Archive of Our Own

All it takes is a world tour for Yonghoon to break. 

If someone had told him this before they left Soul, he would’ve laughed it off. Maybe if they’d warned him, he would’ve tried to prepare, might’ve approached it more carefully. Even though he’s not sure it would’ve helped at all. 

Because from the moment it begins, it feels like he never really had a choice. 

It starts like a dream come true. 

Stop after stop. Cities blurring past bus windows, blinking neon signs, sticky bar tables, broken drumsticks and guitar strings that need changing.

They’re finally doing it. Playing their music in front of crowds who never thought they’d get to see them live, for people they'd never even hoped to reach. Stages bathed in foreign languages and fans singing all their songs back to them.

They enjoy every second of it like it’s the last. They laugh constantly, sleep deprived, tired and slightly unhinged. They eat terrible food at midnight and crash into hotel beds still wearing makeup and stage clothes. Giuk ends up in the wrong room more than once. Dongmyeong documents everything with wide, glowy eyes. Harin becomes the unspoken group therapist.

Hyungu, like always, keeps close but not too close. Except when he does.

Yonghoon doesn’t know when it shifts.

It begins quietly, like fog rolling in across a familiar street. But then it grows. It pulls and folds and winds itself around them, and no one knows anymore where the performance ends and the real thing begins.

Yonghoon doesn’t see it at first. Doesn’t feel it until it’s already in his lungs, already settled under his skin. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, the proximity, the fleeting softness in Hyungu’s gestures. The way his knuckles linger a moment against Yonghoon’s wrist when he hands him a new setlist, or the way he brushes past him on stage like they’ve done a thousand times before, except now it leaves sparks.

It starts in little moments and then it’s suddenly everywhere. A glance that holds, a laugh that falls softer than usual. The way their bodies find each other in shared spaces without thinking, on couches, in dressing rooms, backstage halls. It’s just a pattern at first, a rhythm born from habit, from the intimacy of years spent in close orbit. But then it becomes something else, something quieter, heavier.

Off stage things stay easy, playful, safe enough.

Hyungu teases the way he always does, a little smug, a little affectionate, but now his voice sounds rougher, resonates differently in Yonghoon’s mind. And Yonghoon laughs and keeps the jokes going, clingy, loud, annoying on purpose, but it sticks in his throat more and more. 

On stage it’s different, more intense, sharper around the edges. 

Every night Yonghoon finds himself gravitating toward him, closing the distance, letting their shoulders bump, their skin touch. A kind of intimate gravity that doesn’t care who’s watching, that forgets there is an audience at all. There is heat in those moments, something teetering. Casual touches that happen in passing but stick. Words that catch in his mouth before they ever make it to the microphone.

Yonghoon pulls Hyungu into him during a song one night and Hyungu lets him, tilts toward him even, drops his guard just a bit. His face so close, Yonghoon can feel the warmth of his breath. The lights flicker, the crowd roars, and for a moment it doesn’t feel like a performance at all. 

After that, it keeps happening, and every time it feels a little more dangerous.

It’s only adrenaline, Yonghoon keeps telling himself, the high of performance. And yet, none of it fades when the lights go down. None of it disappears when the crowd is gone.

It’s there in the quiet, too. In the way Hyungu still leans too close backstage, even when there is no one watching. In the way his fingers brush Yonghoon’s shoulder on the way out of a room, always too soft, always lingering. In the way Yonghoon starts holding his breath just a little every time they’re alone.

He doesn’t say anything, not for a while. He lets it build.

The ache. The wonder. The questions that sit just behind his ribcage. The need to know what is real and what is just part of the show. 

He watches Hyungu during soundchecks, during fan meetings, during those brief, stolen moments between cities when it’s just the five of them crammed in a van, dozing against each other like overgrown kids, and he can’t seem to find an answer. 

And somewhere between one show and the next, between venues and hotel check-ins, the days begin to blur. The highs stretch longer, the lows hit harder. Time bends around them like a trick of the light, reshaping what matters and what doesn’t when real life is on pause, left behind in the living room of their shared dorm in Seoul.

Out here on the road, under warm stage lights and in hotel rooms that all look the same, nothing feels entirely real. Or, maybe, too real.

By the time they hit the sixth or seventh stop, Yonghoon can’t tell anymore.

Hyungu’s solos hit, and like clockwork Yonghoon crosses the stage, letting something he can’t name tug him closer again and again. 

Hyungu leans in during an encore, hair brushing Yonghoon’s jaw as Yonghoon’s arm loops around his shoulder from behind, and stays there longer than it needs to. His voice is low, heavy from the song, when he whispers into Yonghoon’s ear.

“You’re crowding me, hyung.”

It’s meant to be a tease, Yonghoon can hear that much, but something in Hyungu’s tone still makes his stomach knot. He grins anyway, tightening his grip and pulling him even closer as fans scream.

“You love it.” Yonghoon replies, lips too close to Hyungu’s ear. And Hyungu’s smirk deepens, and he doesn’t pull away.

It’s harmless, or at least, it should be. Flirty, playful. Fans love it.

That's the excuse.

And so it continues, city after city, song after song. 

He throws Hyungu smiles across the stage mid-song, microphone clutched in hand, caught in moments that don't belong in the setlist. Hyungu meets his eyes more often than not, and sometimes— sometimes, he smiles back like he’s not pretending.

Yonghoon drops down from the stage one night in the middle of a guitar solo and faces Hyungu from there, looking up at him in wonder like every other fan in the crowd.

When Hyungu sees him mid-strum, he falters for just a moment, a tremor in his grip, a slight break in his expression. But then he leans into it, letting a small, mischievous smirk tug at the corner of his lips, and slowly sinks to his knees, closing the distance just enough that they’re eye to eye. Just enough that the moment shifts from playful to something heavier. His hands never stop playing. His gaze doesn’t drop.

Yonghoon forgets to breathe. Forgets where he is, what song they’re in or how many eyes are trained on them. His heart lodges somewhere in his throat. 

And right then is when he realizes he’s already in too deep.

He reaches out and slides his hand along the curve of Hyungu’s jaw, just briefly, fingers brushing the skin just under his ear before moving to his hair. It’s gentle, too gentle for the storm of noise around them. Still, his thumb lingers at Hyungu’s cheekbone, his fingers leave the softest of touch on his neck, and Hyungu lets him, leans into it like it’s instinct.

But then Yonghoon almost misses his cue and the moment breaks, the song surges forward, and they both move back to their respective places, turning their routines back on. 

Hyungu’s eyes are bright in the dark as he flashes the kind of smile that doesn’t mean anything.

Except maybe it does.

And then backstage, before or after shows, in dressing rooms too small to hold all five of them together. There are shared silences thick enough to cut with a knife, glances that seem to hold the entirety of their hearts in them, too intimate for everyone else to witness.

There is Hyungu crouched by his guitar case, wiping down the strings, and Yonghoon dropping beside him, voice low, teasing.

“I’m gonna give you a kiss mid-solo one of these nights.”

Hyungu grins without looking up. “You wish.”

He says it lightly, but his hand holds onto Yonghoon’s thigh when he stands. It stays there just a moment too long, and neither of them mentions it.

Yonghoon tries not to let any of it get to him, and still, inevitably, it does.

Suddenly, everything inside him feels sharper. Like something unsaid is threaded through it all. Like it’s all tilted slightly out of balance. Like it might tip. 

And maybe it’s nothing, or not as big as it feels, but once that recognition settles in, Yonghoon can’t seem to shake it. It turns quiet moments into something heavier, ordinary touches into questions, ones that don’t need to be asked out loud to weigh on him all the same.

So when it keeps happening, through another backstage lull, just the two of them and the distant noise of the others bleeding through the wall, Yonghoon is already too aware of it.

He sits curled into one end of the couch, legs tangled loosely with Hyungu’s, their knees overlapping the way they’ve done a hundred times before without thinking. They share the space as usual. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, passing the guitar back and forth, messing around more than actually playing. 

It should feel like nothing, and in some ways it does. But there is something different under the surface this time, something less accidental, more intimate. 

At some point Hyungu starts to play softly, fingers moving effortlessly along the frets, picking through a familiar progression that never turned into a full song. Something written years ago and never really finished, a melody that only lived in dorm rooms and late-night practice. For a while, Yonghoon just listens. He lets his eyes linger on the movement, following the curve of Hyungu’s jaw, the softness of his bottom lip, the way his lashes rest against his cheeks.

It feels almost prohibited, what he's doing, a violation of the careful routines that keep their friendship safely within orders.

It’s that specific feeling that makes him drop his gaze back down to his own knuckles, scared by his own want but unable to erase it.

So Yonghoon closes his eyes, tilts his head, lets his shoulder ease just a bit against Hyungu’s, and starts to hum. It’s quiet, lazy, barely more than breath shaped into sound. But it fits, it settles into the spaces between Hyungu’s notes, meant to be exactly there. Hyungu lets him without question, keeping the chords anchored in a gentle framework for Yonghoon’s voice, while a smile sits at the corner of his mouth. 

He lets a few more notes hang in the air before he speaks. “Maybe that’s why this one never made it into an album.”

Yonghoon’s eyes open. He turns his head, just enough to see Hyungu still looking at his guitar, not at him. “Why?”  

“This.” Hyungu says, shrugging as he lets the chord resolve. “Because I like it better when you sing it like this.”

Yonghoon’s breath catches. “Like what?”

“Soft, flawed. Without trying to make it perfect for the stage.” Hyungu responds as he plays a few more notes, then adds quietly, almost like an afterthought, “Like this, when it’s just you and me.”

The words sink heavily into Yonghoon, into a place he’s trying to keep silent, too charged for how quietly they were delivered. He finds his breath faltering, a rush of warmth creeping up his spine. Inside him, something twists. A mixture of nervousness and pure, vulnerable affection. 

He lets the weight of it all hit him fully. The softness in Hyungu’s voice, the slight tremble in his grip, something that resonates with all the changing feelings, the confusion, the want that Yonghoon has been wrestling with. He finds himself wondering if Hyungu actually feels it, too. This, and everything else in between. Whatever is growing between the noise of the stage and the silence after.

He wants to break the quiet and ask, Is there really something more here that we’re afraid to name?

But the moment hangs too fragile in the space between them, and neither dares to speak it aloud. So Yonghoon tilts his head just a bit more to rest it fully on Hyungu’s shoulder, closing his eyes and letting their warmth seep through. 

This kind of closeness would’ve meant nothing a few weeks ago, but now feels like standing on the edge of a cliff.

The quiet breaks too soon as Giuk pushes the dressing room door open, phone in hand. He glances up and falters, eyebrows lifting at the scene in front of him: Yonghoon with his side resting against Hyungu, his head on his shoulder, their limbs casually intertwined, their voices gone quieter. 

“Did I interrupt something romantic?” Giuk deadpans, adding a mischievous tilt to his lips just to be annoying.

Hyungu chuckles as he glances up. A low, lazy sound that slides under Yonghoon’s skin and sticks. “Shut up.” 

He finally pulls back, then. The distance he puts between them is small but immediate, making everything feel a little colder. The spell breaks with it instantly, and whatever was between them dissolves just like that.

The air around them changes even more after that.

It’s subtle at first. A shift in how the space between them feels, heavier somehow.

The rooms don’t feel empty anymore, not even when they are. Even when it’s just the two of them, even when no one else is around, Yonghoon starts to feel the weight of being seen in that quiet, unmistakable way that says someone knows. 

And once he notices it, it’s impossible to ignore.

It's there, plain and clear, in how the others stop pretending not to see it. In the subtle shift in the atmosphere. In the way the room quiets whenever he and Hyungu get a little too locked into each other’s space. In Giuk's glances from across the dressing room, the kind that feel like being x-rayed. In the way Harin tracks them during soundcheck, watching Yonghoon stand behind Hyungu, always too close without even realizing. In the careful, quiet amusement on Dongmyeong's face whenever they have their moments on stage, always seeing too much.

They don't say anything about it, not at first.

Not when it’s still just on-stage shenanigans, looks held too long or hands brushing a little too often backstage. Not when it’s easy enough to pass off as part of the act, part of the thrill, part of the tour.

They let it slide while it’s still technically deniable.

Until whatever this is has slipped way past the safety line. Until Yonghoon can’t lie to any of them without them immediately calling bullshit.

It drifts freely, unanchored, before it finally drops in the space between them when someone says it out loud. When the moment is spoken to his face, shaped into actual words by someone else’s mouth. That’s when it stops being a vague heat behind his ribs and starts being something sharp and undeniable.

And Yonghoon realizes, with a sinking kind of clarity, that it’s not just him anymore.

That they all see it now. 

“Seriously.” Harin says one evening, when they’re all flopped post-rehearsal in various states of collapse, scrolling through fan clips. He holds up his phone, replaying the same five seconds of Yonghoon turning to Hyungu during a chorus and smiling. “It’s like you’re writing a whole new sub-plot for the tour.”

Yonghoon doesn’t even look. He’s slouched deep into the couch, melted into the cushions, hoodie pulled over his head. Next to him, Hyungu has one leg folded under the other, shoulder brushing lightly against his.

Close, but not more than usual. Close, exactly like usual. Which is maybe the problem.

“What?” Hyungu answers for both of them, eyebrows lifting just slightly, playing along.

Giuk finally looks up from the snack he’s been unwrapping for the last full minute. “You two, leader line. Performing fanfictions in real time." He smirks. "You’re not really subtle.”

Yonghoon groans into the collar of his hoodie, sinking further into the cushions. “It’s part of the stage vibe.” He says, but something tightens around his throat. 

“Yes, the extremely specific vibe of two bandmates slow burning through a friends to lovers arc mid-chorus." Harin deadpans. "A classic.”

Dongmyeong laughs from the floor, where he’s lying across a bean bag with his feet resting on Harin’s thigh. “I’m pretty sure fans don’t even come for the music anymore, but just to watch you two flirt.”

“They love it.” Hyungu says, that sly little tilt in his voice he always gets when he’s being deliberately annoying. “You see how they scream.”

“Oh, I see.” Dongmyeong responds, drawing out the words like he’s savouring them. “And I also see how you two love it.” 

“That’s called having fun.” Yonghoon mumbles.

“That’s called foreplay.” Harin shoots back.

Giuk snorts. “Do we need to start separating you two or should we just throw rose petals and set the mood?”

Yonghoon lets out a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan, dragging both hands down his face. “You’re all insane.”

He ignores their voices, still overlapping with chaotic glee, and glares at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him. Hyungu chuckles quietly next to him, nudging him with his knee.

“Relax.” He says under his breath. “They’re just being idiots.”

“I know.” Yonghoon mutters back, but he feels too warm under the fabric of his hoodie, like the attention is pulling something too far into the open and now he can’t get it back into his chest without it cracking. Yet, he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t shift out of the space between them, even as the air gets heavier to breathe.

Laughter comes again, big and bright, but Yonghoon is not really in it anymore. His heart is still caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat, beating too loud, too fast. Every time someone throws another joke, it feels like confirmation.

This isn’t just something he’s imagined. This is real, or close to real, or at the very least noticeable.

And that’s what makes it harder. That he’s not the only one holding it anymore.

Because it’s not just about how he feels. Not just about the way Hyungu leans in, or doesn’t pull away, or lets the tension live in the spaces between songs. It’s not even just about what they’ve done or haven’t done. 

It’s about how exposed it’s starting to feel. 

It’s something that used to be just his and is now being projected in lights, amplified across soundboards, looped in fancams, whispered back to him through the voices of the people he trusts most. And even though the noise swirls on around them, even though the room fills with more teasing and Dongmyeong now trying to choreograph their fake love scene with mock sincerity, Yonghoon goes quiet.

And Hyungu doesn’t say anything more, he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t change. He just stays close, exactly like usual.

Which, again, is maybe the problem.

He stays there even when the teasing evolves, intensifies in strange, passing ways. It splinters off into new forms, less performative, more casual, woven into the air around them. Just another part of tour life, like late-night convenience store runs or the ritual chaos of loading gear.

Offhand comments tossed around without too much thought, but Yonghoon feels each one like a tiny bruise.

Like the night Dongmyeong mutters, smirking, “Try not to eye-fuck during the encore, yeah?” as they pass each other in the hallway, so casual it might’ve passed for brotherly advice if it didn’t send Yonghoon’s heart tripping straight into his throat. Like the way Harin watches them before soundcheck later that week, glancing over his coffee as Hyungu adjusts Yonghoon’s in-ear for no reason except that his hands are already there, and says, dry as ever, “Do you guys need privacy or...?” Or at catering, when Yonghoon stands at the buffet too long and Hyungu just appears next to him, grabbing chopsticks from his hands, and Giuk sees it from across the table and doesn’t even blink. “Domestic.” He says, nodding solemnly. “Love to see it.”

Sometimes the jokes come soft and teasing, other times sharp and fast. A flick of the wrist meant to wound just enough to make him see what's in front of him. But mostly, they come with that same easy, affectionate tone, as if none of it really matters. 

And maybe it really doesn’t, after all.

So, each time, Yonghoon laughs it off and tries to play along. He jokes back, he rolls his eyes, but it’s getting harder to keep pretending it’s all just background noise. That he isn’t tuned in to every offhand remark, every raised eyebrow, every time someone catches him looking just a second too long.

Because the more they point it out, the harder it becomes to believe it isn’t true. Not just the jokes. The rest of it, too. The part no one is really saying yet.

And when the laughter fades into quieter moments, when the lights go down and the stage goes dark, that’s when Yonghoon notices the real weight of it. The way Hyungu’s presence sticks like heat against his skin. The way being alone with him turns every inhale into a loaded question, every second into something that hums just under the surface.

It’s in those in-between spaces, in the hours right before something or just after something else, the ones that aren’t meant to hold anything important. 

Like a late afternoon, twenty minutes before call time. A corridor in the venue, right outside their dressing room where the others are getting ready. Dim, narrow, lined with cables and forgotten gear cases. 

Yonghoon stands near the wall, one hand braced flat against it, the other resting lightly over his throat. He’s been running warm-ups for the past ten minutes, but every scale comes out a little thinner than the last. When his voice cracks again, he winces, jaw tight, thumb grazing along his neck as if he can coax the muscle to stop aching just by being gentle with it.

He doesn’t hear Hyungu approach until his familiar weight settles at his side.

“Sounds rough.” He says casually. 

Yonghoon turns. He huffs a quiet laugh, but it catches wrong in his throat, scratches its way up and out. He coughs once, quiet, into the crook of his elbow.

Hyungu’s eyes flick to his throat immediately, then to his face. “How bad is it?”

Yonghoon doesn’t look at him, exhales a shallow breath, shakes his head. “It’s manageable.” He says, but the lie feels thin.

Hyungu doesn’t move. “You say that and all I hear is I’ll ignore it until it breaks.”

Yonghoon opens his mouth to fire something back, but the words die on the tip of his tongue. Because Hyungu is not wrong. Not just about the strain in his voice, but the rest of it too. The way shivers bloom on the slivers of skin Hyungu’s eyes are touching. The way even this, Hyungu just showing up, just noticing like he always has, now lights a fuse in him he doesn’t know how to put out.

Yonghoon leans his head back against the wall and lets out a groan instead, long and theatrical. “Fine. It sucks. It’s killing me. If I try to push one more note, something will snap.”

Hyungu is quiet for a moment, then a softness enters his tone. “Then stop. Save it for the show.”

Yonghoon doesn’t argue, though everything in him wants to. Hyungu’s presence tugs something in his chest, and he spends a moment just listening, tracking the sound of his breathing, feeling the weight of him like a second pulse under his own skin.

“Always so dramatic.” Hyungu mutters then, smirking just enough for it to sound teasing.

It makes Yonghoon smile, despite everything.

He finally glances sideways. Hyungu leans against the doorframe, his body still partially inside the dressing room, arms crossed, watching him with poorly hidden concern. Yonghoon lets himself look for a second too long.

“You didn’t have to come check.” He tells him quietly.

Hyungu shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes anymore. “Had to make sure you didn’t ruin your voice before the show.”

Yonghoon chuckles and then falls into silence, not trusting his own voice. He nods once, slow and thoughtful. Wordless appreciation, something that says I’m fine. Or, I will be. 

The ache is still there. In his throat, in everything else too. But it doesn’t feel quite as sharp.

Hyungu crosses back into the room a moment later, and Yonghoon pushes off the wall and follows. The door swings shut behind them, locking them back into the loud hum of the dressing room, but the quiet stays with him. Even when the others laugh, even when the cameras roll, even when he sings through another soundcheck with just enough precision to keep questions at bay.

It takes a while, more than Yonghoon though it would, before anyone actually pulls him aside. 

Long enough that he almost believes he’s getting away with it, keeping the lines blurry enough to pass. Long enough to think no one has noticed just how far he’s gone off the edge.

And because they know him better than he knows himself, they catch him right at the tipping point. Right when he’s starting to slip a little too much, getting too close to something he might not be able to walk back from. And because Yonghoon knows Dongmyeong just as well, knows the rhythm of his steps, the weight of his silence, he feels it coming before a single word is spoken.

The hotel lobby is the kind of place that feels hollow no matter how many voices fill it. The carpet reeks of cheap lemon cleaner, and the lighting overhead buzzes slightly, too yellow, too warm.

Yonghoon waits in the dim hallway, casually listening as the others argue about room keys down the hall, when Dongmyeong steps into his space like he’s been there all along. He stays silent at first, standing there with his quiet weight, all sharp edges softened by patience.

Eventually, voice pitched low so only Yonghoon can hear, he says, “You’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”

Yonghoon exhales a sharp breath through his nose, not looking at him. “Don’t start.” He says, like a reflex, but even as the words leave his mouth he knows he’s already lost this round.

“I’m not starting anything.” Dongmyeong replies, tone maddeningly calm. “I’m just observing, like you’ve been doing for the last twenty minutes. With that face.”

Yonghoon doesn’t respond, doesn’t even try to argue or deny it. He shifts his weight, drags a hand down the side of his neck, feeling the pulse racing under his skin, and leans back against the wall hoping it will hold him together. He doesn't need to ask what face, because he already knows.

“You’re gonna fuck yourself up if you keep doing this.” Dongmyeong says. His words are gentle, deliberately so, but they don't feel soft. 

“Doing what?” 

Dongmyeong raises his eyebrows in his own dramatic way, tired of the performance. “Looking at him like that. Acting like it’s nothing."

"I’m not—”

“Yonghoon.” Dongmyeong sighs, but the sound of his name like that still manages to hit dead center in his chest. “You’re a bad liar. And I know what you look like when you’re trying not to want something too much.” 

Yonghoon wants to laugh, at himself, at this whole situation, at how transparent it all seems to be. He almost does, even, but it catches in his throat before it can break the surface. He closes his eyes instead, lets it all crowd in. The weight, the wanting, the ache like a second skin.

“You’re in it, hyung. You're in it completely.” Dongmyeong’s words come low, soft now. “Whatever you think you’re holding back, you’re not.”

And there it is. The truth he’s been trying to make his peace with, finally spoken out loud. 

Yonghoon feels the silence stretch, careful but thin like a wire, one breath away from snapping. The lobby carries on around them, someone checking in at the desk, a dull thud of luggage wheels against tile. All of it feels distant, a life that doesn't touch this one.

A long breath sits between them, taut and slow.

“Is it actually real, what all of us see from here?” Dongmyeong asks eventually. The edge is gone from his voice now, softer, a question that is too honest.

And Yonghoon feels it, then. The way he’s been unravelling in slow, silent pieces for days, for weeks.

The way it’s already too late. 

“I think so.” He breathes, and his voice catches on the words. He rubs a hand across his mouth, swallowing down everything else, and adds, quieter still, “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

It stays there. A quiet confession that he can’t take back, suspended between them in the kind of silence that fills his ears with his own heartbeat. 

Beside him, Dongmyeong sighs. “Yeah, I figured that out somewhere around Toronto.”

It should be funny. Somehow, it’s not. But Yonghoon huffs a breath of laughter anyway, one that hurts coming out. His eyes flick to the ceiling light that buzzes like it’s shorting out, it makes the floor feel unstable under his feet.

Dongmyeong watches him, waits another moment, then adds, “Does he know what you're doing?”

Yonghoon hesitates. “I—” He stops, sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “I think he does. Maybe.”

Because sometimes Hyungu looks at him like he knows exactly what this is. Some days it feels like he's playing into it, like he gets it, like maybe he even wants it. But then there are moments when he shuts down so fast it gives him whiplash. Like none of it ever happened, like it’s all just Yonghoon, spinning something out of nothing. 

Dongmyeong squints at him, unimpressed. “That’s a very specific kind of non-answer.”

Yonghoon offers a weak smile, almost apologetic. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s you.” Dongmyeong counterso. “Of course it’s complicated.”

Yonghoon huffs softly, shaking his head, offering nothing more. Dongmyeong watches him retreat a little, sees the way his shoulders pull in like he’s bracing for something. Another joke he doesn’t know if he can handle, another playful jab.

“It’s not a bad thing, you know.” So he says, more quietly now. “Caring about someone like that. Wanting something.”

And it may not be, but to Yonghoon it feels like drowning in slow motion without anyone there to pull him out. He tips his head back against the wall, eyes shut, shoulders sagging as if someone cut the strings holding him upright.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again, almost fragile. “I don’t want to mess anything up.” 

“You’re not.” Dongmyeong tells him simply, like it’s not even a question. “You’re just feeling it too hard, like you always do.” 

And it shouldn’t hurt, but this time it does.

Because it’s true, because it always has been. Yonghoon doesn’t know how to want halfway, how to step lightly. Every emotion has to be the whole damn song. He keeps reaching like Hyungu will meet him there, but Hyungu doesn’t work the way he does.

“Just don’t act like it’s nothing if it’s not.” Dongmyeong adds, stepping back. “That’s the part that's going to mess you up.”

Yonghoon presses the heel of his hand to his chest, shoving everything back in before it spills. He tries not to show it on his face and nods once, barely, but it seems to satisfy Dongmyeong enough. He claps him on the shoulder, squeezing it softly, and then peels off toward the others without waiting for an answer, leaving Yonghoon pressed against the ugly wallpaper like it’s no big deal and he didn’t just pry something wide open.

Yonghoon stays like that for a second, blinking hard, trying to feel solid again, waiting for the burn under his ribs to settle.

It never does.

And when he looks up again, Hyungu is there.

He’s standing a few steps away, a paper cup in one hand, and his jacket slung loose around his frame. He's not saying anything yet, but he's watching Yonghoon closely.

"You hiding out?" He asks.

Yonghoon forces a smile, crooked and tired. "Strategic retreat."

Hyungu huffs a short laugh and crosses the few steps between them, setting beside him, offering his drink without thinking. "Try it." He says. "Tastes like ass."

Yonghoon takes the cup just to have something to do with his hands, takes a sip, and grimaces immediately.

Hyungu grins. "Told you."

For a while it’s just the two of them, tucked into this stupid, dim corner of the hotel hallway, while everyone else’s voices fade into some background buzz. Hyungu leans his shoulder lightly against the wall next to Yonghoon, casual and relaxed. But their arms brush, skin against fabric, and nothing is normal about the feeling of it, and still neither of them moves away.

“You’re weird tonight.” Hyungu says after a moment, nudging him with his elbow.

Yonghoon snorts, it comes out smaller than he means it to. “Damn." He jokes. "Thanks.”

“No, I mean it.” Hyungu adds simply. “You’re... too quiet. And you’re never this quiet unless something is eating at you.”

Yonghoon opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. For a moment, he considers telling him. Something. Everything. But then he catches himself wondering if maybe Hyungu already knows exactly how far gone he is, if maybe he’s just waiting for Yonghoon to realize it too.

"Maybe I'm just evolving." He deadpans, eventually. It makes Hyungu laugh, and the sound is enough to burn through some of the heaviness sitting on Yonghoon’s chest.

Hyungu flashes a grin like he might believe him.

Yonghoon flashes one back like it doesn't cost him anything at all.

They both shift slightly, bumping their arms again, and this time Yonghoon lets it happen, doesn’t overthink it, doesn’t pull back. He lets himself stand there side by side with Hyungu, breathing in the same uneven air.

In this moment, right here, it feels simple. Enough that if he reached out, the whole world might not fall apart.

Time keeps moving around them. The tour keeps moving too, one show after the other, the rhythm of it all blurring into background noise. The same songs, the same lights, different skies outside every window. 

And whatever this thing between them is, it keeps building.

Layer by layer, moment by moment, like something that has already been set in motion and won’t stop just because Yonghoon hasn’t figured out how to catch up to it yet.

They hover at the edge of something electric, close enough to burn, never quite close enough to touch. The space between them barely exists. They talk like nothing is different, laugh like the world isn’t crumbling beneath their feet. But the way Hyungu’s gaze drags over him when he thinks no one is watching, makes it harder to breathe. And the way Yonghoon’s voice catches when Hyungu leans close during soundcheck, makes it harder to sing.

It’s not about what they say anymore. It’s in the silences, the quiet between the lines, the weight of what is left unsaid.

In Dallas, there is a storm rolling in as they load gear into the venue. The skies split open right before they go on, and Yonghoon watches the lightning behind the curtains, pulse matching the flicker of it. During Hyungu’s solo, he doesn’t move across the stage. He stands still and watches from the shadows, while the crowd screams for a moment they don’t get that night. Later, in the dressing room, Hyungu brushes past him without a word, but Yonghoon still feels the heat of him for the next ten minutes.

In San Antonio, during the encore, Yonghoon drops to his knees right at the edge of the stage, energy crackling off him like static. Hyungu drifts toward him mid-solo, eyes narrowed with that familiar fire. Without a word he leans down, slow and sure, until their foreheads touch just lightly, just long enough to steal the air between them.

In Phoenix, Hyungu finds him outside the venue, leaning against the side of the van in the dark, hoodie pulled over his head. He says nothing at first, just offers Yonghoon the other half of his snack. They eat in silence, passing the wrapper back and forth, not touching this time, but close in a way that it can’t pass as casual to anyone watching. 

It should feel easy, familiar, the kind of moments they’ve shared a thousand times before. Yet, it feels like something else entirely.

And then it’s Los Angeles.

And it’s all too loud to ignore anymore.

Backstage hums with the ghost of the show. Lights cooling, reverb still ringing in their ears, voices echoing from the dressing room down the hall where the others are peeling off layers of stage clothes. Laughter spills from one corner, the high, scattered kind that follows a good concert. Someone has already opened a drink, everyone is floating, riding the high.

Yonghoon stays behind, still trying to catch his breath. So does Hyungu. In the narrow hallway behind the stage, it’s just the two of them. 

They haven’t spoken much since soundcheck, but Yonghoon felt him close the entire show, his eyes, the orbit of him, pulling without meaning to. It’s been like that for a while now, but tonight even more.

Still lit by the red ‘stage’ sign overhead, Yonghoon leans heavily against the wall, cool concrete under his body turning the layer of sweat into shivers. His shirt sticks damp to his back, his throat aches, his lungs are tight from effort. But none of it matters, not when he can still smell the remnants of cologne and adrenaline on Hyungu’s skin. 

Hyungu is resting against the opposite wall, hair damp and messy. The stage glow hasn't left him yet. His eyes are alive, his face still flushed, his mouth parted just enough to find his breath. There is still glitter on his cheekbones, catching the fluorescent lights. 

He looks like the show never ended. He looks, Yonghoon thinks, like something he shouldn’t touch.

He only watches him quietly for a while, heart still hammering behind his ribs. His head is buzzing, full of a thousand things held back for too long. The lights, the music, the weight of every near miss between them. It’s all pounding through his veins now, finally cracking him open.

Hyungu catches his gaze, and smiles like he knows something.

“You looked good out there.” He tells Yonghoon, voice is low and tired. There is a grin there, but it’s not teasing.

“You did, too.” Yonghoon says, and it's nothing special, just the usual round of compliments they exchange after concerts. “You killed it tonight.” He adds. “Such a show-off.”

“You’re just biased.” Hyungu shoot back, lips curving around a smirk.

“Yeah." Yonghoon’s voice softens. "I am."

Hyungu’s smile grows then, tired and so, so beautiful. Yonghoon’s next breath stumbles on its way out. 

They stand in that almost-silence for a moment too long, that unbearable quiet between them that hums louder than any crowd ever did, looking at each other with eyes that show everything their lips are afraid to say, still wearing the concert on their bodies, hearts still in tune with the music.

And there is something about this specific moment, still electric, raw in the aftermath, that shorts-circuits Yonghoon’s brain.  

“You’re staring.” Hyungu says eventually, voice low and rough.

Yonghoon exhales slowly, and doesn’t look away. “I’ve been staring the whole tour.”

The air shifts between them, thicker now, more charged. Something in Hyungu's expression flickers, almost too fast to catch if Yonghoon wasn’t paying attention.

“Yeah." He says, barely audible, almost like he wishes he didn’t. “I know.”

Yonghoon doesn’t answer, wouldn't know how to, but his pulse kicks fast under his skin, his hands are shaking. He doesn't know if it's because of adrenaline or this, whatever this is that's been building for weeks, or both things at once.

He should say something, maybe laugh it off, turn it into something meaningless.

Instead, he moves forward.

One step, and the distance between them shrinks. Hyungu doesn't flinch, doesn't stop him. His eyes widen just slightly, breath catching audibly.

Another step, and Yonghoon can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"Yonghoon—" Hyungu starts, but it's barely a whisper, nothing close to an actual warning.

Yonghoon reaches up. His hands find Hyungu's face, palms warm against his jaw, fingers sliding into damp hair. Hyungu goes very still, eyes locked on his. They don’t move, don’t breathe for one long second.

Then Yonghoon closes the final distance and kisses him. 

Hyungu stumbles into it with a soft gasp, a sound low in his throat, surprised and wrecked. But then he leans in harder, kissing Yonghoon back like he’s been waiting.

And it’s heat and want and a thousand unsaid things pressed between their mouths, spilling out all at once. It’s hungry and messy and warm and a little desperate. Yonghoon’s fingers curl into Hyungu’s hair, their mouths catching and slipping and finding each other again.

The air between their bodies disappears as the kiss deepens, raw and all-consuming. Teeth grazing lips, breath caught in shared space, burning through every second. Yonghoon presses him into the wall at some point, hips leaning in, and Hyungu lets him, grabs a fistful of Yonghoon’s shirt and pulls him even closer, almost begging. 

And Yonghoon lets himself fall, lets it be messy, lets it be too much. Because it was always going to be too much.

Nothing exists outside this kiss. Only want, only heat, only the frantic thrum of blood under skin. The world falls distant, the noise, the hallway, the clatter of equipment being packed up just a few feet away. They break apart only when breath demands it, foreheads pressed together, eyes shut, hearts thudding in tandem.

But then, when Yonghoon tries to chase his mouth again, Hyungu pulls back like he’s been burned. 

He doesn’t move far, but enough. Enough to make it clear.

Yonghoon goes still as he watches him. Flushed face, swollen lips, eyes blown wide with something like panic. Hyungu’s hand is still clutched in the front of his shirt, but it’s not pulling anymore. 

His gaze flicks over Yonghoon’s face once, deep and unreadable, and then something shutters closed.

Yonghoon blinks, still trying to breathe right. “I—”

But Hyungu is already stepping back, swallowing hard, wiping a hand over his mouth like he can make it all disappear. Like he’s just realized where they are, who they are, what this is. His eyes glance toward the corridor, toward the voices echoing down it. 

“We should go.” His voice is thin, wrecked. He doesn't look at Yonghoon as he says it. “The others— they’re waiting.”

They both know it's a lie. No one is there, no one is calling, no one is looking for them. 

Still, Hyungu peels away.

Yonghoon steps back, stunned by the cold air that rushes in between them.

Before he can say something, ask, plead, anything, Hyungu is already gone. Disappeared down the hallway, past the sounds of laughter and celebration, back into the safety of everything that isn’t this.

Yonghoon stays where he is, alone now in the hallway, frozen under the dim red light like someone just hit pause on his heart.

His breath still uneven, his hands still shaking, the ghost of Hyungu’s lips still on his.

Too much time passes like that before he finally forces himself upright, straightens his spine, and drags in a breath that burns on its way down. The, he makes himself move. 

He walks back toward the dressing room, and by the time he reaches the others, his face is fixed into something passable. Calm enough, blank enough. He smiles when someone throws an arm around his shoulder, nods when Giuk shoves a water bottle into his hands. Harin says something about the set, and Yonghoon responds like he heard any of it. No one seems to notice. He gets changed, keeps his eyes low, and lets the noise wash over him hoping it can drown out the ringing in his head.

Hyungu doesn’t meet his eyes for the rest of the night, and Yonghoon doesn’t try either. His hands don’t stop shaking until they get in the van. And even then, only because he shoves them deep into the pockets of his jacket.

He lies in bed that night, eyes fixed to the ceiling until it starts to blur, and doesn’t sleep. 

He replays the kiss over and over until he can’t tell if it was real or something his mind made up just to cope. Every time he blinks, it’s there. The sound of the kiss still echoing in the pit of his stomach. Hyungu’s mouth, the way he kissed back, the way he pulled away, the way he left without giving him a chance to react.

He tries to figure out where he went wrong, wonders if he ruined it, if he should regret it. He tries to regret it, but finds that he can’t.

And when morning comes, the ache hasn’t faded. 

Hyungu is already dressed when Yonghoon stumbles into the hotel breakfast lounge, hoodie pulled low hiding most of his face. He’s sitting with Giuk, laughing at something on his phone. There is food barely touched on his plate, a coffee cup tilted against his hand. The picture of normal.

Yonghoon stops a few feet away, and for the first time since they’ve known each other he hesitates, unsure if he’s even allowed closer. 

Part of him wants to turn around and pretend he overslept, pretend he didn’t spend the entire night staring at a ceiling, still tasting Hyungu’s lips. But eventually, he moves. Grabs a coffee just for something to hold, food that he won’t touch, and then waits, watching the light crawl across the carpet.

When Giuk leaves to call home, Yonghoon walks over before he can lose his nerve for good. He sits down across from him and Hyungu glances up. 

“Hey.” He says, voice low. 

“Hey.”

Hyungu doesn't smile, but looks at Yonghoon quietly, waiting. A pause stretches between them, just long enough for it to become uncomfortable. 

“About last night...” Yonghoon starts, it comes out rougher than he means it to. “Can we talk?” 

Hyungu stays silent. His expression doesn’t shift much, but his eyes flicker with something Yonghoon can’t decipher.

“I’m not trying to make it a thing.” He adds quickly, needing to keep the walls from slamming down too fast again. “I just want to know what you’re thinking. If we’re okay.”

Hyungu exhales slowly. He shakes his head, soft but firm. “It doesn’t have to be anything.”

Yonghoon stares at him. “What?”

“The kiss.” He says, pushing the word out like it burns on his tongue. “Last night. We were high off the show, we got caught up in the moment. That’s all it was.”

Hyungu says it softly, carefully, as if each syllable might shatter if he isn't delicate enough. It still freezes Yonghoon on the spot. He feels the words sink straight through him, piercing something vital on the way.

“That’s all?” He repeats, his voice barely a breath.

“Yeah.” Hyungu nods once. “We shouldn’t have done that.”

Yonghoon leans back in his chair like he’s been hit. It feels like he has, in every way but the literal one. His body is still, except for the way his fingers curl tighter around his cup. He doesn’t really know what he expected, maybe confusion, hesitation. Anything but this calm denial, this clean erasure of something that to him still feels like it's burning. 

“Okay.” He says, eventually. And it’s not okay, not even close to okay, but he says it anyway because what else can he do. “I just thought—”

“Yeah.” Hyungu cuts in gently, eyes flicking back down to his plate. “I know. But it’s not—” He fumbles, then smooths it over. “I mean, we’re fine. I’m fine. It doesn’t have to change anything.” 

But it already has.

Yonghoon feels it in the hollow ringing in his chest, in the way Hyungu won’t quite meet his eyes now that he’s said the words.

“Right.” He says then, his voice barely holding together. He forces a small nod. “Okay.”

And for a single moment he thinks about pressing, about calling him on it. The way his voice shook, the way his jaw tensed, the way none of this sounds like someone who is sure. 

But he doesn’t. He sits there for one more breath, then stands just as another crew member walks into the room, cheerfully oblivious, greeting them both with a nod and a tired smile. Yonghoon forces one in return, mutters something about needing to shower.

This time, he walks away first.

They don’t talk about it again. Not the kiss, not the conversation, not the tightness that settles between them after that morning.

And in the days that follow, something breaks further.

They don’t stop talking outright, don’t shift into silence in some obvious, dramatic way. They still show up at the same rehearsals, still board the same vans, eat the same lukewarm catering under the same harsh dressing room lights. But they go about the days like they’re just two people in a band together.

Like there was never anything more. Like nothing ever slipped, nothing ever burned too hot between them.

They still perform like nothing is wrong. Move through their setlist with perfect precision, flirt for the crowd when the lights hit just right, step close during guitar solos. Moments of playful chemistry happening with the kind of ease only years of closeness could allow.

From the outside it looks the same. But Yonghoon feels it in his bones, the way things hollow out.

The rhythm of it doesn't change but the weight does. Their bodies still find each other like magnets when the moment demands it, though there is nothing behind the touch. The way Hyungu steps toward him is measured, the glances they share under the stage lights are timed. There is no heat in Hyungu’s smiles, just something calculated, clean.

The moments that used to spark now are nothing but a performance. It’s not tension anymore but something polished, something practiced, something that doesn’t ask anything of them.

Yonghoon hates that he knows the difference.

Off stage there is barely anything left. They don’t warm up near each other anymore, don’t linger backstage together unless someone else is already there. They’re rarely in the same room unless they have to be. And when they are, Hyungu keeps the conversations brief, the smiles polite, the jokes easy and meaningless. He keeps a steady distance. He’s careful with his space, with his voice, with his eyes. Always has someone else to sit with in the van, always has somewhere else to be when they wrap rehearsals. 

Yonghoon gets used to empty seats next to him, to conversations rerouted, to someone else slipping into the spaces that used to belong to them.

He starts breaking in small, quiet ways.

He lies awake in hotel beds, doesn’t sleep much, can’t listen to their songs without feeling like his own voice is mocking him. He tries to lose himself in rehearsal, in laughter, in noise. Tells himself it will pass, that whatever this is, this ache lodged beneath his ribs, will dissolve like it came. But it ever does, it just pushes deeper, grows meaner.

Yonghoon tries not to let it show, but it eats at him silently, constantly. Every moment they don’t talk, every time Hyungu looks through him like they never happened, the way it seems so easy for him to let it go.

And maybe that is what hurts the most. Not the rejection itself, but the absence that follows.

The space where they used to orbit, where everything used to hum, now quiet, empty. Yonghoon still stuck in it alone, still hoping it might shift, that maybe Hyungu might look at him again like he used to.

But he doesn’t, and the show goes on.

They rehearse. They perform. They bow. And Yonghoon goes back to his hotel room every night more hollow than the last. 

By the time they hit Seattle, it’s a miracle he’s still upright.

He runs on caffeine, stage lights and rehearsed charm. Everything in him feels stretched thin, his voice, his body, his restrain. There is a tightness in him that doesn’t let up, turning every breath into glass in his throat, coiling under his skin, burning every nerve.

They shoot content that evening, some casual, post-concert thing for their channel. Everyone is a little overtired, a little too loud, but it works. Laughter comes easy on camera, they bicker over nothing, elbows bump, it looks good. 

No one watching will be able to tell that he hasn’t looked Hyungu in the eyes in days.

After they wrap, the others scatter. Some heading down to the lobby, some ordering food, some still lingering in the hotel room where they filmed. The space buzzes with leftover energy, but Hyungu disappears quickly, like he always does these days.

Yonghoon stays behind for only a second, knuckles white around his drink, barely touched. 

He’s not sure why he does it. Maybe because he knows how it’s going to feel if he goes to bed without saying anything. Maybe because there is only so much silence he can take before it starts to choke him. Or simply because he’s split open down the middle and it’s going to come out whether he wants it to or not.

Yonghoon finds him in the hallway just outside his room, keycard in hand, ready to step in. 

“Hyungu.”

His voice isn't loud, but it’s sharp enough to make Hyungu pause. He turns slowly, like he already knows what this is going to be. 

Yonghoon closes the distance in a few steps. He looks at him properly, the lines under his eyes, the way he’s holding himself, careful, defensive, and it just breaks something open.

When it’s clear that Hyungu won’t speak, he does. “You’re really not going to say anything?” 

Hyungu’s jaw tightens. Yonghoon is not going to let this pass, not tonight, and Hyungu knows him well enough to recognize the resolve in his face, the exhaustion carved deep around his eyes. He still doesn’t speak, but opens the door and steps aside, letting him in. 

The moment the door clicks shut, Yonghoon doesn’t wait.

“I don’t know how you do it.” His voice cuts through, blunt and tired and stripped of anything that might cushion the blow.

Hyungu stills, already bracing. “Do what?”

“Act like it meant nothing.” Yonghoon says. “You just sat next to me for an hour, smiled like you meant it, looked at me like nothing’s changed. You're normal on stage, in front of cameras, then you pretend I don't exist the minute the lights go out.”

Hyungu exhales slowly. "Yonghoon…"

“No, seriously.” Yonghoon pushes. “How do you do it? How can you kiss me like that and then just—” His voice cracks.

He tries again, quieter. “I’ve been walking around like a ghost. Trying to smile, trying to sing, trying to breathe like it’s fine. And you just shut me out. You slip out of rooms, you avoid my eyes, you laugh with everyone but me. Like none of this ever touched you.”

Hyungu’s shoulders stiffen. “That’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Yonghoon cuts in, and this time there is something raw underneath, a hint of begging that he doesn’t care enough to mask. “Please.”

Hyungu’s mouth snaps shut. He runs a hand through his hair, lets tension bleed through even the smallest movements. “We agreed.” He says eventually, slower. “We said it was just a moment.”

“No.” Yonghoon's breath sharpens. “You decided that, I just didn’t argue.”

Hyungu’s eyes flick back to him, uncertain. There is something there, regret maybe, or fear, but it passes too fast. “What do you want me to say, then?”

“Anything!” Yonghoon's voice breaks open, too loud for the small room. The words scrape their way out, ragged and desperate. “Anything except pretend it didn’t happen. Except look through me like I made it all up.”

Hyungu flinches, just barely. Yonghoon sees it anyway. 

And maybe he should stop there, but he can’t. It’s all too close to the surface now. Every word that has been eating him alive, rising fast, demanding to be spoken.

“I don’t know how to do this anymore.” His voice drops, but the ache in it only sharpens. “I’m not built for this silence, Hyungu. I can't act like I don’t want to scream every time you walk away. I don’t know how to exist pretending you don’t mean something to me.”

The room goes quiet. Hyungu is standing very still in front of him, not meeting his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

It comes out low, barely enough for Yonghoon to hear. And it's so plainly true that Yonghoon has to look away for a second, jaw tight, eyes stinging. He believes him, that's the worst part. He believes him completely, and it doesn't change anything.

He turns back.

"But you did." His voice is quieter now, which somehow makes it hit harder. "And you're still doing it." He pauses, and then, like he can't help it, "You won't even look at me."

He steps closer now, too close, eyes shining. “That kiss, it wasn’t some backstage impulse. I’ve been feeling this for weeks, Hyungu. I’ve been dying trying not to show it. And the second I let it slip, the second I thought maybe you—” He stops, chokes down the words. “You ran. You left me standing there like I was stupid for feeling anything at all.”

Hyungu looks away, jaw clenched. His hands twitch at his sides.

The silence pulls long between them. Yonghoon watches him, the tight set of his shoulders, the way he seems to be fighting something even now.

“I panicked.” He says at last, quiet, shaken. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Something in Yonghoon's chest caves in a little.

He knows. Of course he knows, he watched it happen in real time, saw the moment Hyungu's face changed, felt the air leave the room. He's been angry at him for weeks for something he already understood.

"I know you panicked." The words come out softer than he means them to, and he almost pulls them back. Almost. "I saw it happen. And I get it, because it scared me too." His voice steadies, firms. "But all you had to do was stay. I just needed you to not leave."

He watches Hyungu closely, waiting, hoping for anything. Watches his body tense, his fingers curl like he wants to reach out, or say something, or do something.

But nothing comes.

So Yonghoon steps back, breath hitching. “Do you even see what this is doing to me?” And he knows he’s going too far with it, but there is no stopping it now. “Do you even care?” 

“That’s not fair.” Hyungu’s voice hardens then, steel around something that wants to shake. “You know me better than that.”

“Do I?”

The question is out before Yonghoon can stop it.

Hyungu's face changes. His mouth opens, then closes without a word. He looks away first, jaw working, chewing through something he doesn't know how to swallow. When he looks back, there is a flicker of something wounded in his expression, before his face smooths over again.

The silence stretches, and Yonghoon waits.H

e's so tired of waiting, but he waits anyway, because some part of him still needs to hear it. Still hopes, stupidly, desperately, that Hyungu will give him something.

“Yes, you do.” 

It comes out quieter than either of them expected. Hyungu meets his eyes, and for the first time the wall falters, something cracks in the space between them.

“You’re not the only one who felt it.” He finally admits, and his voice shakes slightly on the last word. "Of course you're not." He exhales, unsteady. “I felt it too. That night, and everything before. I felt all of it. ”

Yonghoon stares, stunned for a moment. He hadn’t let himself believe it until now, but somehow hearing it hurts more than not hearing it at all.

“Then why—” He starts, but Hyungu is already shaking his head.

“Because it still shouldn’t have happened.” He cuts him off fast. “I was trying not to make things worse.”

Yonghoon recoils. “Worse?”

“Yes. Because this—” Hyungu gestures between them, helpless. “This could ruin everything. We’re in the middle of a tour, it’s not just you and me. I thought if I gave it space maybe it would pass, maybe we could get through this without—”

“Without what? Causing a scandal? Ruining our image?” Yonghoon lets out a hollow breath, sharp and bitter. “Without making things real?”

Something clicks into place as he says it, with a dull, sick certainty.

It’s not the fear of consequence that keeps Hyungu frozen. Not the band or the cameras or the tour schedule. That’s just the excuse, the shield.

He’s scared of actually wanting it.

Of wanting Yonghoon. 

He sees it now in the way Hyungu won’t look at him, in the way he holds himself too tight, like his own hands might betray him if he gets too close. In the fact that he would rather bury it, smother it, erase it, than let himself feel it. 

Yonghoon goes quiet. The anger starts to drain out of him, replaced by something worse.

"That's what it is, isn't it?"

Hyungu doesn't say anything. And that, for Yonghoon, is already an answer.

"It's not the tour." He says, almost to himself. "It's not the camera, not the band. You're just—" He stops, swallows. "You're scared of wanting it."

A muscle twitches in Hyungu's jaw. He exhales, frustrated, at Yonghoon or at himself, it’s all the same.

Yonghoon lets out a breath. "Hyungu."

“I’m just trying to be careful.” Hyungu says at last, and even he seems to know it sounds hollow.

“Careful.” Yonghoon repeats, flat. He takes another step closer, voice rising again. “You think this is careful? You think leaving me in silence, making me feel like I’m the only one who crossed a line, is careful?”

“I wanted to protect what we have—”

“And what do we have now?” Yonghoon asks. His hands are shaking. “Because it doesn’t feel like much anymore.”

Hyungu flinches. The words seem to hit him somewhere deeper than Yonghoon’s eyes can reach, but instead of softening he stiffens further, pulls inward, retreats without moving.

Yonghoon lets out a harsh breath, stepping back, barely keeping himself upright. “I didn’t cross that line alone, Hyungu." He says."Don’t punish me for something we both did.” 

Hyungu says nothing, and that silence is its own admission. It makes Yonghoon’s stomach lurch.

Still, he doesn’t stop. “You had me thinking maybe I misread it, maybe I imagined the whole damn thing, maybe I wanted it too much.” He says, swallowing hard. “But then I remember your hands in my hair, your mouth on mine. You kissed me back. You wanted it too.”

“I know.” Hyungu’s voice snaps out, sharper than he means. He scrubs a hand down his face. “I know. You don’t have to keep saying it.”

“So what now?” Yonghoon presses. “You get to go back to normal while I lie awake at night wondering how the hell we went from that to this?”

Hyungu’s expression twists.

“What do you want me to do, Yonghoon?” He sounds exhausted now, his control slipping. “Throw everything away? Risk everything because we had a moment?”

“It wasn’t just a moment!” Yonghoon’s voice rips through the room, pain spilling out now, full and loud. “Stop calling it that like it was something meaningless. We didn’t trip into it. We wanted it—”

“And we shouldn't have!” Hyungu shouts back, the words bursting out before he can stop them. “It was a mistake!”

The silence that follows is immediate, charged, brutal in its own specific way. The words hang right in the middle of it, sharp and unforgiving.

Yonghoon goes still, so still it seems time has paused with him.

He doesn’t react for a long second, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t speak. His hands fall limp at his sides, his body drains of whatever fight it still had left. Something in him shuts down all at once.

Hyungu stiffens the second he hears himself say it. Regret floods his face, full-bodied and horrified. And he must see it, must feel it, the exact moment Yonghoon breaks.

“Yonghoon.” He starts instantly, pained. “I didn’t— That’s not—”

But Yonghoon is already pulling back. “Don’t.” He says, quiet and flat. “Don’t try to take it back.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“But you said it.” Yonghoon’s eyes are glassy now. “You looked me in the eyes and said it.”

And maybe Hyungu has been trying to say it since the moment he left him in that hallway, Yonghoon just didn’t want to hear it. All the space, all the avoiding, all the excuses, it was just building up to this. Hyungu wishes it didn’t happen, he wishes Yonghoon never kissed him. He's been saying it this whole time, he just finally had the guts to say it with words. 

Whether he means it or not, it doesn't matter. Because that’s the thing that will stay with Yonghoon now. 

Not the kiss, not the way it felt. But the part where it was a mistake. 

“You could’ve said anything else, I could've lived with most of it.” Yonghoon’s voice is flat, empty, all the fire from before burned clean. “But never, not once, did I think you’d be the one to call it a mistake.”

Hyungu’s face folds. “Yonghoon, no—” He takes a step forward without thinking, hand lifting instinctively. It falls before it reaches anything. “That’s not what I meant.”

But Yonghoon pulls back, shakes his head before the apology can go anywhere.

He doesn’t want it. Not anymore. 

Hyungu looks like he might try again, might fumble for something, a desperate grab at whatever is left between them. But he doesn’t, in the end. His shoulders draw in, curling around the guilt like armor. 

“Yonghoon..." It's all he manages, impossibly soft, almost breaking.

But it’s too late.

Yonghoon steps back. One foot, then another, slow and deliberate. His eyes flick around the room, looking for the version of himself that walked in hoping for something. Then he turns for the door, and leaves without a word.

Hyungu doesn’t follow. Yonghoon doesn’t hope that he will.

He keeps walking until the ache in his chest dulls into something almost manageable, and when he finally makes it back to his room, silence follows him in. He doesn’t turn on the lights, doesn’t change, doesn’t move at all. He just stands there in the dark, keycard still in hand, pulse ringing in his ears. 

Eventually, he drops onto the edge of the bed and stays there for a long time, hands clenched so tightly they leave crescents in his palms, staring at nothing until the room fades into shapes and shadow.

At some point, the night gives out beneath him. At some point, morning comes.

Yonghoon moves on autopilot. Gets up because he has to, washes his face, pulls on clothes, ignores the tightness in his throat that hasn’t let up since last night. Everything feels too sharp. The sun, the air, the press of the band name on his shirt. He sees it and almost laughs.

He feels like a shell, with nothing left inside worth pretending over.

So he doesn’t.

Doesn’t fix his face in the mirror, doesn't bother with the smile or the jokes or the camera-ready grins. He’s too tired for performance off stage, and he’s done trying to convince himself that any of this is fine.

The others notice. They say nothing. 

Soundcheck, later, is a mess. Not enough to cause any trouble, he’s still a professional, still trained to hold it together, but enough.

Enough that he misses his cue twice. Enough that his voice cracks on a line that has never given him trouble before. Enough that the chord progression he’s played hundreds of times feels just a little wrong under his fingers. Just enough for Harin to glance up, for Dongmyeong to pause mid-harmony, for Giuk to shoot him a worried look and then say nothing.

Yonghoon doesn’t explain. Doesn’t force a smile or crack a joke the way he usually would. He just lowers his head, strums through the mistakes, and moves on.

Hyungu watches him through the entire set, eyes fixed, heavy on Yonghoon’s skin.

He doesn’t come closer.

By the time they’re backstage before the show, whatever is holding him together feels loose, something that won’t last the night.

Every sound feels distant, dulled as if it’s moving through water. When someone calls his name for call time, it feels like they’re calling for someone else. The stage lights flare beyond the curtain, harsh and blinding. The crowd roars and it rattles through his chest, trying to wake something that has already gone quiet.

Still, Yonghoon moves, steps out like he’s supposed to, because that’s the one part of this that still makes sense.

He goes out there and throws himself into the performance and gives everything he has left, every word, every note, every breath that still belongs to him. If only just to feel something cut through the numb. His voice sounds as it always does, strong and full and just breaking enough around the edges to feel real. He moves the way he’s meant to, stepping into light and shadow as the setlist pulls them forward. He smiles, waves, jumps. Every movement feels rehearsed down to the breath. Every glance, every gesture, nothing but muscle memory wrapped in makeup and heat.

Fans love it. They scream loud, hands raised high. Yonghoon can feel them watching, reaching, loving him for a version of himself he doesn’t recognize tonight. 

And still, for a while he lets himself disappear inside the noise. Lets it wash over him like static, loud enough and bright enough to drown out all the pieces he doesn’t want to put under the spotlight.

It works, until it doesn’t.

Somewhere between one verse and the next, something breaks.

Yonghoon doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t even realize it’s happening until it’s too late. The emotion punches through without warning and he can’t hold it back. His chest tightens, his breath catches, and suddenly the heat behind his eyes won’t go away.

Tears gather and fall. Quietly at first, then all at once, a steady stream slipping down his face.

Yonghoon doesn’t try to stop them. He tilts his head back and lets it happen, lets the stage lights catch it, lets it blur into the performance. He keeps singing through the ache in his chest and the sting in his throat. His voice barely wavers, even as everything inside him comes undone.

He's done this long enough to know that crying on stage doesn’t have to mean anything, not to the people watching.

They'll think it’s emotion, gratitude, the final show high. His connection to the lyrics, to the music, just another overwhelming moment at the end of the tour. They'll clap harder for it. They'll see tears and hear passion, not heartbreak. Not the slow, quiet collapse of someone who has run out of ways to pretend he’s fine.

It happened before, they'll believe it again. 

So Yonghoon lets them see it. Lets them cheer for the way he breaks and call it beautiful.

He cries through the last two songs. And when the lights go down and the last note fades, he bows with the rest of them, listens to the crowd scream their names like nothing has changed, like they haven’t just watched someone quietly fall apart in real time.

It all blurs into white noise as soon as they step off stage.

Everything is too loud, too bright. Laughter, voices, high-fives, clapping on shoulders, a chorus of we did it and that was insane and thank you for everything. Giuk might be crying a little, Dongmyeong looks like he wants to but doesn’t let himself, Harin seems to be feeling more than he’s able to handle.

Yonghoon smiles with them, smiles for the staff, for the fans still screaming outside, for the cameras filming this last moment.

Then he walks away.

Shoves down the steps, into the hallway, past the curtains and the noise and the dressing room that still has his things scattered around. He doesn’t stop until he hits the venue’s back exit, until the door swings open and the humid night air slams into him, biting at his sweat-damp skin.

The van is waiting in the parking lot just outside, back doors open, engine already humming.

Yonghoon climbs in alone. He slides into the farthest corner of the back seat and folds in on himself, head back against the window, eyes shut hard enough to see stars.

Tears have dried on his skin by now. All that is left is wet eyes, empty hands, and a burn behind his ribs that won’t go out. There is makeup smeared on the back of his hand, where he tried to wipe his face on the way here. 

He’s still in his stage clothes, damp and shaking. Still in his skin, and it’s too much.

Outside, the after-show chaos echoes faintly through the lot. Laughter, shouting, the crew calling out instructions, fans chanting in the distance. Somewhere, someone is probably looking for him, but no one comes to the van yet. They let him hide there for a while, until, after too long and not long enough, the door opens again.

Harin climbs in quietly, the light from the parking lot shining in behind him, making his silhouette blur. He doesn’t slide all the way back but takes the middle bench, turning sideways in his seat to face him with that frustrating, quiet knowing already in his eyes.

They sit like that for a long time. When Yonghoon doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t pretend, Harin only waits in silence.

Then, quietly, evenly, he asks, “Do you want me to sit here or should I go tell them you fell asleep?”

Yonghoon lets out a sound, a laugh, a sob, something in between. He shakes his head slowly. “No. Stay.”

Harin nods without a word and settles further into his seat, letting the quiet slowly shift from oppressive into something softer.

Yonghoon leans back, his head falls against the cool window again, tears dried sticky on his cheeks. He stares at his hands in his lap, jaw tight, throat dry. His chest still aches from the final chorus, from the way everyone looked at him when they bowed, from the way Hyungu didn’t.

After a while the pressure behind his eyes tightens, and everything spills out. 

“I kissed him.” Yonghoon’s voice trembles on the words, barely audible. “In LA. Backstage.”

Harin doesn’t react much. His expression barely falters, a slight tremble, a moment’s compression, then he lets silence hold them both so Yonghoon doesn’t break under its weight.

Yonghoon huffs a shaky laugh, bitter and small. “You already knew.”

“I guessed.” Harin says softly. “The way you two have been… didn’t need to be a genius.”

Yonghoon nods reluctantly, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “It was— I didn’t plan it, it just happened. I thought…” His breath falters. “He kissed me back.”

“And then he pulled away.” Harin quietly finishes the sentence for him.

Yonghoon says nothing. Harin accepts it without needing him to.

A long silence follows. Yonghoon tips his head back against the glass and just breathes for a moment, trying to find the bottom of it, the place where the ache stops. He doesn't find it.

"He called it a mistake." His voice is flat when he says it, stripped of everything. "Last night. When we talked."

This time, Harin does react. Yonghoon feels his body going still in his seat.

"I know he didn't mean it the way it came out." Yonghoon continues, quietly, almost to himself. "But he still said it. He looked at me and said it." He swallows. "And that's the part I can't seem to get past."

Harin watches him, brows drawn together. He looks like he wants to say something, but knows better than to reach for words that won't cover it.

"I did everything right." Yonghoon's voice cracks on the words, and he laughs once, a short, broken sound. "I went to him, I said what I needed to say, I didn't beg. And it still ended up like this." He shakes his head slowly. "I don't know what I was supposed to do differently."

"Nothing." Harin says, simple and certain. "There was nothing else to do."

Yonghoon nods, but it doesn't seem to help. His knuckles whiten as he grips his own wrist.

“I don’t know how to stop wanting him.” He admits, his voice barely a whisper. It sounds like it’s been sitting inside him for days, raw and worn and too true to dress up.

Harin nods slowly. “I don’t think you’re supposed to. I just think you have to figure out what happens after.”

“What if nothing happens after?”

“Then at least you'll know." Harin says. "And it won't keep eating at you."

Yonghoon lets out a short, bitter breath. Not quite a laugh, but something close.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Yonghoon.” Harin adds, his voice as genuine as it can be. “You just gave more than he knew how to take, and he got scared. Doesn’t mean either of you are to blame.”

“That doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“I know. But that’s not the point.” A deep breath eases from him. He meets Yonghoon’s gaze. “The point is you let yourself feel something when it was safer not to. And maybe, when he’s ready, he’ll see that for what it really is.”

Yonghoon breathes in, long and shaky, then out. He nods once, still, even as he feels himself fall apart piece by piece in the quiet refuge of the van. 

Harin stays with him right in the middle of it, without pushing or pressing for more, until the door opens again a few minutes later and the others file in slowly, noisy and tired and still flushed from the show. They fill the silence with the usual clatter of post-stage adrenaline, but it quiets too quickly. They all see Yonghoon’s red-rimmed eyes, the way he’s slumped in his seat, the way Harin is sitting with him like a wall.

Hyungu is the last to step in, and his eyes find Yonghoon instantly.

Yonghoon hears the breath he takes when he sees him, feels it ripple through the small space.

Hyungu stops halfway inside, holding tightly onto the door. His face is unreadable at first, blank with exhaustion, jaw tight, expression neutral. But then his gaze locks with Yonghoon’s for one heavy, endless second, and the wall cracks.

He looks at Yonghoon like the sight kills him.

Yonghoon looks back just long enough for Hyungu to feel all of it, then turns away. Hyungu finds his own seat. No one says a thing.

But Yonghoon feels it, the weight of being seen and still left alone. Again.

The rest of the ride back to the hotel slips by in silence, the highway’s orange lamps gliding past the windows, the city slowly fading into the rearview mirror. Yonghoon lets his forehead rest back against the cool glass, eyes unfocused, following the trails of city lights as they fade into the distance. His pulse slowly calms, the grip on his own wrist eases.

The ache in his chest doesn’t.

The following morning everything feels unsettled, a moment balanced on the edge of something dangerous.

He stares at the ceiling until a manager comes knocking at his door. They pack up in silence, staff mill around, collecting equipment, tagging bags. Harin stays close to him without saying much, a steady presence, just in case. The others move quietly, gracefully avoiding the growing void that has opened up between him and Hyungu. 

The two of them don't speak much while they get ready to leave, and no one forces them to.

When he finds his seat on the plane, Yonghoon realizes it’s the row directly across the aisle from Hyungu, close enough that they can’t avoid each other’s presence or the truths that hang heavy in the space between them.

Yonghoon doesn’t move for hours.

For a long time he stares at the safety card tucked into the seat pocket in front of him like it’s something important, hoping if he reads it long enough it might tell him what to do, or give him a way out of the knot in his chest.

The weight lodged behind his ribs hasn’t shifted, not since he stepped off that stage with tear-streaked cheeks and Hyungu’s eyes on his back. It only feels heavier now, laced with the fear of time running out.

They’re going home and that should be a relief, but to Yonghoon it feels more like a deadline.

Because once they’re back in Seoul, everything goes back to schedule, studios, practices, to routines that will carry them forward whether he’s ready or not. And whatever it is that lies between them right now might dissolve in the process, or break under its own weight.

He glances across the aisle, where Hyungu sits with headphones in but nothing playing on his screen. His eyes are open, fixed forward, his elbows tucked in, his legs curled up like he’s trying to disappear into the seat. He’s been like that since they boarded, quiet, rigid, not looking at anyone. His gaze flickers to the window, to the floor, to nothing. His hands are still but his body is tense, pretending not to feel everything he clearly is.

Yonghoon knows that kind of stillness. He’s lived inside it the entire tour.

He watches from afar for as long as he can stand it, then unbuckles his seatbelt with a small, deliberate click and crosses the short distance between them. 

When Yonghoon stops beside his seat, Hyungu stiffens. He turns slowly, afraid to look directly at him, afraid he might break something if he does. Yonghoon sees it in his face. The war behind his eyes, the ache, the guilt, the wanting buried under every reason not to.

He gestures a little, quietly. “Can I sit?”

Hyungu nods without hesitation.

Yonghoon slides into the seat beside him, careful not to let their thighs or shoulders press together. The air between them feels loaded again, like that hallway backstage, but there is no adrenaline filling it this time, only exhaustion.

“I’m not here to start a fight.” He says. 

Hyungu nods once. “I know.”

Yonghoon lets another moment pass. For a while it seems like that’s going to be it, one more non-conversation to add to the pile.

But then he breathes out slowly and says, “I don't want to go home like this.” His voice is low, meant for no one but the space between them. “Not without saying something. Even if it doesn't change anything.”

Hyungu is quiet beside him, his eyes look pained. “Yonghoon…”

"I'm not asking you to fix it." Yonghoon continues, eyes on the floor. "I'm not asking you for anything. I just—" He stops, steadies himself. "I was never a risk. You know that, right? I was never someone you had to avoid just to feel safe. I wasn't going to ask you to blow it all up. I wasn't going to ask you to promise anything, or fix anything, or be anything other than what you've always been." He pauses. "I just wanted you. Whatever part of you you could give me.” 

Hyungu’s breathing changes beside him. He shuts his eyes briefly, leans his head back against the seat. He looks like he’s swallowing glass.

“I’m not angry anymore.” Yonghoon adds. “I was, but I’m not now. I’m just… tired.” He trails off, looking down at his hands. His fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his pants. “I don’t even know if what we had— have, can ever be fixed. Maybe it can’t. Maybe it shouldn’t.”

He looks up then, lets out a deep sigh.

“But I just need you to know that I’m here.” He says. “If you ever want me, too.”

Finally, Yonghoon meets his eyes fully. 

Hyungu is already looking at him. And it’s like he’s seeing him for the first time and realizing he’s breakable, fragile in a way he hadn’t let himself believe before.

Yonghoon doesn’t reach out again, doesn’t expect anything, doesn’t push any more than he already has. But he smiles at Hyungu without even wanting to, without even realizing he’s doing it. Something small, barely there, but something Hyungu sees, and it shows right behind his glassy eyes. 

Then he finally stands, and without lingering, without looking back, returns to his seat with something torn wide open inside, but feeling lighter than he has in days.

He said what he came to say, now it’s not up to him anymore.

The plane lands in Seoul just after sunrise, touching down on Korean soil with barely a bump. The glow outside is soft, the city still mostly asleep. There is a small crowd of fans braving the early hours, waiting with banners and phones raised high. Yonghoon waves at them from behind his mask purely out of habit. 

The first few days back home pass slowly. The company adjusts their schedules, giving them some time to rest, to ease back into routines. 

Yonghoon finds his way into the familiar spaces of his own life. The practice room, the recording studio, the corner seat in his favorite café. All the little things that are meant to be comforting, a way to reset, to turn down the brightness on a world that feels suddenly much, much quieter. 

The tour is over, the stage lights gone, the rush and chaos fading. But for Yonghoon, the silence resonates.

He finds it in everything. In the cold emptiness of his room, in the clock ticking quietly in their kitchen, in the way his phone glows briefly with a new notification and then goes dark, in the growing pile of laundry he doesn’t fold, a stack of worries he cannot put away.

He lets it be, lets the silence speak instead of forcing words into it, not sure if something is healing or if something is closing up.

He stays at the company building later and later into the night, alone with a microphone, a guitar, or just his own reflection in the mirror. Sometimes he runs through the setlist over and over until his voice starts to break and his fingertips grow raw against the strings, until the emptiness that follows feels heavy enough to press down on his ribs. Sometimes he finds himself turning up the volume just to fill it, adding reverb, adding distortion. Other nights, he just lets it seep in, lets it wrap around him until there is nothing left but his pulse and his shaky breaths.

It’s on a night much like this, long after the others have gone home, as the clock creeps towards dawn and the city’s pulse beats quieter, when Hyungu finally reaches out.

Yonghoon sits alone in the practice room, back against the mirror, guitar across his lap, his fingertips idly tugging at the strings without making a sound. The corner lights above the mirror glimmer faintly, casting a warm glow against the wooden floor. It’s late enough that the halls are quiet, except for the hum of vending machines and the distant echo of a cleaning crew somewhere on another floor.

He doesn’t hear the door open at first, but when the soft click of it closing reaches him, he doesn’t even need to look up to know who it is. 

Hyungu stands there in the doorway, eyes scanning the room, not sure if he’s allowed inside. His grip is tight on the doorknob for a moment, before he reluctantly lets it go. His shoulders are tense, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans, his damp hair sticks to his forehead. A small, soft detail that Yonghoon finds hard to ignore. He doesn’t say anything yet, but he lingers, waiting.

Yonghoon exhales through his nose, almost a sigh. “Are you going to come in?”

Hyungu does. He walks closer until he drops down to sit cross-legged on the floor across from him, not too close. He looks smaller than usual. His jaw is tight, his expression vulnerable in a way he hadn’t let show before.

Yonghoon looks up at him, voice low. “I was hoping you’d show up.”

“I know.” Hyungu's voice trembles, barely perceptible.

“I didn’t think it would take you this long.”

“I know.”

Silence stretches between them, neither really knows where to begin. Hyungu sits a little straighter, finally shifts a little closer, but still not near enough.

Yonghoon looks at him for a long time, then slowly exhales. “Why are you here, Hyungu?”

Hyungu opens his mouth, closes it again. His fingers twist in the fabric of his jeans like he's trying to hold something in that wants desperately to spill out.

“I’ve been sitting outside for twenty minutes." He admits quietly. "In the hallway. Just... trying to figure out what to say."

Yonghoon doesn't respond, waits in silence.

“I kept telling myself to leave. That maybe tomorrow would be better, maybe next week. That maybe if I waited long enough, I'd find the right words." Hyungu's voice is barely above a whisper. "Except, there are no right words for this.”

Yonghoon watches him, says nothing, still. 

Hyungu nods, almost to himself. He looks down at his hands, at the way they're shaking slightly.

"I thought I was protecting us." He says after a moment. "That's what I kept telling myself. That if I just buried it, if I pretended hard enough, we could go back to how things were before." He pauses, swallows hard. "We can’t, though, can we?"

“No.” Yonghoon responds. "We can't." 

“I didn’t know that then. Or maybe I did and I was just too scared to admit it." Hyungu's breath shakes on the exhale. "Every time I saw you after LA, I wanted to say something. Wanted to explain, to apologize, to— I don't even know. But every time I got close, I'd remember the way you looked at me that morning at breakfast. Like I'd broken something irreparable. And I'd lose my nerve."

He finally looks up, meets Yonghoon's eyes.

“I kept thinking about what you said on the plane. That you were there, if I wanted you." His voice cracks slightly. "And the truth is, I've wanted you so badly it terrifies me. Not just that night. For longer than I've let myself admit."

Yonghoon goes still. He feels the words land somewhere they can't be taken back from. But he stays quiet, lets Hyungu continue. 

“But wanting you felt like standing on the edge of a cliff." Hyungu continues, words coming faster now, like a dam breaking. "Because what if I jumped and everything shattered? The band, our friendship, everything we've built? What if I wasn't what you thought I would be? What if you realized halfway through that you'd made a mistake wanting me?"

“Hyungu—"

"Let me finish." Hyungu's voice is raw. "Please. I need to say this."

Yonghoon nods, throat tight.

“I’ve spent the last week just... replaying every moment. Every time I walked away when I should've stayed. Every time I pretended not to see you looking at me. Every time I chose safety over you." He wipes roughly at his eyes. "And I finally realized something."

“What?”

“That losing you slowly like this, watching you pull away, seeing the way your eyes change every time you see me, that's so much worse than any risk I was trying to avoid." Hyungu's voice breaks.

Yonghoon hears it, the small, pained crack beneath the words, and it does something to him. 

"So I'm here." Hyungu says, quieter now. "Not because I have it all figured out, or because I'm suddenly brave. But because I miss you." His voice trembles as he says it. "Because I haven't slept since we got back. Because every time I look at you and don't say anything, I feel like I'm losing a little more of you. And I can't—" He stops, breathes. "I can't keep doing that."

Yonghoon stares at him. This, all of this, it's everything he'd wanted, everything he'd stopped letting himself hope for.

He doesn't have words for what's moving through him right now.

Hyungu keeps going, needing to get it all out. “I’m not good at this, you know that. I don’t know what to do with feelings this big. I don't know how to be this... with you." His tone drops down to nearly a tremble. “We’re us. We’re a band. We’re friends. And when you kissed me, I couldn’t breathe.”

Yonghoon’s pulse stutters. “Was that a bad thing?”

“No." It comes out fragile, honest, heavy with everything it's taken him to get here. "That's what terrified me. It felt too good. Too right. And I didn't know what to do with that."

Yonghoon exhales, and lets the words sink in, lets them settle somewhere deep.

His defenses slowly lower, leaving him unguarded, and he lets them. Because he can see just how much it’s costing Hyungu to admit this, to let himself finally feel.

“I really didn’t mean what I said. About it being a mistake.” Hyungu adds. “I was scared, I said the thing that would make it go away the fastest. But it didn't go away, it just ruined everything instead.”

Yonghoon sighs, stops that before it goes any further. “I didn’t ask for an apology.”

“I know. But—”

“Then don’t give me one.”

Hyungu’s eyes lock onto his, searching, looking for a sign, for something that can tell him it's safe to let this go, safe to hope. 

Yonghoon’s eyes soften. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to feel, but as he looks into Hyungu’s eyes something in him relaxes. He carefully sets the guitar down beside him, no more shields left between them. Even the distance starts to feel a little smaller.  

“You left me alone with all of it.” His voice is low, rough.

“I know.” Hyungu whispers without looking away. “And I hate that I did that to you. I hate that I made you doubt what you felt, what we both felt."

A long pause follows. One in which Yonghoon shuts down any thoughts that tell him to be careful, that nothing is fixed yet.

A moment in which something in him lets go.

Quietly, slowly, Yonghoon pushes himself up from the floor. He crosses the space between them and sits beside Hyungu, close in a way he didn’t think they’d get to be again. The warmth of their shoulders nearly touching feels something like home.

He glances down at their hands resting near each other. “Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.” Hyungu’s reply is firm, but there is wonder underneath, surprise at being allowed back in so fully. “Not if you still want me.”

“I told you.” Yonghoon’s heart feels suddenly too big for his chest. “I’m here.”

They don’t say more than that, don’t get any closer. The moment feels too fragile, too full for words. But they sit there for a long time, quiet, knees touching, hearts finally inching back toward each other.

Hyungu reaches forward at some point, hesitating. Shaky fingers curl around Yonghoon’s, barely, briefly, before holding his hand fully. Yonghoon’s grip tightens in return.

This time, Hyungu doesn’t let go.

The first time they step on stage again, it's Seoul.

Home turf, familiar lights, familiar crew, familiar nerves. The crowd is louder than ever, not because it’s their last stop or their biggest, but because it’s the place where it all started.

Yonghoon stands just offstage as the lights dim, heart thudding against his ribs. He feels the old flutter of adrenaline though it hums differently now, lower, steadier, no longer tangled in confusion or fear but full of the kind of knowing that used to terrify him.

Beside him, Hyungu adjusts his guitar strap. He doesn’t say anything, but he glances over. Their eyes meet briefly, quietly, without holding any secrets now, without hiding.

Yonghoon’s fingers brush against Hyungu’s, a small, barely-there touch. Hyungu doesn’t pull away, he never does anymore.

They step out together. The crowd erupts.

It’s the same and still completely different. Because somewhere in the songs they’ve sung a hundred times, in the harmonies built out of years and closeness and something deeper, there is something else now, something finally allowed to be there.

They don’t play it up like before. There are no planned touches, no baiting glances. But every time Yonghoon looks across the stage, Hyungu is already looking back. 

It’s not a performance anymore. It’s only them.

Later that night, after the show, after the noise and cameras and chaos, when the stage lights go dark and the crowd fades to echo, they find each other again.

The balcony just off the living room of their shared dorm is still faintly sticky from summer air and cigarette ash. The others are asleep in their rooms while the city hums outside, windows glowing like distant stars. 

They sit side by side on the small bench someone dragged out here years ago. Yonghoon’s legs stretched out against the railing, Hyungu turned slightly toward him. His hair is damp, his skin flushed, his eyes soft in that way that used to undo Yonghoon when he wasn’t ready for it.

Yonghoon leans his head back, lets the breeze catch the sweat still clinging to his neck. 

“We could’ve had this so much earlier.” He says, voice still rough from the stage, as he plays with Hyungu’s fingers on his knee.

Hyungu is silent for a moment, thinking. “Yeah.” He says finally. "We could have."

He looks down at their joined hands, at the way Yonghoon's thumb traces gentle circles on his skin. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, quieter.

“I think part of me knew." Hyungu admits. "Even before the kiss. There were moments when I'd catch myself watching you during practice, or laughing at something you said, and I'd feel it. This pull." He pauses. "But I'd tell myself it was just... closeness, friendship. That's what made sense."

Yonghoon watches him, patient, doesn’t stop the soft touch of his fingers.

“When it started getting harder to ignore, when everyone started joking about us..." Hyungu continues. "I kept thinking they were seeing something that wasn't there, that they were making it into more than it was."

"No." Yonghoon says softly. "They just saw it before we were ready to."

Hyungu nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I didn’t know what I was allowed to want, then.” He says, voice barely a whisper. “I was so convinced that wanting you would ruin us. That if I let myself feel it, everything would fall apart. I was scared of what it would mean, of what would change. But not being with you didn’t make the feelings go away, it just made everything harder."

Yonghoon’s throat tightens. He reaches out, his palm warm as it finds Hyungu’s cheek, thumb brushing just under his eye. He presses their foreheads gently together.

“You were always allowed to want me.”

Hyungu’s eyes shine the brightest in the dim light. He leans into the touch, barely breathing.

“I know that now.” He says quietly.

Hyungu takes a breath then, steadies himself, and just says it. The thing he's been holding so tight, the truth he's finally ready to speak. And he does it with a softness so raw it nearly knocks the air out of Yonghoon.

“I’m done hiding from this. I’m done pretending I don’t love you.”

Yonghoon's brain melts. His breath catches somewhere between his chest and his throat. He looks up at Hyungu, completely undone, and blinks once slowly.

“You what?”

Hyungu leans in closer. His voice is soft but sure, clear. "I love you. And I'm not going anywhere."

Yonghoon stares at him for a long moment. At some point he feels his heart stop, a kind of emotional flatline where all the aching tension finally releases. 

His breath comes back to him in a shaky rush, like he’s learning to breathe again. He drops his head to Hyungu’s shoulder, not to hide but because he physically can’t hold himself upright under the weight of everything he’s feeling.

Hyungu’s hand moves to the back of his neck, thumb brushing softly.

“Don't cry on me now.” He mumbles, giving a small, sleepy smile. “I’m too tired to handle emotional emergencies.”

Yonghoon laughs, wet and breathless. “Too late.”

Hyungu exhales a small, tired huff that drips with tenderness, with quiet amusement. His fingers lightly trace the line of Yonghoon’s jaw as he watches him with slow-blinking, drowsy fondness.

“Come here, then.” He says, smiling as he pulls him in. “Let me fix it.” 

So Yonghoon does. 

He leans in and Hyungu kisses him, pressing their lips together with slow certainty. Yonghoon exhales against his mouth when he feels the touch, a quiet, trembling sound that blends into the warmth of the night.

And then he keeps kissing him. Each press slower, steadier than the last.

Over and over.

Again and again.