Chapter Text
The dorm room smelled faintly of lemon-scented cleaner and something vaguely fried. It was a box of a space--two beds, two desks, the window cracked half-open to let in what little September breeze it could muster.
Only one side of the room looked lived in.
On the left: pale green sheets pulled tight over a mattress, a pair of sneakers neatly tucked underneath. A cluster of photographs had been carefully pinned to the corkboard above the desk--smiling faces, arms slung over shoulders, a tiny child with a gap-toothed grin sitting in someone’s lap. Racing car posters filled the rest of the wall, edges curling ever so slightly. On the desk, a mesh pen holder brimmed with colourful highlighters, sticky notes, and a small potted plant with a name tag reading “SPEEDY” in crooked handwriting.
The right side--Kenta’s side--was barren.
He stood there stiffly, staring at the mattress with a sense of detachment. Two suitcases sat at his feet. One was unzipped already, half his clothes folded, the other still latched tight. He could hear his father’s voice ringing in his ears--“Don’t embarrass me. You get one chance. Don’t screw it up.” A slap to the back, just hard enough to smart. His father's version of encouragement.
No hug. No smile. Just a heavy hand and the weight of an expectation Kenta hadn’t asked for.
He dropped the first stack of shirts into the drawer. No posters. No photos. Just the dull rhythm of unpacking, trying not to feel anything.
He was kneeling by the second bag, unzipping it with a slow, tired tug, when the door swung open with a sudden gust of air and energy.
“Yo! Sorry, I--oh. Hey.”
Kenta looked up.
A stranger filled the doorway--lean build, warm face, a mop of dark hair that curled slightly at the ends. He wore a white shirt with grease stains smudged across the front and a single silver earring shaped like a lightning bolt. He held a helmet under one arm, and a can of iced coffee in the other.
“I’m Kim,” the guy said easily, smiling like this was the start of something good.
Kenta stood slowly, brushing off his palms. “Kenta.”
Kim’s eyes flicked to the unmade bed, the still-zipped bag. “Just got in?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
There was a short pause. Not awkward, exactly. Just space Kenta didn’t know how to fill.
Kim stepped further into the room, toeing off his shoes. “I got here this morning. Early. My sister cried like I was leaving the country or something.” He gave a small laugh, but not in a way that asked for one in return.
Kenta said nothing.
Kim didn't seem fazed. He set his helmet on the floor beside his bed and cracked open the iced coffee with a quiet hiss. The scent of sugar and cold brew drifted through the air.
“You want one?” Kim asked, gesturing toward the small fridge tucked beneath his desk. “I grabbed a bunch earlier.”
Kenta shook his head. “I’m good.”
Another pause.
Kim gave a little shrug, as if to say your call , and perched on the edge of his bed, taking a slow sip. His gaze flicked to the photos on the wall, then back to Kenta.
“That your family?” Kenta asked before he could stop himself.
Kim’s eyes brightened slightly. “Yeah. Mom, aunt, little sister. We’re kinda a package deal.” He grinned. “You got anyone back home?”
Kenta bent over his bag again. “Just my dad.”
He didn’t say more. Didn’t need to.
There was a brief silence, softer now. Kim didn’t push, just nodded like he understood something he hadn’t been told.
Kenta kept unpacking. He placed his textbooks-- Thermodynamics: Principles and Applications , Advanced Calculus , Digital Systems Design --in a row on the desk, each one pristine, untouched. His hands moved mechanically, folding, arranging, aligning. Order was a comfort.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kim moving too--tacking another photo to the wall, this one of a car half-built in a garage, wires and pipes exposed like veins.
Kenta’s room was still just a shell.
But now there was someone else breathing in it. Someone loud with his quietness, someone whose side of the room radiated a kind of warmth Kenta didn’t quite know how to sit next to.
He didn’t speak again. But for the first time since his father’s car pulled away, he didn’t feel entirely alone.
By the time Kenta had finished unpacking, the sun had dipped below the horizon. The dorm window glowed a soft orange, casting long shadows across the floor. He stood over his desk, adjusting the placement of his lamp for the third time, not because it needed adjusting, but because it gave his hands something to do.
Behind him, Kim was humming. Some upbeat melody--bright and off-key but strangely comforting. The scent of instant noodles wafted from his side of the room, mixing with something citrusy from a bottle of cologne that had clearly been sprayed without restraint.
“You doing anything tonight?” Kim asked suddenly, twisting around in his desk chair.
Kenta glanced up, startled. “No.”
“Cool. There’s a fresher’s social. Kinda like a welcome party, but... unhinged.”
Kenta raised an eyebrow.
Kim grinned. “It’s a foam party.”
“A what?”
Kim turned all the way around, his legs swinging slightly under the desk. “Okay, so imagine a dance floor. But then--imagine it covered in like, a metre of foam. Soap bubbles. Massive machines spray it down from above. People dance, get soaked, sometimes fall over. It’s chaos. But fun.”
Kenta blinked slowly. “That doesn’t sound safe.”
“That’s part of the charm.”
“I don’t dance,” Kenta said flatly.
“Good. Neither do half the people who go. You just jump around until your legs hurt and try not to eat soap.”
Kenta hesitated, crossing his arms.
Kim leaned back in his chair, tilting it dangerously on two legs. “Come with me,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I’m going anyway. You don’t have to stay the whole time.”
“I don’t have clothes for that.”
Kim pointed at him with a chopstick. “Wear something you wouldn’t cry over if it got destroyed. Old t-shirt, shorts. Maybe something black--you’ll thank me when you’re drenched and don’t look like a wet tissue.”
Kenta frowned, but the resistance in him was starting to dissolve. Something about Kim’s energy--it pulled at him, like gravity. Not demanding, just… hopeful.
“I’ll think about it.”
Kim raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes either.”
“Yet.”
Kenta turned away before Kim could see the corner of his mouth twitch. He opened a drawer and pulled out an old navy-blue tee and a pair of worn gym shorts. He held them in his hands for a second, thumb brushing the frayed hem. He had no idea what he was doing. He had never been to a party that involved anything besides polite conversation and maybe tea if it was someone's birthday.
But there was something about the thought of not being alone in that room. Something about Kim, all full of light and noise, offering him a place beside it.
He placed the clothes gently on the bed. Behind him, Kim’s chair creaked.
“You’re gonna have fun,” Kim said confidently. “Or hate it and then we leave early and grab food. Either way, it’ll be memorable.”
Kenta didn’t answer. But as he looked at the set of clothes on his bed--cheap cotton, faded seams--he realised something in his chest had cracked open just a little. Just enough to let the night in.
The walk to the venue wasn’t long, but it felt like entering a different planet. Music thudded from somewhere ahead, low bass vibrating the pavement underfoot. The air smelled like summer sweat and cheap body spray, and there were people--so many people--pouring down the street in glitter, face paint, crop tops, ripped jeans, and glow-in-the-dark necklaces.
Kenta kept his hands in the pockets of his gym shorts. His shirt clung to his skin just slightly--it was warm out, but his nerves made it worse.
Beside him, Kim walked like he owned the night. Sleeves rolled up, easy grin stretched across his face, and a pair of neon bracelets already on his wrist, probably handed to him by someone ten minutes ago. Every person they passed, Kim seemed to know how to smile at. Like he belonged anywhere.
Kenta trailed just behind. Not because Kim made him feel small, but because the whole thing--the crowd, the music, the idea of a foam party--felt too big. Too loud.
But Kim glanced back every so often. Said things like, “Almost there,” or “Stick with me, you’ll be fine,” and Kenta found himself doing exactly that.
When they reached the student union’s open courtyard, it had been transformed. Two enormous bubble cannons were set up on either side of the dance floor, guarded by staff in plastic ponchos. A neon sign flickered above the DJ booth. People were already packed shoulder-to-shoulder, pre-gaming, taking photos, stumbling out of line for cheap cocktails and laughing like it was the only thing that mattered.
“Kim!” someone shouted. Two guys waved from under a banner draped above a drinks stall. They looked about their age--maybe a little older. One was wiry and sharp-featured, a mop of curls bouncing as he moved. The other was stockier, with heavy eyebrows and a wide, mischievous smile.
“Alan! Babe!” Kim called out, pulling Kenta with him.
Babe was the first to speak. “You better be coming into the pit, bro,” he said, pointing toward the cannon with a wicked grin. “We’re getting annihilated. ”
“Only if you can keep up this time,” Kim fired back, bumping fists with him.
The two immediately launched into a back-and-forth about engine mods and favourite Grand Prix rivalries. Babe was animated, throwing his arms around, arguing with mock outrage over a driver Kim clearly didn’t rate. Kim was grinning wide, sharper now--more himself. Confident, clever, quick-witted.
Kenta had never seen him like this. He usually floated through their dorm in soft clothes and sleepy smiles. This version of Kim was magnetic.
“Hey,” Alan said beside him, nudging gently with his elbow. “You’re Kim’s roomie, right? Kenta?”
Kenta nodded, grateful the music wasn’t too loud yet. “Yeah.”
“Cool. You studying engineering too?”
He nodded again. “Yeah. Second gen. Pressure’s kind of high.”
Alan gave a lopsided smile. “Aren’t we all. Don’t worry, we’ll all be sleep-deprived and underperforming together.”
Kenta huffed out something close to a laugh. Alan’s tone wasn’t forced. It wasn’t that polished party friendliness that always felt like a test--he was easy to talk to. Casual. Just enough space for Kenta to step into.
Ahead of them, one of the foam cannons groaned to life as a staff member prepped it.
“Oh my god,” Alan said, pointing. “Look at that thing. It’s like a toddler’s fever dream. I give it twenty minutes before someone slips and eats shit.”
Kenta watched as two girls posed right in front of it, one crouching dramatically as if preparing to be launched into orbit by soap. He found himself smiling without meaning to.
Then he said, surprising himself, “I think I need a drink.”
Kim turned like he’d heard a secret. “Now that’s what I like to hear. Let’s go.”
Babe whooped. “Shots, bitches!”
The bar was overwhelmed, but Kim knew how to wedge himself through people with a few apologetic smiles and gentle shoulder-taps. Kenta stayed close behind, feeling the heat of the crowd press against him from all directions.
They lined up, ordered a round--Alan and Babe on one side, Kim on the other. Kim passed Kenta a tiny glass filled with something electric blue.
“To getting soaked,” Kim grinned.
Kenta hesitated. Then tapped the rim of his glass against Kim’s. “To… whatever this is.”
The shot burned sweet and sharp. It hit his stomach like lightning and he blinked the sting from his eyes.
Then the foam cannons roared to life.
The crowd screamed, half in joy, half in panic as the first wave of soap sprayed into the centre of the dancefloor. The DJ cut in hard with bass-heavy music and suddenly the entire courtyard was moving.
Alan tugged on Kenta’s arm. “C’mon! Centre’s where the fun is!”
Babe was already sprinting ahead, Kim close behind, dragging a trail of foam with him as it coated the pavement. Kenta hesitated only a second, then ran after them.
The music was loud enough now to rattle inside his chest. Foam rose fast--first around their ankles, then to their waists. The bubbles glowed in the pulsing lights, all neon pinks and greens and flashes of gold from glowsticks being thrown like confetti.
Kenta was soaked in seconds. Cold water slithered down his back, clung to his legs. He almost slipped once, caught himself, and turned just as Kim hurled a pile of bubbles at him.
It smacked him square in the chest.
Kenta blinked through the foam. Kim was laughing--loud, open-mouthed, breathless. His hair was sticking to his forehead, and his cheeks were red from the cold. “You’re too clean,” he yelled over the music.
Kenta tried to glare, but it faltered into a crooked smile.
Alan threw bubbles at Babe, Babe retaliated by dragging him under a wave, and suddenly it was all chaos. Kenta found himself in the middle of it--elbow-deep in soap, swatting bubbles at Kim, slipping in foam, laughing like something had finally come unknotted in his chest.
Kim was near him again--close enough that their shoulders bumped. He scooped a handful of foam and dropped it dramatically on Kenta’s head.
“Perfect,” Kim declared.
Kenta snorted, trying to blink the bubbles from his lashes.
Their eyes met.
For a second, the crowd fell away. Kim’s smile was still there, a little softer now, the lights behind him casting shadows across his jaw. His hand lingered at Kenta’s shoulder, like he might say something else--but the bass dropped and someone crashed into them, breaking the moment.
Kenta turned away, cheeks flushed--not from the cold this time.
He felt warm, a little drunk and not nearly as lost as he’d been when the night started.
They squelched their way down the pavement, a slow-moving, soaked parade of four.
The music still echoed faintly behind them, muffled by buildings and distance, but the night had grown quieter. Streetlights cast long puddle-lit shadows across the path, and every few steps someone’s shoes made an audible shhhlup as foam squished out with each movement.
Kenta’s shirt clung to him like wet cling film. His shorts were cold and heavy against his legs. Each step felt like dragging a wet towel behind him, but he didn’t complain. His throat was sore from laughing--something he hadn’t done that hard in a long time.
Alan wrung out the hem of his shirt with a grimace. “I smell like a laundromat and regret.”
“Speak for yourself,” Babe replied, stretching his arms overhead. “I feel reborn. Baptised by soap.”
“You fell twice, ” Kim added, grinning.
“Exactly. Twice cleansed.”
They all laughed, and Kenta found himself smiling again--tired, but genuine.
When they reached the main crossroads on campus, Alan clapped Kim on the back. “We’re this way. Try not to drown in your sleep.”
Kim gave them a salute, then glanced back at Kenta. “We’ll manage.”
Babe gave Kenta a half-wave, surprisingly sincere for someone who’d been throwing bubbles at him an hour ago. “Nice meeting you, man.”
Kenta nodded. “You too.”
And then it was just the two of them again, walking side-by-side in the quiet.
The squelching from their shoes was absurdly loud now, echoing down the empty path.
Kenta glanced down at his own legs--foam still clung to his shins and his shirt stuck unpleasantly to his chest.
Kim let out a breathy laugh. “You look like a drowned rat.”
“You don’t look much better.”
“That’s fair.”
They climbed the stairs back to their floor, wet footprints trailing behind them. The dorm smelled like soap and sweat and hallway carpet, but it felt like a relief to be back.
Kim peeled off his shirt almost immediately, tossing it into the corner laundry basket. “You shower first,” he said, already rooting through his drawers for clean clothes. “I’ll go after. I think I’ve got bubble in my ear.”
Kenta didn’t argue. He grabbed a towel and a pair of pyjamas from his side of the room and disappeared into the shared bathroom. The hot water felt like salvation. He stood under it for longer than necessary, watching foam swirl down the drain, his fingers wrinkling, head resting lightly against the tile.
When he returned, towel slung over his shoulders, Kim had changed into loose sweats and a tank top. He shot Kenta a mock-serious look as he passed. “Tell my story if I don’t make it back.”
Kenta just shook his head, but a quiet laugh slipped from him as the bathroom door shut.
He sat on his bed, running a hand through his damp hair. The night had left him more tired than he expected. And warm, strangely warm in a way that had nothing to do with body temperature. He stared down at his phone, scrolled for a bit, but his mind wandered--to the party, to the bubbles, to Kim’s laugh too close to his face.
The bathroom door opened with a whoosh of steam and Kim returned, towel slung low on his hips, hair dripping.
“You ever been to something like that before?” Kim asked, rubbing his head dry as he crossed to his side of the room.
“No,” Kenta admitted, voice quiet.
Kim grinned. “You held your own. Didn’t think you’d actually get in the foam.”
“You threw it at me.”
“Exactly. You passed the vibe check.”
Kenta gave him a look, but he didn’t argue. He slid into bed, tugging the blanket over himself, muscles still humming from the night’s chaos.
Kim flopped onto his own bed with a theatrical sigh, still damp at the edges. “God, I love uni. Week one and I’ve already made enemies with two bartenders and danced in someone else’s shoes.”
Kenta blinked. “Someone else’s?”
Kim grinned up at the ceiling. “Mine came off. I just… found a pair. Improvised.”
Kenta let his head fall to the side, catching a glimpse of Kim’s face in the dark--smiling, relaxed, eyes soft with exhaustion and contentment.
Kim kept talking. About the DJ’s awful remix, about Babe trying to body slam Alan in foam, about some girl who’d tried to climb the cannon like it was a mechanical bull.
Kenta didn’t say much. He listened, barely moving, his body slowly sinking deeper into the mattress.
Kim’s voice was softer now, rambling through half-thoughts and stories that didn’t need endings.
Kenta closed his eyes.
The room buzzed gently with the sound of a fan and Kim’s voice--low, warm, and steady. He didn’t remember the moment he fell asleep. But somewhere in the middle of Kim laughing about foam fights and Alan’s overdramatic fall, Kenta drifted.
And for the first time, he didn’t dream of his father’s voice.
He just slept.