Chapter 6: The Butterfly Effect
The cherry blossoms had arrived overnight, as they always did, with a silent, extravagant violence. The university courtyard was buried under a storm of pink and white, petals clinging to hair and textbooks, dusting the cracked pavement like confetti after a party no one remembered. The air smelled of damp earth and sweet, faint decay.
Hyukjae, bathed in the dappled light filtering through the branches, was holding court. A small cluster of students from his Marketing Principles class hung on his every word, their laughter sharp and bright against the low murmur of the campus. He was telling a story, arms sweeping wide, his smile a weapon of mass charm. Donghae watched from a nearby bench, a philosophy textbook open but unread on his lap.
His notebook was beside him, the margins a familiar mess of distracted doodles. Today, however, there were no half-finished letters. Instead, next to a sketch of a wilting blossom, he’d written a single line: Twenty-eight seconds today. He glanced at Hyukjae, who was now pretending to mimic their notoriously dry professor, earning another burst of laughter. Donghae counted silently. At twenty-eight seconds exactly, Hyukjae’s hand rose unconsciously to tug at his left earlobe. Donghae smiled, a private, quiet thing, and noted it down.
He was documenting a different habit now. Not as a secret collector, but as a happy archivist.
A shadow fell across the page. “You look like a creep,” Kyuhyun said, sliding onto the bench without invitation. He nodded towards Hyukjae’s group. “A smitten creep, but a creep nonetheless.”
“I’m studying,” Donghae said, flipping the notebook closed.
“You’re cataloging. There’s a difference.” Kyuhyun unwrapped a lollipop, sticking it in his cheek. He followed Donghae’s gaze. “It’s disgusting, by the way. The way you two orbit each other now. It’s like watching a planet finally find its sun. It’s bad for my appetite.”
“No one asked you to watch.”
“The whole campus is watching, Donghae.” Kyuhyun’s tone was light, but his eyes were perceptive. “You think the Great Lee Hyukjae can stop being a public spectacle just because he’s finally claimed his prize? Look at him.”
Donghae did. Hyukjae had caught his eye across the courtyard. Immediately, the performative edge of his smile softened into something genuine, specific. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug, as if to say, Get me out of here. Donghae raised his eyebrows in response: You got yourself into it.
Hyukjae turned back to his group, clapped a guy on the shoulder, and said something that made them disperse with reluctant laughs. He strode towards their bench, petals swirling in his wake. He dropped down on Donghae’s other side, his knee pressing firmly against Donghae’s from thigh to calf.
“Boring,” Hyukjae announced, leaning his head back against the bench. “They were talking about brand synergy. I almost fell asleep standing up.”
“You were the one talking,” Donghae pointed out.
“Exactly. I bored myself.” Hyukjae shifted, pulling a single white earbud from his pocket. He offered one half to Donghae. “Music. For the walk to Comparative Lit. Save me from my own thoughts.”
Kyuhyun made a gagging sound. “I’m leaving before I develop a cavity.” He stood, crunching his lollipop. “Heechul wants a summit. Tonight. His place. Says he needs ‘debriefing and drama.’” He sauntered away, a figure of mock disgust.
Hyukjae rolled his eyes but didn’t remove his knee from Donghae’s. He pressed play.
It wasn’t some slow, romantic ballad. It was loud, abrasive electronic pop Hyukjae loved and Donghae tolerated. The beat thumped oddly through the single earbud, mismatched with the serene blossom fall. They stood together, Hyukjae stuffing his hands in his pockets, Donghae tucking his book under his arm.
They began to walk. The path to the humanities building was a tunnel of blooming trees. Their steps fell into an easy rhythm. Every third step, without fail, the back of Hyukjae’s hand brushed against Donghae’s. It wasn’t an accident. It was a conscious, rhythmic punctuation. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.
Donghae felt his pulse syncing to that gentle touch more than the chaotic music. The ghost-taste of cherry lipstick was gone. Now there was just the clean scent of Hyukjae’s soap, the warmth of his arm, the solid reality of him.
Kyuhyun, leaning against a trunk a little way ahead, watched them pass. He didn’t bother hiding his phone. He snapped a single picture—the two of them from behind, shoulders almost touching, a shared wire connecting them, pink petals caught in their hair. He muttered to himself, “Campus gossip just got 300% more interesting.”
They neared the brick archway leading to their building. A bank of vending machines stood to the side, humming. Donghae’s coffee from that morning had been a weak, sad affair. He veered towards the machine. “I need fuel.”
“You need sleep,” Hyukjae countered, but he followed.
Donghae fed coins into the slot, selecting a brutal-looking black coffee. The can clunked into the tray. As he bent to retrieve it, Hyukjae moved.
It was swift and effortless. One hand planted on the machine beside Donghae’s head, the other snatching the cold can from his grasp. Hyukjae caged him in, the vending machine cool against Donghae’s back, Hyukjae’s body a warm wall in front.
“This is robbery,” Donghae said, his voice surprisingly steady even as his heart slammed against his ribs.
“It’s a tax,” Hyukjae murmured, his eyes dancing. “For being so distractingly cute all morning. Watching me from your bench. Taking notes.”
“I wasn’t—”
Hyukjae kissed him. In broad daylight. Under the archway, with students streaming past just feet away. It wasn’t a deep kiss, but it was decisive. A firm, caffeinated press of lips, sweet from the candy Hyukjae must have eaten earlier. Donghae’s hands, which had flown up in surprise, settled on Hyukjae’s waist, gripping the fabric of his shirt. His knees, as predicted by some unseen force, went weak.
Hyukjae pulled back just enough to speak, their breaths mingling. “You were.” He took a sip of the stolen coffee, made a face, and handed it back. “Ugh, that’s vile. How do you drink this?”
Donghae took the can, his fingers brushing Hyukjae’s. The world snapped back into focus—the chatter of students, the hum of the machines, the distant bell. He became acutely aware of the attention they’d drawn. A few paused conversations, a pointed glance, a whispered comment.
A familiar, cold dread started to pool in his stomach. The fear of being seen, dissected, turned into gossip. He saw it in the smirk of a passing senior, the raised phone held a little too deliberately.
Hyukjae saw it too. He saw the tension return to Donghae’s shoulders. Instead of pulling away, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping so only Donghae could hear. “Let them look.” His thumb stroked Donghae’s hipbone, a hidden point of contact. “Let them take their pictures. The whiteboard’s full. The MRI’s in your book. I’m done with secrets.”
He said it like a challenge, not to the gawking students, but to Donghae’s own ingrained caution. Then, with a grin that was all sunny, unapologetic defiance, Hyukjae grabbed Donghae’s free hand, lacing their fingers together. He didn’t just hold it; he swung their joined hands slightly as he turned, pulling Donghae away from the vending machine and into the flow of foot traffic towards their classroom.
The walk down the hall was a blur of sensation. The feel of Hyukjae’s palm, dry and sure against his. The stunned silence that seemed to ripple out ahead of them in the crowded corridor. The weight of a hundred curious eyes. Donghae’s instinct was to pull away, to retreat into the walls he’d spent years building.
But then he looked at their joined hands. He thought of the taste of cherry lipstick, remembered but no longer longed for. He thought of the silent hour on Heechul’s floor, the crater they’d agreed to build from.