Chapter Text
The garage was alive in that chaotic, half-broken way that only teenage bands could pull off. American Idiot blasted from the speakers, a little too loud, a little too scratchy, like the song had been replayed so many times it barely remembered how it originally sounded.
The bass poured out of the amp in low, rolling pulses that vibrated straight through the concrete floor, up through their shoes, into their bones. James’ drums slammed against the walls, each hit echoing back like the garage was trying to argue with him, while the keyboard spat out odd, warping notes as random keys were mashed without mercy.
The air felt thick with sound and movement, tangled with loud voices and laughter that refused to quiet down. Keonho stayed glued to his bass, fingers moving almost on instinct, like muscle memory had taken over long before his brain could catch up.
Still, he couldn’t help laughing when James started thrashing his head around too hard, hair flying everywhere like he was channeling some unholy mix of early Green Day shows.
Seonghyeon was hunched over the keyboard, shoulders tense, pressing keys that looked completely wrong together. The sounds came out strange, almost annoying at first, like something you’d hear while flipping through radio stations too fast.
Off to the side, Martin sat sprawled on a beat-up beanbag, guitar balanced lazily on his lap, untouched strings catching the dull garage light. He laughed until his chest hurt, watching his friends fall apart into noise and movement, bumping into each other, feeding off the energy like they’d been doing this forever.
They were supposed to start playing for real by now. That was the plan, anyway. But Juhoon still wasn’t there. Their vocalist. Their chronic late arrival.
Their laughter kept crashing into the noise, folding itself into the music until it was hard to tell where one ended and the other started. From the outside, anyone passing by the house would’ve clocked it immediately. A garage like that didn’t belong to adults or quiet afternoons. It screamed teenagers with too much time, too many feelings, and speakers turned up way past reasonable.
The sound leaked through the walls, through the cracked door, into the street, announcing them without asking permission.
Then the garage door creaked open, cutting through everything just enough to be noticed. Juhoon stepped in like he always did, unbothered, like he hadn’t just walked straight into chaos.
His hair was longer than the last time Martin remembered, brushing against his neck before disappearing into a loose tie, strands already slipping free like they hated being controlled. A backpack hung off one shoulder, worn down at the edges, probably stuffed with nothing important and everything at once.
“Oh? The princess is here,” Seonghyeon called out without missing a beat, fingers still hovering over the keyboard.
Juhoon didn’t even bother with words. He flipped Seonghyeon off smoothly, like it was muscle memory, then dropped his bag into the empty space next to where Keonho was standing. It landed with a dull thud, claiming its spot.
He muttered lazy greetings to the rest of them, nods and half-smiles, before plopping down beside Martin like that was exactly where he belonged.
Martin turned to him immediately, grin already stretched wide, eyes shining like he’d been waiting for this part. “Why are you late again this time?” he asked, voice light but knowing. “Did you just randomly forget we had a plan today and decide sleep was more important?”
“Yeah,” Juhoon said, deadpan, leaning back on his hands. “Should’ve slept more.”
The garage erupted again, giggles and snorts breaking through the noise, even James missing a beat on the drums because he was laughing too hard.
“No, no, can’t do that, twinski,” Martin said, already standing, brushing dust off his jeans as he crossed the garage. He grabbed the mic from its stand, turned once, and tossed it toward Juhoon without warning. “Come on. Let’s get the noise up.”
The arguing started almost immediately, voices piling on top of each other like feedback from a badly tuned amp. James wanted something fast, something that’d wreck his arms by the second chorus. Seonghyeon kept insisting on something moodier, fingers already testing keys like he was trying to summon Radiohead through sheer will.
Martin threw out half a dozen suggestions, all shouted, all dramatic, ranging from Blink-182 to something he swore he heard once and others. Keonho barely spoke, just shook his head and laughed, bass still hanging off his shoulder like he knew none of this would matter in the end.
Juhoon didn’t join in. He just watched them, mic loose in his hand, smiling to himself like this was his favorite part. Their voices blurred together, overlapping and insulting yet loving, like an argument that never actually went anywhere.
“Fuck it,” Juhoon finally said, not even raising his voice. Somehow, it cut straight through everything. “Let’s just play Still Waiting by Sum 41.”
Silence hit the garage for half a second. Then everyone nodded at once, like it had been obvious all along. No complaints. No counterarguments. Just instant agreement, the way things always worked when Juhoon decided to end the madness.
He didn’t waste time. Juhoon stepped closer to the mic, breath steadying, and started the song like he’d been holding it back the whole time. Keonho came in right after him, bass slipping underneath the melody, grounding everything, giving it weight.
James went feral on the drums, arms flying, whole body moving like the beat had possessed him. He played hard, unapologetic, sweat already forming at his hairline, every hit loud enough to feel in your chest.
Martin threw himself into his guitar, fingers pressing hard, heart clearly bleeding into every note like he really believed there were thousands of people screaming back at him instead of dusty walls and stacked boxes.
“Hell yeah!” Martin shouted mid-song, grinning like an idiot, eyes bright, completely gone in the moment.
Seonghyeon leaned into the keyboard, voice joining Juhoon’s without hesitation, harmonizing in that rough, imperfect way that made it better, not worse.
Their voices tangled together, cracked in places, raw and honest and too loud, filling the garage until it felt like there was no room left for anything else.
Martin’s eyes wandered around. One second he was watching James go insane on the drums, the next he was catching Seonghyeon leaning too close to the keyboard, and then, somehow, they landed on Juhoon. And stayed there.
Juhoon was singing like he always did, mouth close to the mic, fingers wrapped tight around it like it might disappear if he let go. His brows were knit together, voice rough but clear.
Martin told himself to look away. He really did. But then his gaze slipped lower, traitorous, and settled on Juhoon’s lips. Since when were they that pink? No, seriously. Since when?
They were always like that, Martin knew this. Everyone knew this. Naturally plump, stupidly noticeable, always the first thing people commented on when they met Juhoon for the first time.
But today they looked different. Fuller. Softer. Like the garage lights were conspiring against him. Like the song was somehow making them look… good. Too good.
Martin’s fingers slipped. The chord came out wrong, sharp and awkward, and his stomach dropped. He kept playing, heart racing, praying no one noticed. He forced his eyes away, stared hard at his guitar, at the scratched body, at the strings that suddenly felt unfamiliar under his fingers. Don’t look. Just don’t look.
He looked again. Right back at Juhoon’s mouth. The way his lips moved with the lyrics, the way his breath hit the mic, the way his jaw tensed when he pushed his voice harder.
God, this was stupid. There was nothing weird about noticing your friend’s lips. Totally normal. Completely fine. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything.
Another wrong string rang out. This time, James glanced over, eyebrow raised, still playing but clearly suspicious. Martin swallowed, face heating up, hands betraying him again and again.
By the time the song crashed to an end, he felt like he’d barely been there at all. Like he’d spent the entire thing floating somewhere between denial and disaster.
“Dude, are you okay?” Seonghyeon asked, already cracking open a soda, grin way too knowing for comfort. “You’re playing the wrong chord, man.”
Keonho nodded in agreement. James didn’t even bother hiding his look. And then Juhoon looked at him too, tilting his head slightly, concern written all over his face.
Juhoon. The problem. The lips. Martin exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. Yeah. He was fucked.