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The fluorescent lighting of the Student Union’s basement annex had a persistent, low-frequency hum that seemed designed to fray human nerves. Yunho didn’t mind it so much, but he could tell Mingi was on the verge of vibrating right out of his oversized denim jacket.

"Mingi, breathe," Yunho murmured, nudging his friend’s shoulder with his own. "You’re chewing your thumbnail down to the bone."

"I shouldn't have put this off," Mingi muttered, hastily dropping his hand and wiping it on his jeans. "Why did we wait until sophomore spring to get our community service credits? We could have just planted trees, Yunho. Trees don't have feelings. Trees don't require you to be a competent conversationalist."

"You love people," Yunho pointed out, offering an easy, reassuring grin. "And planting trees gives you pollen hives. You’d have sneezed yourself into the emergency room. Besides, the coordinator said this was mostly about peer socialization and campus navigation. We can do that. You’re great at showing people around."

"Yeah, when I’m not terrified of saying the exact wrong thing," Mingi grumbled, shifting his long frame on the hard plastic chair. He stared down at his scuffed sneakers, his broad shoulders hunched so high they nearly touched his ears.

The program was called the Inclusive Campus Network, a peer-pairing initiative run through the university's disability resource center. Because both Yunho and Mingi had neglected their mandatory co-curricular volunteer hours until the absolute final deadline, they had been assigned to a group intake rather than the typical one-on-one match. The coordinator had given them only brief files: two upperclassmen and an incoming freshman who often moved around campus as an inseparable trio.

Before Mingi could spiral into another round of catastrophic what-ifs, the frosted glass door swung open.

Yunho straightened instinctively. Mingi froze, his fingers knotting into the fabric of his jeans.

Three boys entered the room.

The first was striking enough to momentarily steal the breath from Yunho’s lungs. He was tall and remarkably slim, dressed in an impeccably draped charcoal trench coat over an asymmetrical knit sweater that looked straight off a runway. Soft, dark hair fell across his brow, framing delicate, breathtakingly sharp features. His eyes swept the room with an acute, hyper-aware brightness, taking in the lighting, the layout, and finally settling on Yunho and Mingi with an open, radiant warmth.

Beside him walked a much shorter young man with vibrant, messy blond hair and thick, black-rimmed glasses that obscured gentle, downcast eyes. In his right hand, he held a sleek white mobility cane with a red tip, though he wasn’t actively sweeping it across the flat linoleum floor; instead, his left hand rested lightly on the taller boy’s elbow, using him as a sighted guide. Over his shoulder hung a weathered leather messenger bag bulging with what looked like thick, bound notebooks and audio equipment.

Behind them came the third member of their group. A freshman, Yunho guessed, dressed in an oversized yellow hoodie with sleeves pulled completely down over his hands. Large, padded noise-canceling headphones rested over his ears, and his eyes darted everywhere—the vents, the clock on the wall, the posters—without once lingering on the faces of anyone in the room. He was rocking gently on the balls of his feet, fingers rhythmically tapping against his thighs inside the long sleeves.

"Hello!" the tall boy announced.

His voice caught Yunho by surprise. It possessed a unique, nasal resonance and a careful, melodic cadence that lacked the standard inflection of a hearing speaker—the distinct, beautiful hallmark of a deaf accent. As he spoke, his long, silver-ringed fingers moved fluidly in the air, pairing his vocal words with expressive, elegant sign language.

"I am Seonghwa," he said, the vowels drawn out slightly, enunciated with deliberate clarity. "Park Seonghwa. Very nice to meet you."

Yunho scrambled to his feet, bowing respectfully. "Hello! I’m Jeong Yunho. And this is Song Mingi."

Beside him, Mingi stood up in an awkward, jerky motion, nearly knocking his plastic chair backward. "H-hello," Mingi choked out, bowing so low and fast he looked like he might fold in half. When he straightened, his face was bright red, his eyes darting frantically between Seonghwa’s signing hands and his smiling face, completely paralyzed by the fear of being impolite.

Seonghwa’s dark eyes crinkled at the corners. He seemed entirely used to this brand of sudden panic. He dropped his left hand from the air and gently patted the forearm of the blond boy beside him, tapping twice in what seemed like a pre-established shorthand.

"Hongjoong-ah," Seonghwa said, his voice soft, turning his chin slightly so the blond could track his movements. "We have arrived. Yunho and Mingi."

The blond boy, Hongjoong, perked up slightly, though he immediately tucked his chin closer to his chest. He reached up with one small hand, adjusting the thick black frames of his glasses. Even behind the heavy lenses, his eyes remained unfocused, drifting somewhere toward Yunho’s chest level.

"H-hi," Hongjoong murmured. His voice was naturally raspy, barely louder than a whisper, completely contrasting with the boldness of his dyed hair. "I’m Kim Hongjoong. Junior. Music composition."

"Nice to meet you, Hongjoong-ssi," Yunho said warmly, taking care to speak clearly toward him.

Hongjoong flushed, shrinking a fraction further behind Seonghwa’s shoulder. He was clearly agonized by the prospect of speaking to strangers, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the braided strap of his cane.

"Hongjoong is very shy with new people," Seonghwa explained cheerfully, his hands dancing again in graceful arcs to mirror his speech. "Do not worry. Once he knows you, he never stops talking. He will lecture you about sound engineering until your ears fall off."

A tiny, defensive puff of air escaped Hongjoong’s lips, though a fond smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I do not," he muttered under his breath, nudging Seonghwa with his hip.

"You do," Seonghwa replied without looking down, clearly having anticipated the nudge.

All the while, the younger boy in the yellow hoodie had drifted toward the corner of the room where a cluster of plush beanbag chairs sat near a bookshelf. He didn't acknowledge anyone, sinking down into the center of the largest cushion with a soft sigh, immediately pulling his knees to his chest. He reached into his pocket and produced a small, multi-textured silicone cube, his fingers methodically tracing its ridges.

Mingi watched him, his throat visibly bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Um... is he...?" Mingi started, then abruptly cut himself off, looking horrified that he had pointed it out. "I mean—sorry, I didn't mean to stare, I just—"

"It is okay," Seonghwa said smoothly, taking a seat at the circular conference table and guiding Hongjoong into the chair right beside him. Hongjoong set his cane against the table edge, carefully aligning it so it wouldn't roll onto the floor, before folding his hands neatly in his lap.

Seonghwa looked directly at Mingi, offering an encouraging, patient smile that instantly took some of the tension out of the room. "That is Wooyoung. He is a freshman. Severely autistic, and he does not use spoken words. Non-verbal." Seonghwa tapped the side of his own head, then made a broad, circling motion with his palm. "A lot of noise and new places are very big for him. The headphones help. He knows we are here, and he is listening in his own way, but he will probably not look at you or speak to you today. That is just Wooyoung. You don't need to feel awkward."

"Oh," Mingi breathed, the tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. "Okay. That's... yeah. That's totally fine. I get overwhelmed by crowded places too, honestly."

Seonghwa beamed at that, his eyes lighting up. "See? Common ground already."

Yunho pulled out a chair for Mingi and then sat beside him, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "The coordinator mentioned we’d be helping with whatever you guys need around campus, but honestly, you two seem like you have a pretty solid routine already."

"We do," Seonghwa agreed, nodding. He signed the word routine—two hands moving together in a steady, synchronized rhythm. "Hongjoong and I have been roommates since freshman year. I am his eyes when we walk through the construction on the north quad; he is my ears when the fire alarm goes off or someone knocks on our dorm door."

"Seonghwa is a fashion design major," Hongjoong offered quietly, gaining a tiny burst of bravery. He tilted his ear toward Yunho’s voice. "He makes incredible clothes. But the studio professors never face the class when they demonstrate sewing techniques, so he can't read their lips."

"Ah," Yunho nodded in understanding. "Lip-reading is hard when someone's looking down at a sewing machine."

"Impossible," Seonghwa said with a dramatic, exasperated roll of his eyes that made even Mingi crack a small smile. "They look at the fabric, they mumble, and I am left guessing why the bobbin thread is tangling. But we manage. Hongjoong and I take care of each other. The real reason we signed up for this program is Wooyoung."

Across the room, at the mention of his name, Wooyoung didn't lift his head, but his foot gave a rhythmic, double tap against the beanbag.

"His parents were very worried about him coming to university," Seonghwa continued, his expression softening with fierce, protective affection. "He is brilliant—he is doing independent study in computational mathematics—but the world is not built for people like him. Or like us. Hongjoong’s mother is friends with Wooyoung’s mother. So we promised to look out for him. But next semester, Hongjoong and I have overlapping studio and lab times on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Wooyoung needs someone to walk him from the science building to the dining hall, make sure he gets his lunch without having a sensory overload, and walk him back to his dorm."

"I can do that," Mingi blurted out.

Every head at the table turned toward him. Hongjoong’s chin lifted slightly in curiosity, while Seonghwa’s eyebrows arched in pleasant surprise.

Mingi swallowed, his ears turning bright pink, but he didn't shrink back this time. "I mean... if he’s okay with it. I’m really quiet, usually. I know I’m loud when I get startled, but I don't talk a lot if someone needs silence. I like silence. My dorm room is always dark because bright lights give me migraines. And... I know how bad it feels when people try to force you into small talk when your brain feels like it’s frying."

Hongjoong smiled. It was small, but genuine, transforming his shy, serious face into something wonderfully warm. "Wooyoung hates small talk more than anything. If you don't talk to him, he’ll probably decide you're his favorite person within twenty minutes."

Seonghwa watched Mingi closely, reading his lips and his open, earnest body language. Slowly, Seonghwa brought his right hand up to his chin, fingers flat, and extended it outward toward Mingi—the sign for thank you.

"Thank you, Mingi-ya," Seonghwa vocalized, his tone rich with sincere gratitude. "That would be a very great help. Truly."

Mingi ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck, a genuine, bashful grin finally breaking through his anxious facade. "Yeah. Of course."

"And what about you, Yunho?" Seonghwa turned his gaze to the taller boy. "What are you studying?"

"Broadcasting and digital media," Yunho answered.

At that, Hongjoong gasped softly. "Broadcasting? Do you work with the campus radio station?"

"I do, actually!" Yunho leaned in, pleased by the sudden spark of interest. "I help produce the late-night indie music segment on Thursdays. I mostly handle the mixing board and the track leveling."

Hongjoong’s entire posture shifted. The painfully shy, reserved boy who had been hiding behind his bangs practically vanished. His hands gripped the edge of the table, his unseeing eyes wide behind his glasses. "You use the Soundcraft console in the basement of the arts hall? The analog board with the motorized faders?"

"You know that board?" Yunho asked, surprised.

"I dream about that board," Hongjoong admitted, a breathless, nerdy enthusiasm completely taking over his voice. "I’ve wanted to get into that studio all semester, but the university accessibility office hasn't updated the screen-reader software on the auxiliary computers down there, so I haven't been able to book the room without a sighted operator."

"Well," Yunho said with a low chuckle, feeling an immediate, easy kinship settle in his chest, "consider your operator found. I’m down there three nights a week anyway. You can come by whenever you want. I’ll run the software, you can do the sound design."

Hongjoong looked as if someone had just handed him the keys to the universe. He turned impulsively to Seonghwa, his hands flying to grip his friend's sleeve. "Seonghwa, did you hear that? The Soundcraft board."

Seonghwa laughed aloud—a bright, airy sound that didn't care about pitch or volume, completely unselfconscious. He reached up and gently ruffled Hongjoong’s blond hair, letting the younger boy bounce in his seat.

"I heard," Seonghwa said, signing happy with a broad sweep across his chest. "I am very happy for you, Joong-ah."

Over in the corner, a soft, repetitive thumping began.

Yunho glanced over, curious. Wooyoung had stood up from the beanbag chair. He still wasn't looking at any of them, his gaze fixed somewhere on the baseboard near the door, but he was shifting his weight from side to side in a rhythmic, swaying dance, his hands flapping loosely at his wrists.

Mingi stiffened slightly, clearly wondering if something was wrong. "Is he okay?"

"He is happy," Seonghwa explained without missing a beat, his eyes tracking Wooyoung’s movements with easy familiarity. "When the room gets too full of excited voices, he regulates by moving. He likes the energy, even if he doesn't join in."

Wooyoung took three deliberate steps toward the table, keeping his eyes downcast. He stopped just behind Seonghwa’s chair, reaching out with an extended sleeve to gently pull at the hem of Seonghwa’s charcoal trench coat. He gave it two distinct tugs.

Seonghwa checked his wristwatch, which was equipped with a high-contrast analog face. "Ah. It is five o’clock. Wooyoung’s dinner routine."

"Dining hall has the pork cutlet today," Hongjoong supplied, reaching for his white cane. "If we don't get there before the rush, the line will be out the door, and the noise will be terrible."

"Right." Seonghwa stood, smoothing down his coat with practiced elegance. He looked across the table at Yunho and Mingi, his smile breathtakingly warm. "Would you two like to walk with us? We can show Mingi the route Wooyoung takes, and Hongjoong can tell Yunho about every compressor pedal he has ever owned."

"I don't talk that much about compressors," Hongjoong protested weakly, though he was already standing, sweeping his cane out in a practiced, fluid arc to find the perimeter of his chair.

Mingi stood up, and for the first time since they had entered the basement annex, there wasn't a trace of hesitation in his posture. He looked at Wooyoung, who was still safely tucked behind Seonghwa, clutching his textured silicone cube.

"I'd like that," Mingi said softly.

Yunho smiled, pushing his chair in and falling into step beside Hongjoong, naturally matching the shorter boy's careful, rhythmic pace.

As they stepped out of the room and into the corridor, the hum of the basement lights didn't seem quite so harsh anymore. Seonghwa led the way, his hands still moving through the air, telling a silent, beautiful story that Mingi was already trying his hardest to understand.