MINSUNG ONESHOTS

i hate you

"can you stop kicking my chair, it's super annoying," jisung smiled as sweetly as he could, voice barely above a whisper, one sharp thud away from launching a paperback over his shoulder.

it was a normal—well, normal by jisung's standards—day at school.

the kind of day that started with rain hitting the pavement in quiet sheets, damp socks, and fogged-up glasses. he'd been five minutes late, toast between his teeth, half-jogging through the school gates like it was muscle memory. his backpack was slightly lopsided, weighing him down on one side, and the hem of his shirt refused to stay tucked in neatly with fashion.

and if you thought that was the normal day jisung was experiencing—no, that was not it. it was how a certain someone would go an extra mile just to irritate him, doing all sorts of things that were extremely childish and stupid for a grown man in university.

he'd slid into his usual seat, third row from the front, second from the window; just as the bell rang. the air in the classroom was thick with humidity and the faint sting of bleach. desks squeaked and shoes squealed against the floor. someone coughed while someone else yawned. a girl in the back was already asleep, head buried in the crook of her elbow.

and then—thud.

the back of his chair jerked. not much, just enough for jisung's jaw to clench. he didn't react at first. he told himself not to. it could've been an accident. maybe someone bumped into minho's desk, maybe he shifted his leg without thinking. jisung adjusted his seating, cracked open his biology textbook, and tried to focus on the cell diagram in front of him.

he got through half a sentence.

thud.

his shoulders stiffened. okay. maybe not an accident.

jisung didn't turn around. didn't give him the satisfaction. he simply sat there, perfectly still, hands folded over the edge of the desk, like if he held himself tightly enough he could will his rage into nonexistence.

minho. it was always minho.

quiet, expressionless, infuriating minho. the boy who never raised his voice, who never got called on unless the teacher had a death wish. the boy who never looked like he was paying attention but always got the highest scores. the boy who had been assigned the seat behind jisung six months ago and had made it his personal mission to slowly chip away at every last bit of his sanity.

the kicking was just the newest tactic.

the worst part? no one else ever seemed to notice. it was never loud. never disruptive enough to call attention. just a gentle pressure, an occasional nudge. but to jisung, it felt like a war declaration.

thud.

his pen hovered above the page. unmoving. blood pounded in his ears, drowning out the teacher's voice, the buzz of the fluorescent lights, the soft patter of rain against the windows. all he could hear was the rhythm—thud, thud, thud—and the growing, coiling heat in his chest.

his blood was boiling. not just simmering, but bubbling, frothing over the edge of whatever thin, fragile cup he'd been trying to contain it in. it started in his chest, wound its way up to his throat, bloomed behind his eyes in a pressure that made everything blur at the edges.

his hand tightened around his pen until the plastic cracked softly beneath his fingers. he dropped it. the pen hit the floor and rolled under the desk in front of him, out of reach.

jisung stared blankly ahead. he wasn't breathing right anymore. shallow inhales, like he couldn't get enough air. like the room was too small and too loud and too full of minho.