it, trying to free it from Joonmyun's hold, but to no avail – Joonmyun's grip is tight, vicious. It's one of the things that his coach – all of them, from when he was just in university and training with Professor Jung, to when he was in his junior tennis days and working alongside David Ferrer, to the first few years of his professional career as a doubles player being coached by Martina Hingis, and eventually to his short-lived stint in gentlemen's singles with Roger Federer – has always commended him for. He never made the mistake of switching grips halfway through his swing, never had to go through the humiliation of accidentally dropping his racket to the ground after firing off a shot too powerful to the net. And Joonmyun would just let Seokjin have his way because, after all, he is in Seokjin's tennis facility, but then it's been a while since he's last had the chance to get a bit playful with his friend. It's been a while since they last did something together that didn't involve ironing out business plans and talking about the future of their bank accounts. Seokjin has begun to focus more on training his little tennis boy instead of visiting Joonmyun and Minseok's coffee shop and trying to think of cupcake flavors that will go with each brew. And Joonmyun... has been busy with his own commitments, sending prompt replies to Jongdae's questions of do you think this table set up is nice or do you think it's okay to combine mint with indian rose? Because Soonkyu likes something greenish and I like pink but then the combination sort of looks like Christmas for kids, so–

And then there's going to Sogang University everyday, before six in the evening or as soon as he can clock out, to check on Jongin's progress on the kick serves, spending a good hour or two there or until Jongin decides to call it a day. They haven't talked about anything outside of tennis, though. The only non-tennis trivia he knows about Jongin has to be the fact that Jongin loves all kinds of chicken save for Buffalo Wings because they make me feel like my tongue's on fire and that's just weird, hyung.

It’s just between the two of them. Joonmyun’s fine with that. He’s happy with the arrangement and he hopes Jongin is, too.

"Gotcha!" Seokjin cries out, then gives the ball one last tug before yanking it away from Joonmyun once and for all. Joonmyun widens his eyes, his whole body giving a tiny shudder as he hears the cracks in Seokjin’s voice, as he feels the force of Seokjin pulling the ball away from him. Seokjin stutters back in his steps, almost falls flat on his ass, but Joonmyun manages to reach out in time to grab Seokjin by the front of his shirt. "Thanks–"

"Well, that was cute," Joonmyun hears someone say from a few meters away. Or maybe the person – the guy – is farther from where they are, the voice simply echoing through the courts, bouncing off the walls and making Joonmyun shiver a little. It's closer to eight in the evening now than seven and he's sure Seokjin isn't too much of an asshole to make his students come in to practice (though there are a few who are stubborn and prefer to stay in the courts until eleven in the evening) at such an hour, so he furrows his eyebrows and searches his friend's face for clues. Answers that years of friendship can reveal to him without much difficulty. Just a second and then it clicks – Seokjin widening his eyes a little but soon blinking the surprise away like he's afraid Joonmyun might catch on, Seokjin pursing his lips, worrying his bottom lip for a quick second, and then jutting it out as if in invitation. A light flush crawling from Seokjin's neck all the way up to his cheeks, dusting his skin with pink and some glitter. It all happens too quickly that Joonmyun's tempted to ask Seokjin: so how long has this been going on? How long have you been crushing on your kid? I mean, I know I spotted him in the public courts less than a year ago but man, he broke down your walls that fast?

Joonmyun parts his lips, ready to pose his question, but then Seokjin beats him to it but muttering, "Shut up. No questions. Don't even say a word."

He holds his hands up in front of in defense, then backs away inch by inch. Seokjin's making these strange faces at him right now, pressing his lips together and twisting them, then frowning and scrunching them up in an ugly look that still looks a bit attractive on him, and Joonmyun's torn between whipping out his phone to take a picture of Seokjin looking silly and pulling off some crazy diversionary tactics just to buy time for Seokjin to recalibrate. He doesn't neither, though, instead watching as Seokjin gulpshard at the sound of footsteps growing louder, as Seokjin mouths Don't you even dare, like a warning, a threat, his dying wish. As Seokjin takes a deep breath before turning around to address the newcomer – no, Jimin – who has a cap pulled over his hair, is wearing a shirt two sizes bigger and denim shorts that are too faded, they might as well be white already, and a huge grin plastered across his features.

Joonmyun laughs a little. The Jimin he'd picked up from the street courts didn't look this confident, but he supposes he can get used to this change. After all, when Jimin shifts his gaze from Seokjin to Joonmyun, when Jimin flicks on that switch and grins without a care in the world before bowing at Joonmyun, Joonmyun sees nothing but the same old twenty-year-old he’s found in one of the courts in Songpa-gu. The same kid who he thought just needed a little push to realize what he was capable of, and the bigger person he could become.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" He opens his arms wide and faces Jimin, nodding at the latter as if coaxing him to come closer. "Where's my hug?"

Jimin snorts, scowls, shakes his head at Joonmyun in retaliation, but he walks over to where Joonmyun is, anyway, wrapping his arms around Joonmyun in a tight hug. Joonmyun allows himself to stay in the lock a little longer, breathes out as he shuts his eyes and lets Jimin sway them from side to side in the tangle of their bodies. Over Jimin's shoulder he can see Seokjin laughing and rolling his eyes, but there's no mistaking the fact that Seokjin has an eyebrow cocked in the lightest, subtlest of lifts, that Seokjin's lips are curled up into a tight smile that makes his cheeks quiver. And that Seokjin's breathing out in a loud exhale when Jimin pulls away, still with a huge grin plastered on his face as he says, "It's been ages since you last visited, hyung!"

Joonmyun laughs a little, but it sounds more like a wheeze than anything else. He has a number of reasons for trying to stay as far away from tennis courts – a busy schedule, having to hold his good friend's hand throughout the wedding preparations even if he's not the best man. Making sure that a couple of kids in Sogang aren't twisting their ankles because of bad footwork or swinging too hard and too early that they're straining their arms. And then, at the top of the list, tennis scares the shit out of me sometimes. It's different when you're watching people play in open courts versus having the walls of a dome crumbling in on you as you hang around in a closed court. The bounce of the balls is brighter, louder. The squeaking of the rubber shoes against the surface is shrill, almost sounds like a shriek of despair. And the calls bounce off the walls of the dome, making an innocent 'let, first serve!' sound a lot like the umpire expressing his disappointment in your for failing to execute such a simple serve without grazing the net. It's like being trapped in a box of rules, responsibilities, and being expected to fulfil all the items in the next two hours or so – win this point, then the next, then the next. Wait for the right time to strike the ball or else you're just putting your efforts to waste. Capitalize on your opponent's weakness and turn it into your window of opportunity. Win, and never lose the thirst for being the best that your can be.

And then, underlined twice despite being written in tiny text, have fun.

"He got busy with stuff," Seokjin answers for him after a while, wiggling his eyebrows as he continues. "And with his boys."

Joonmyun takes a deep breath. Jimin leans further back, cocking an eyebrow at him, and he raises a finger even before Seokjin can say more. "I... shadow-coach kids in a university, that's what Jin means," he explains. "I mean, not coach coach, but I just... watch them and sort of give them pointers on all sorts of things – service, stance, swings–" Jimin nods at that, purses his lips in the same manner that Seokjin does when he's trying to tell Joonmyun without uttering a word, right, I'm buying everything that you're saying even if it's bullshit. Whatever makes you happy. And Joonmyun just wants to wipe that look off of Jimin's features because it's making his insides turn, making his throat feel so tight and dry even when he doesn't even owe anyone an explanation. This is his life he's living and he's making decisions for himself; isn't that how things are supposed to be?"

"He's been working too hard to the point that his arms feel sore from teaching his kid how to toss a ball. How to toss a ball!"

Jimin snorts. "Are you sure you've been teaching him about tennis balls, hyung? Because I don't think you can get muscle aches from simple tosses–"

Joonmyun huffs. Snatches the ball in Jin's hand and motions to throw it at either of them. To Seokjin, he says, "I am terminating my friendship with you. Now shoo! Out! Get out!" And then to Jimin, "Come on! Are you going to believe him over me? Your savior?"

Jimin scratches a line along the slope of his neck, and Joonmyun watches as Seokjin tilts his head to the side, sort of like he's trying to get a better look at what Jimin is doing, at that thin line Jimin's scoring along his skin, too red possibly from all the running around that he'd done earlier. Seokjin's doing that lip bite again, like it's taking every ounce of control not to reach out to Jimin to touch, or to wrap his fingers around Jimin's wrist to say, You're choosing me over him, right? Right? Part of him wants to say that hey, no need to worry, I'm not taking your kid away, but Seokjin's the type who needs to be pushed to the edge from time to time for him to act on what he wants and knows he needs. So instead, reaches out to tug at the hem of Jimin's shirt as he says, "I chose you, Jimin. Isn't it just right for you to choose me?"

Jimin scoffs. He frowns, smiles in that smug little lopsided grin of his, then furrows his eyebrows at Joonmyun. "What am I, some Pokemon? Hyung–" Jimin begins, and then he's reaching over to give Joonmyun a pinch on the cheek, a giggle, a breathy sigh. "You caught me but left me in his daycare center. So now I'm recognizing him as my trainer and master. You can't just... expect me to evolve."

Seokjin laughs a little. He inches closer to where Jimin is and snakes a hand up Jimin's arm in one fluid motion, but the muscles in his arms keep giving these tiny jerks that look as if he's flinching at every touch, with every second that he spends drawing a map on Jimin's skin. Still, he presses on, and Joonmyun's left to hold his breath and wait. For a moment, Joonmyun thinks Seokjin's about to pull away because the latter keeps taking quick breaths, but soon Seokjin slides the same hand across Jimin's shoulders and gives Jimin's arm a tight squeeze.

"You don't have to change for me, little one," Seokjin whispers right by Jimin's ear, a tight smile pulling at the corners of Seokjin's lips. Jimin widens his eyes.

"Alright, alright, I'm out of the daycare. I don't want to find out how Pokemon eggs are made," Joonmyun grumbles, but all the ever does is to turn in his heel to pick up the balls on the floor. And he keeps his back turned to the two until he's gathered all the stray balls on the court in his arms, until the wicked grin on his lips eases into light giggles, faint laughter. Until he hears the footsteps of the two drift apart and feels Seokjin's warm presence beside him, the kick on his side, then cool fingers on his scalp.

"I see you've evolved," Joonmyun says, teasing. Seokjin only ever rolls his eyes at him and ruffles his hair in retaliation.

Seokjin doesn't crack the question until two hours after, close to ten in the evening, while they do the last round of clean ups in the courts. They meet at court number three, mops in hand, bandanas pushing back their bangs and sweat away from their eyes. The friction of the cloth against his forehead feels a bit weird, Joonmyun thinks, but then he has none of those headbands he used to slip on before a game anymore. He's already donated some to a group of young players, and then another batch to the group of kids Minseok and Seokjin had trained before. A number of special headbands from sponsorships and his fans, he keeps in a special drawer back at home. Then the one he used from the last match he'd ever played...

He laughs a little. That one he still hasn't taken out of the tennis bag that he keeps right beside his bed. Part of him considers it a bringer of bad luck, a reminder of the tragedy he'd been subject to, but part of him thinks of it as a good luck charm. After all, if he wasn't forced to pull out of tournaments and, eventually, the sport, he probably won't be managing a coffee shop business that he loves 90% of the time.

"So, why did you come over for a visit?" Seokjin asks now as he slows down in his mopping. Joonmyun looks up from where he's been cleaning a patch of blue darker than the rest of the court, then, tilting his head to the side in question. It's not that he hasn't been listening – he just wants to make sure if he's hearing things right because it won't be the first time that he's fallen prey to having faulty hearing. The first time it happened almost cost him and Jonghyun the match. They were down 30-40 in their service game, fighting for a chance to stay in the match to bring the fifth set to a tie-breaker, and there was a ball fast approaching mid-court. He thought he'd heard Jonghyun yelling, Mine!, so he moved back to the center of the court, prepared to take the next shot should Jonghyun yell Yours! and look over his shoulder to address him. Crouched low and swayed from side to side, finding his rhythm again after almost losing his momentum because of that double fault from Jonghyun.

And then everything turned blessedly white, the crowd around them disappearing behind a thick sheet of light. He could see the figures of their opponents on the other side of the net, but even clearer was the look of horror on Jonghyun's features as Jonghyun screamed, "The ball!" So he looked to his side, fixed his eyes on the shot fast approaching the back of the court, and gulped hard as he switched his racket to his left hand, hoping against hope that he'd somehow be able to return the shot with his non-playing hand despite his last ambidextrous tennis training session being a year or so ago.

The ball hit the sweet spot of the racket and rolled along the surface as Joonmyun pulled the handle of the racket closer to his body. He could feel the power behind the shot, the spin of the ball making it difficult to control his return but making it easy and tempting to drop just drop the racket to the ground because the shot was so damn heavy. Still, he kept a solid grip on the racket until he'd released the ball, until he saw the ball hit just inside the lines and skid away from where their opponents were, until the umpire said, "Deuce!" and the figures on the score boards adjusted to reflect the new scores.

He breathes out now, swallows hard, then looks up at his friend as he catches Seokjin asking again, this time phrased a bit differently, "More like, what's bothering you so much that you couldn't wait until out Thursday coffee date to talk? Why did you come over?"

"I just wanted to see you," he answers all at once. He isn't lying – all of his closest friends know that while he enjoys being alone from time to time, at least an hour a day, he loves being in the company of good friends. He likes hearing their stories, their successes, loves it when he's able to make them feel better by turning something dark and morose into something light, funny. And Seokjin's one of those people who he knows he can share both a lengthy conversations about anything and everything and a comfortable silence with. So he repeats, this time looking at Seokjin straight in the eye when his friend cocks an eyebrow at him, "Look: I didn't even realize that your hair's that long already when we last met. Can't I miss you for once? Or from time to time?"

Seokjin snorts. He moves closer to Joonmyun, though, hooking an arm around him and dragging him to the benches where Jimin is curled up and snoozing. "We were drunk then. I don't expect you to remember much," Seokjin says after a while, voice so soft he could have been whispering. Then he pulls them a bit farther from where Jimin is resting, leaning back against the concrete railing along the perimeter of the courts. "Except you have such great memory so I guess I should be expecting a lot from you."

Joonmyun scoffs. "Thanks, friend. That's really comforting."

Seokjin looks to his side and brings his fist up, grazing his knuckles against Joonmyun's skin. Joonmyun scrunches his nose at that, almost elbows Seokjin in his side more to play than to brush Seokjin off in earnest, but then Seokjin's pinching his cheek again, leaning back, studying him. "So something has been bothering you, huh? Is it your tennis boy from... where was that? Sogang?"

Joonmyun snorts. "Please stop calling him my tennis boy," he murmurs at first, then drops his gaze to the lazy circles he's drawing on his thigh. 'Tennis trainee' or 'mentee' sounds more appropriate, except Jooonmyun isn't conducting any formal trainings for Jongin. It's not as if Jongin has been asking for them, anyway. At most, Jongin only checks with Joonmyun if he's gripping his racket the right way, if his follow through after service is correct, if he's pulling the racket too close to his body without realizing it that he's limiting his movement and reach, the points he can score with a single swing of the arm. "And well... it's not him in particular, but I was just wondering–"

Seokjin nods, urging Joonmyun to go on. When he doesn't get anything from Joonmyun, he says, "You're wondering if what?"

"What are your rates here, six to nine in the evening?" Joonmyun asks. He worries his bottom lip, then adds, "I mean the normal price. I know we're friends and all but you're still running a business–"

"And you're hella rich."

Joonmyun shrugs. "Minseok-hyung's richer," he retorts. "As I was saying, rates?"

"Well, that depends." Seokjin leans back against the railing, slouching a little, but his body is quick to snap up straight again at the sound of Jimin's sharp snores. If Joonmyun squints hard enough, maybe he’ll even see Seokjin shivering a little – too awake and alert – but doesn’t let his mind drift again. Instead, he watches as Seokjin stretches his arms in front of him, as Seokjin loops them in a tight lock and grunts low when he feels the burn in his muscles. "How many people will be playing? Will you be bringing your own balls and rackets? Which surface do you plan to play on? Will you be bringing tennis boy from Sogang and training with him once and for all?"

Joonmyun breathes out in a huff. He wants to laugh for lack of a better response, for lack of something to say that will get him out of a grave that he might have dug for himself without knowing, but his throat feels so tight and dry. He blames it on summer weather, on the rains that have begun to pour down on them in lieu of harsh sunlight throughout the day. It's the same reason why he's here now instead of already home or on his way back to his office in Hapjeong to pick up his car, the same reason why Jongin ended up having to cut service practice short and rush back to his dorm just ten minutes away.

"Take my umbrella, come on," he'd told Jongin then, and after the third tug on the sleeve on Jongin's shirt, Jongin finally gave in. "It's automatic! Just press the button in the middle to open it and to collapse–"

"I know how this kind of technology works, hyung!" Jongin called out in response, waving over his shoulder with a bright grin stretched across his lips. Joonmyun recalls his chest tightening then, recalls feeling the strongest pulse at the base of his throat when some raindrops caught on Jongin's nose and Jongin tried to brush it off with a shake of the head. If his was the kind of smile that calmed storms and coaxed the sun to come out from hiding again then damn, Joonmyun was in for a long period of intense heat, of days spent drowning in light, in the glimmer of Jongin's smile.

"Two people. Me and... just one other," Joonmyun answers after a while, then coughs a little. He'd caught some of the rain in his hair earlier when he'd rushed to the parking lot, when he got on his car to drive to the Hannam area on a whim because what if Jongin's the kind of player who does well in indoor courts? What if Jongin wants to train for real? What if– He should've changed his top, should've grabbed a jacket before heading to the courts because he knows all too well that the place gets a bit too cold for his liking when it's no longer inhabited by high school or college players from different parts of the cirty. Or maybe he shouldn't have lent Jongin his umbrella at all since Jongin lived in the vicinity, anyway. Wrong move, he whispers to himself at the back of his mind. When will you ever learn, Joonmyun? "I still have a couple of cans of balls but I might need extras, just in case? And we'll definitely be using our own rackets–"

Seokjin laughs a little. "You sound like you're dying to give the kid a new toy or something. Wilson, maybe? Or... a Prince?"

Joonmyun laughs a little. Jongin has a Babolat, if he remembers correctly, but he's seen the sad state of Jongin's grip tape and yes, he's dying to give the kid a new racket. Or at least lend him one; his custom Wilson rackets are especially designed for his playing style, after all. It might take Jongin a while to adjust to the kind of tension that the strings have, or even the feel of his hands on the grip. Everything that's good takes time – Federer told him that. Don't rush into things, little one.

"Nah, I think he's a Head kind of guy," Joonmyun replies. He pulls his shoulders back and cracks his neck, feeling a dull ache in his muscles that might be from the cold yet sticky weather outside or all the cleaning he and Seokjin had done in the past half hour. "Head has that... striking design kind of thing going on, you know what I mean? And I think he needs a thick handle for the type of playing style that he has. All heavy balls, even with his flat serves. Which is weird because he likes staying at the baseline and if you hit groundstrokes, it's almost always guaranteed that you lose a bit of power in the shot–"

Seokjin cackles. He clasps his hands over his mouth all at once, suddenly too aware of the sound he'd just made, then he's kicking Joonmyun in the ankle and slapping him on the arm. If Seokjin were much younger than him then Joonmyun would throw a fit, tell Seokjin that hey, show some respect, but they're good friends, and Seokjin's practically born on the same year as he was. They've known each other for close to a decade now that it's difficult to think of good memories that Seokjin hadn't shared with him. So Joonmyun only glares at Seokjin in response, only pinches Seokjin in his side when Seokjin teases him, saying, "And you're not obsessed with this kid at all."

"Not obsessed. Just– I can see his potential," Joonmyun reasons.

"You said the same thing about Myungsoo and Woohyun and Jimin and you're not all over them."

Joonmyun snorts. "Do you want me to be all over your kids?" He hums for a few seconds, then Seokjin's narrowing his eyes at him, reaching out to twist his fist in Joonmyun's shirt. He manages to wriggle free from Seokjin's grasp, though, pulling away in a swift move but ending up with a dull ache in his muscles. "Which one? The youngest of 'em all? Cute kid over there who's slowly getting up from–"

"Stop changing the subject," Seokjin says through gritted teeth. He manages to pinch Joonmyun in the stomach this time before straightening up, before stretching his arms in behind him, bones cracking a little, then breathing out. "But anyway, I can give you a court for 15,000 won an hour, no balls. Just the court and the benches over there, at the foot of the– Yeah, the one where the cute kid is sleeping. Cut it out." He rolls his eyes when Joonmyun sticks out a tongue at him, then lets his lips hang parted as if he's trying to string his words together... better. Seokjin's rarely ever uncertain of what he wants to say, though. It almost makes Joonmyun's insides turn, makes a surge of acid score a line along his chest, reaching the base of his throat.

Joonmyun tilts his head to the side and waits, then – for Seokjin to finish thinking things through, for Seokjin to feel his tongue once more. For that split second between Seokjin blowing air between his teeth and letting soft laughter spill from the corners of his mouth as he says, "Lemme just– Okay, let me just say this: I'm... really happy that you've decided to get into this again. Tennis, I mean." Seokjin pauses, scratching his nape, then takes a deep breath before continuing, "After that incident, I thought you'd never– You always said you'll never want to–"

"Pick up a racket ever again, yeah," Joonmyun finishes, voice trailing off into faint laughter. It's still true, to an extent – he's not going to play tennis, isn't going to compete and aspire to win tournaments anymore. The plan is to train Jongin (and maybe his other friends, but Chanyeol and Baekhyun need to take the sport a bit more seriously and Kyungsoo has to stop looking as if he hates swinging his arms about whenever he takes center up), show him the logic and system behind the basics of the sport. Teach Jongin how things should be done so Jongin won't run into the risk of injuring himself. And then let him develop a style that can only be his and nobody else's. Joonmyun doesn't have to play to win; he just has to play to make Jongin learn.

"I thought I wouldn't, to be honest? But eh." He laughs. After a while, he breathes out, shakes his head, wiggles his fingers until he feels the rush of blood to the tips, until he can feel himself thawing out. "Besides, training someone is different from competing. I'm not the one standing on court to battle for points. That won't be my job."

"But... isn't that just the same out of emotional investment?" Seokjin asks. "I mean, you're going to have to study a player's style, try to find the pros and cons in it, fill the holes with some player plaster or something, I don't know. Point is, it's–it's just as good as playing. For real. Like standing on court and moving." Seokjin stops, holding in the breath in his chest, then breathes out in a low exhale. His face is scrunched in the strangest manner and Joonmyun would ask why if he could, but then he's a shitty liar – he knows what Seokjin is talking about. And he knows the point Seokjin is driving at: why does he keep escaping from the game but still stay close to the sport? Why does he keep visiting those boys back in Sogang if he has no intention of welcoming tennis back into his life? Why are you still so damn afraid of taking a leap of faith, hyung? What's holding you back? "You– You do get me, right?"

I do, Joonmyun wants to answer. I just don't get me.

But he doesn't. Instead, he scoffs. Laughs to himself and shakes his head, just one rapid movement that makes him feel the pulse in his temples fast growing stronger. For the most part, he feels strange being confronted with the question, but at the same time he can't help but feel that maybe this is the right time to admit that yes, that injury scarred him, but Jonghyun finding it easy to throw their partnership away just like that was what hit him harder. That he wasn't mad because Jonghyun shot his only chance at earning another Olympic gold because doubles was all that he's ever known, but that he was mad because Jonghyun told him he wasn't ambitious enough, wouldn't chase his own dreams but instead just stuck in that cage of his, comfortable with everything but never truly happy. That the reason why he's so afraid to pick up a fucking racket and swing it back and forth is because he's scared he'll feel the high again and be consumed by it that when he falls to the ground, it hurt twice as much, scar him twice as much as it did before.

He curls his fingers into loose fists and takes a sharp, deep breath. He's been too caught up at dealing with all sorts of people, conversing with them and engaging then in long talks, making them happy, that he's already forgotten how to talk to himself, to hear himself out. To listen.

So he gives in, muttering under his breath, "Yeah, I get you," then presses his lips together to a thin, thin line. Seokjin's still looking at him, like he's expecting Joonmyun to say more, but Joonmyun remains silent for the next minute, two, three, trying to listen for any more voices at the back of his head that might still be struggling to be heard.

Then Joonmyun hears Jimin groaning, mumbling something Seokjin interprets as why aren't we going home yet. Only then does Seokjin tear his gaze from Joonmyun, does he pull away to get back on his feet again and stand tall, putting enough space between them. The gaping cold that keeps them apart makes Joonmyun shiver, but only for a while because Seokjin's reaching out grabbing him by the sleeve of his polo and dragging him for the next five, six meters so they can rouse Jimin from his slumber together.

"Baby steps," Seokjin says, leaning in to whisper. When he pulls away, Joonmyun's met with a small smile, a light pinch on the cheek, a squeeze of the arm. "Nice and easy does the trick."

The trip to the parking lot is quiet, broken only by Jimin's faint mumbling of Promise I can go home on my own, hyung. and Joonmyunnie-hyung's still here? Is this real? If I wake up now, will I disappear? Joonmyun only laughs at that, then slides an arm across Jimin's shoulder to pull the younger boy closer to him, craving contact, yearning for warmth.

Much later, before Seokjin ducks into his car, he asks, "So, I'll see you tomorrow?"

Joonmyun doesn't have a sure answer yet, but then if everything that can go wrong does go wrong then he can always just rally Seokjin's students to practice with him, maybe even con Jimin into training with him for the very first time, even if he was the one who scouted Jimin. He can't wait for answers forever, after all. So he nods at Seokjin, tells his friend that, "Mhmm. Block of six to around... nine, I guess? Is that okay?" and breathes out when Seokjin holds two thumbs up before disappearing behind the door of his car.

Joonmyun slips in his seat and leans back, feeling the soft cushions wrap around him in a tight hug. He turns on the radio, but he doesn't drive off yet. Instead, he stays in the cocoon of this silence and breathes.

Joonmyun unlocks the doors of his car to grab the jacket he'd left on the driver's seat. The last time he went to Sogang on a cloudy day, he had to lug around his umbrella to lend himself a sense of security, but now he's without it because he made such a stupid decision (though part of him's convinced he did the right thing) to lend it to a student whose housing is just a good five to ten-minute walk away from the tennis courts. So he drapes the jacket on his left arm now, pokes his head inside his car again just in case he'd just forgotten that he had an extra umbrella in the vehicle, just that it was lying around somewhere hard to spot. Snarls when he finds none and when he hits the back of his head close to the frame of the door by accident. The only good thing he's got going for himself is that it isn't scorching hot anymore in Seoul. If it was, then he'd be about 70% resolute to drive his car all the way to the campus and just park by a sidewalk. Be one of those assholes who'd take up road space with their hugeass cars that aren't even parked the right way. And then have a hard time getting out of figurative grave he’d dug for his card because God knows how much of a pain in the ass parallel parking is.

He leans against his car and breathes in deep, feeling the knots of tension in his chest pop one by one. Earlier, back at work, it felt like drinking hot chocolate that was both bitter and still had lumps of cocoa in it. He’d have preferred to be gulping down hard tiny marshmallows in the drink, but no – he had chunks of chocolate scoring thick lines along the walls of his throat, leaving a dull ache there, keeping him from breathing easy. He isn't even a big fan of sweets anymore; Splenda is the only sweet thing he can tolerate until now. The sensation lasted until he got a call from Seokjin, asking if he was pushing through with the reservation at six, which court he preferred, if he was okay using the balls Jimin had already practiced with because a few of my old customers placed a really late reservation last night and said they wanted to practice for a fun cup of sorts. Asked if Joonmyun'd managed to convince 'tennis boy from Sogang' to come with him, at all.

"Six? Well–" Joonmyun scrunched his nose and rubbed along the underside, then worried his bottom lip a little. “Make is seven, I guess? I can’t– Just to be sure.” He wasn't even sure if Jongin and his friends would be playing that day, but knowing that Jongin kept looking over his shoulder as he walked to his dorm with Joonmyun's umbrella in hand, that Jongin looked up at him and smiled before disappearing around the block, almost felt like a promise that they'd see each other again in a few hours. Or soon, sometime soon. It wasn’t as if they could set a time and a date for meet ups; they didn’t even have each other’s number. "As for the court... If you could get me the one farthest from the crowd because I'm pretty sure Jongin wouldn't want to be seen by too many people then that would be great–"

He could recall that one time a couple of girls flocked Jongin right after practice, as soon as he'd put down his racket on the bench and slung a towel on his shoulder. Granted, some of them were there for Chanyeol who turned out to be quite a hit with the girls from the higher batch, but still – there was no denying the way Jongin's smile turned from a grin to a grimace when people started inching closer to them, dispelling the magic, disrupting the peace.

Seokjin laughed on the other end of the line then finished with a snort. "It's just a court."

Joonmyun huffed against the receiver more as a form of revenge than anything else, but damn, Joonmyun, wrong move again, a voice at the back of his mind told him as he cringed at the crackling sound on the line. There was a reason Jongdae kept telling him that he was both a shitty liar and the worst guy to plot world domination with when he was sober. You’re just a really good guy all around, hyung. You– I don’t think you’re capable of breaking hearts, he recalled Jongdae saying. Unless you try really, really hard–

“Court number ten, then,” Joonmyun answered, breathing out through his nose so he wouldn't make the same mistake another time. He had cupcakes and hot coffee waiting for him just a few feet away, and yet here he was – trying to book a court with a friend for an evening session with a kid he wasn’t even sure would show up at their usual meeting place. “Lighting there’s good, right?"

“Cool. Court number ten, it is. Ooor would you like eleven?” Seokjin paused to stifle his laughter, but everybody knew he was bad at keeping his giggles at bay when his shoulders already started shaking. “That’s the one that leads straight to the showers where–"

Enough, Joonmyun wanted to say, but he knew better than to draw attention to himself even if Minseok was already cocking an eyebrow at him and drumming his fingers on their shared table. The coffee was fast getting cold and the Joonmyun was the one who’d requested to have the cupcakes delivered and heated so it made sense for him to end the call right here, right now, but a part of him felt like he should explain, make things clear. Reiterate to Seokjin that ‘Sogang kid’ wasn’t even his friend; they just happened to be two people who liked tennis both as a form of relief and as a sport. Jongin happened to be friendlier than some people, though from time to time Jongin would shy away after Joonmyun told him he was doing great, nice form. Keep it up! So Joonmyun said, “No, I want court number ten. And I expect nothing but VIP treatment from a top-level player like you–"

“As long as you sign my racket, oh great Master Magician–"

Joonmyun hung his head low and groaned. “Kim Seokjin–"

His body gives a violent jerk now when he feels something cool and wet prickle his skin. He looks up in an instant, squinting on reflex when the light hits his eyes and blinds him for a quick second, then drops his gaze to the ground. There aren't any patches of darker gray anywhere, none that he can see even with his contacts on, or even thin lines of water scoring marks along the scene in front of him, so he should be safe – from having to get drenched in the rain from the waist down because he has nothing but a jacket to keep himself dry, from feeling the chill of the rain wrap around his ankles and make it impossible for him to walk a straight line without shivering a little. From having to hope against hope that Jongin would still show up at the courts even with the summer rain pouring down, yellow umbrella in hand and a small smile tugging up at the corners of his lips as he said, "Hi."

He shakes his head one last time and snatches a glance at his wrist watch. It's almost six in the evening now, and if past experience is anything to go by then Jongin should be practicing alone today. Or maybe with just one of the four because seniors apparently have an engagement with the student council every Thursday. A week ago, it was just Jongin and Chanyeol on court, hitting balls and slapping each other's arms after bad plays, sloppy points. Joonmyun recalls wanting to just walk away then, to turn on his heel and leave, but then Jongin was doing so well with his backhand stance practice. Joonmyun wouldn't miss that for the world.

And Jongin snuck a glance at him again when Chanyeol pulled away, like he was asking if his swing was alright, if the follow through looked more natural now than when Joonmyun called him out on it before. So he nodded, smiled, flashed two thumbs up. Then he dug his hands in his pockets again, imagining it was him on the other side of the court instead of Chanyeol, hitting winners down the line, winning the match, seeing Jongin smiling just beyond the net – at him.

Walking half a kilometer from the lots to the campus has almost become routinary by now. If, before, he'd have to do a double-take to check the street signs, monuments, location markers that assure him that he's on the right track, now he can rely on muscle memory to take him to where he's supposed to be. He still looks at either side of him at least twice before crossing the road, yes, but at least now he no longer feels the slight burn in his inner thighs when he steps forward too early or too late, or reacts to the buzzing sound of the pedestrian counter too quickly. He doesn't get that weird, nagging sensation at the pit of his stomach that he might have zoned out for a few seconds and missed the campus anymore (though that was almost impossible; Sogang had one of the biggest campuses in Seoul, after all). And whenever he walks through the gates of the school, whenever he bows to the security personnel who always beam at him as he flashes his fancy citizen I.D. for them to confirm that he's real and not just some figment of their imagination, it almost feels like he's returning to school, walking from the train station at Hongdae all the way to Yonsei with at least three books tucked under his arm, waiting to be read and memorized all he could say was tens and thousands of medical terms he'd be using on almost a daily basis if he did push through with becoming a doctor.

He laughs a little – to himself, at himself, when he sees the white pillars towering over him and catches the familiar sight of the security smiling at him. He isn't sure if this is a habit that he wants to still be hooked on a year or so from now. He isn't even sure if this is a good habit, at all.

Rains during summer mean the sun's stay in the sky being cut short by dark clouds. Not that Joonmyun hates it – he's rather okay with sunlight, just not the type that glares at him so early in the morning – it's just that he knows it also means the harsh white lights in the courts will be turned on earlier than the usual, when, in the past, sunlight would have been enough to illuminate the players until half past six in the evening. Sometimes they could even play until just before seven with the sunset shining down upon the last few points of the match. Joonmyun squints a little as he approaches, then, blinking a few times as he tries to get a clearer picture of the scene on court. He can see Jongin standing on the right side of the court, as always, twirling his racket by the throat, and opposite him is Chanyeol who's looking over his shoulder, at a girl seated on the benches near court number two. He hasn't seen this girl before, hasn't even caught a glimpse of her, but he has see that fond look on Chanyeol's features before. Head tilted back a little, sloppy grin stretched across his lips, eyes too soft, gaze too adoring – Chanyeol has pulled the same off before, except he wasn't looking at that girl in an attire that looks a lot like–

"Tennis gear," Joonmyun mutters under his breath. From head to toe, the girl's dressed like she's about to play tennis as soon as she's done tying her shoelaces. He cranes his neck a little and squints, trying to make out the details of the girl's face, but, "Does that really matter," he mumbles to himself. The girl's getting up, stretching her arms in front and behind her, then she's bouncing on the balls of her feet. She wraps her fingers even tighter around the handle of the racket, then she begins swinging her right arm back and forth, left hand lifting automatically as she shifts from one stance to another. She has a beautiful form, has a textbook-perfect trophy position when she simulates a serve from where she is, tossing the imaginary ball in the air and bending her knees. Her left shoulder's facing front and she'd be shielding her playing arm with the left side of her body if Joonmyun was watching from the benches, but Joonmyun doesn't even have to watch her from up close to know that this isn't just someone who'd decided to play tennis the day before. This girl – she can give Jongin a run for his money if Jongin still can't perfect the backhand drive shots to midcourt executed in a proper stance, with a more natural swing of the left arm backward as he does his follow through.

And from where he's seeing Jongin turn to look to the side to practice his swing, his strokes, even the toss of the ball, he can tell that Jongin's thinking the same thing. And that the last thing Jongin would want is to be outclassed by someone who hasn't even 'trained' with them these past two weeks that Joonmyun has been around.

"Okay, game!" he hears Chanyeol call out. His body gives a tiny jerk in response, urging him to look away for a quick second, to take a step back. "I swear, she's good. I wouldn't have dragged her here if I didn't think she'd be your type–I mean if I didn't think you'd have a grand time playing against her–"

Do not ever use the sport to set people up on dates they don't want to go, Joonmyun almost snarls. After all, a sport is a way of life. You don't just thrust new things into people's lives because you think it's what's best for them. That's not how it works. And that's not how friendship is supposed to work. But then he knows nothing about how Jongin and Chanyeol work off-court, knows nothing about how the two met and became friends, if they even hit it off at once. He knows Chanyeol and Jongin are taking up something related to business and making dreams come true and that Baekhyun and Kyungsoo have deemed themselves each other's rivals since they were kids, but that's it – no specifics, no details, nothing to breathe more color into the figures he's been watching day in and day out. He doesn't even know the last names of these kids he watches on a daily basis. Heck, he doesn't even know the story behind the rackets they're using. And every player has a story behind his racket of choice.

Joonmyun laughs a little. So many people have told him that he's crazy for even thinking of it but rackets are... sort of like friends. You want something you can depend on even through the toughest of matches, something you know can carry you through some of the longest games you'll ever play, in the same manner that you want to meet friends who will stick with you through the test of times. Someone who won't let you down (or if they do, they'll find a way to redeem themselves again and again). Minseok has seen him at his worst, after his surgery and while he was recovering from his fall from grace. Jongdae has seen him– Jongdae has been with him through his craziest days in university, up until he dropped his med school books and dreams to purse tennis. Tried to be there in the important tournaments – Wimbledon, the French Open, Indian Wells, online on Skype during the Olympics where he won his first gold with Jonghyun. Even until now. Jongdae has seen right through his bullshit and his walls no matter how high and thick they are. Jongdae knows him, maybe even better than he knows himself.

"Hyung, I'm here for the balls," he hears Jongin say, then, and holds his breath as Jongin inches closer to the net, in the girl's direction, as he says, "And I'm sorry that hyung put you through this thing when you're probably too busy with your senior stuff... responsibilities thing, and–"

"I did it because I think you're interesting. Always have, always will," the girl says. From where Joonmyun is, he can make out that faint smile on her lips, the way she peeks at Jongin through her bangs. The way the blond at the tips of her hair glimmer under the harsh light all around them. The way she takes a step closer but leans back as she says, "So maybe your hyung has just made it easy for me to get to know you. He... cares more about you than you'd think, you know."

Jongin takes a step back. It's impossible to see the look on Jongin's features from where he is, to be able to make out the way Jongin has his mouth twisted or his eyebrows furrowed or his eyes narrowed at the girl who's just told him to maybe reassess the kind of friend that he's been sharing with the people close to his hear for the longest time. But he can see the way Jongin’s sort of leaning forward, the way Jongin has the balls of his lifted off the ground like he means to run as far away as possible now and never return to Joonmyun his umbrella ever again. And he can see Jongin tilting his head up a little, maybe to meet Chanyeol’s eyes, and hears him saying, “I know that. Always have, always will."

“I won’t–“ The girl looks over her shoulder to shoot Chanyeol an apologetic look. Joonmyun can’t tell if she feels more sorry for Jongin or for Chanyeol who hasn’t had the slightest idea of what he’s been doing all this time. “Just one match, that’s all I’m asking for. It doesn’t matter who wins – if we feel a spark somewhere along the way then we’ll know whether we should–"

“Keep hitting the balls or not,” Jongin finishes. The girl nods at him, the smile on her lips growing wider. It reaches her eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It makes Jongin smile and breathes a bit more life to him even if the white light keeps washing him out, Joonmyun muses. And it makes Joonmyun's breath hitch when Jongin risks a glance in his direction before saying, “But we better make this quick. It might rain anytime soon–"