three is the perfect number || jaenoren (norenmin)

quatorze

It is only in detention that a student can realise just how creative they can get with their insults. Whether these insults are directed towards the fucker who had landed them in the situation, towards the supervising teacher (which is, in any case, bad out), or even at the clock for not ticking fast enough, one could really get their gears turning and their mind churning with all sorts of beautiful, negative feelings that chafe at the inside of the soul and ceaselessly beg for sweet freedom. 

God, I want to flip someone off, thought Jaemin, just to add a bit of life into this day, please. He sighed, keeping his most powerful finger to himself and leaning back in his seat, counting the black tiles on the ceiling, just to let everyone know that he was as bored as any human could possibly get. Two hours of detention for accidentally tripping up a bully on the stairs was harsh and unjust. The school might as well have sued him and all could have moved on with their lives. 

Jaemin wanted to do something other than imagine various scenarios about earthquakes or alien invasions or policemen with guns interrupting his detention and setting him free. With each passing minute he slumped further down his chair, until his back was convex and his neck begged for death. He was sleepy and uncomfortable and he wanted to hang out with Renjun or something —

Holy fuck. 

The door creaked open, and none other than Huang Renjun stepped in with his scuffed-up white and red sneakers and custom pessimistic, downcast look. 

The teacher shot them all warning looks as Renjun mumbled something to her, then stood up assertively as she told him to sit down. He dragged his feet over to the windows, Jaemin too far away to ask him what the fuck a skittish little angel like him was doing in a room full of delinquents.  Jaemin was confused, to say the least. 

Had he been fighting someone? A picture of Renjun squaring up against some faceless sixth year behind the school occurred to Jaemin, and he immediately shook his head. Renjun was more level headed than that. ( And, not to be mean, but Renjun would not get out of a fight completely untouched.)

He wanted desperately to scoot over and ask Renjun what the hell he was doing here, heart beating faster even at the sight of the older boy, but the teacher supervising was a strict one — Indeed, his own history teacher, Miss Jeon. If she always caught him making heart eyes at Jeno — every single time — then she probably wouldn't ignore a mid-detention conversation. 

Jaemin checked on the teacher's current attentiveness, then despite her spear-like gaze, reached into his pocket and clamped a hand around his phone. Renjun was now face down against his desk, eyes screwed shut as if he could blink the situation away. He couldn't ask Renjun why he was borderline crying in detention, but he could text Jeno. The two were best friends and always around each other, so Jeno would probably know what he was doing an hour late into detention.

Jaemin's hand stopped in his pocket. He felt a dull pang of jealousy.

Everything bothered Jaemin, these days. Every time he saw Jeno and Jaemin interact, whether it. was after basketball or when they ate lunch together, he found it so hard to ignore how they existed around each other, like two stars revolving around one another, destined to collide. They lived as two pieces of the same puzzle — and Jaemin wanted something like that. That was why he was now strongly suspecting that Renjun liked Jeno back. 

He dropped his chin into his palm, wondering how Jeno was so dense. Couldn't he see that whether Renjun realised it or not, they were meant for one another? Sometimes he wished that Jeno would just make a move so that Jaemin could clench his teeth, wish them well and move on. He wanted to move on before he could really admit his feelings to himself.