Chapter Text
Riku didn’t sleep well. He went to bed before Daeyoung returned home.
Even after the long day at the community center, even after his body begged for rest, his mind refused to still. He lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation from the car over and over. The words Daeyoung had said, the ones he hadn’t. The silence that stretched between them even after they'd both closed the bedroom door without saying goodnight.
By the time the sun began to rise, pale light stretching slowly across the bedroom floor, Riku was already awake. But the bed beside him was empty.
Of course it was.
Daeyoung had always been scheduled to leave early for opening day. Final prep, call time, sound checks. Riku knew the routine. He’d memorized every part of it from all of Daeyoung’s previous shows.
But this time, there was no note on the kitchen counter. No thermos of tea left for him. Not even a quiet, creaking door in the dark as Daeyoung slipped out.
Riku lay there for another minute, the ceiling above him washed in gray, then pushed back the blanket and got up.
His body moved on instinct.
He showered in silence, dressed carefully—nothing too loud, nothing flashy, but enough to say I am here. A fitted sweater, dark jeans, the watch Daeyoung had bought him last year, the one with the soft leather strap he still wore even though the second hand sometimes got stuck.
He made coffee but only took a few sips. His appetite was gone.
The apartment felt bigger this morning. Like the distance between the kitchen and the front door was a little longer. Like the air was a little colder.
But still, Riku moved through it.
Because as mad as he was, as hurt as he still felt, he knew he’d never be the kind of person who wouldn’t show up on a day like this.
Daeyoung’s opening day mattered.
And even if they were unraveling at the seams, Riku needed to be there. Not just for Daeyoung. For himself. For the version of them that had always come through for each other, even when things felt uncertain.
He stood in front of the mirror just before leaving, adjusting his collar, brushing at invisible lint on his sleeve.
His reflection looked tired. His eyes were shadowed, but steady.
He could do this.
Even if they still hadn’t said sorry. Even if it still hurt to imagine the way Daeyoung had pulled away… again.
Riku grabbed his coat, pocketed the tickets Daeyoung’s stage manager had texted him earlier in the week, and gave Jelly a long, soft pat on the head.
“Wish me luck,” he whispered.
Jelly blinked at him, then yawned, her tail thumping once against the floor.
Riku stepped outside into the chill morning air and locked the door behind him.
Whatever the day brought, whether it was applause, awkward silence, or tears, he’d face it.
Because love, real love, didn’t just live in the easy days.
It lived in the hard ones too.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗
The theater lobby was already buzzing when Riku arrived.
Daeyoung’s eldest brother had driven, his wife in the passenger seat, both sons bundled in puffy jackets in the backseat with Riku, legs tangled, a stray toy car rolling under the seat every time the car turned. They talked lightly, half-distracted by wrangling the kids, but Riku barely followed. His thoughts were somewhere else. Or maybe they were everywhere at once.
The moment he stepped inside the building, a wave of warmth hit him. The buzz of conversation. The scent of brewed coffee from the concession stand. Ushers moving swiftly, holding up signs. Riku’s heart jumped, just once, at the sound of Daeyoung’s name from a nearby conversation.
He stood in place, waiting for the others to catch up, when he saw her.
Daeyoung’s mother.
She stood near the entrance to the main hall, wearing a soft brown wool coat and holding a bouquet of pink carnations, her favorite. Her eyes scanned the growing crowd with polite interest, then landed on Riku.
Her entire face softened.
“Riku-ah.”
It was the warmth in her voice that undid him. Not surprise, not politeness, just genuine warmth. As if seeing him there had never been a question.
Riku bowed quickly, then stepped forward, trying to steady his smile.
She opened her arms.
He didn’t hesitate.
The hug was familiar and gentle, the kind that always made Riku feel younger than he was. Her hands patted his back the way she always had, like soothing a worry out of him even if she didn’t know what it was.
He nearly cried.
It welled up so quickly he didn’t have time to brace for it. The tightness in his throat, the sting behind his eyes, the ache in his chest where the past few days had lived like a bruise. He hadn’t expected to feel it so strongly here. Not in public. Not like this.
He pulled back gently, smiling too hard, swallowing everything down.
“I’m so glad to see you again” she asked kindly, brushing a bit of lint from his shoulder.
“I couldn’t miss this,” Riku said, voice tight. “It’s his opening day.”
She smiled, that kind, worn smile of hers that always made him feel both seen and forgiven.
He wanted to tell her. Right then. Everything.
How they’d fought. How Daeyoung had pulled away from him. How afraid he was that this fracture might be different than the others. He wanted to confess that he didn’t know what came next, that he was scared, that the future he’d imagined with Daeyoung felt closer and farther away all at once.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Because he remembered what she’d said to him years ago, back when he and Daeyoung had still been dancing around the edges of forever.
“I’m not asking you to force love for my son, but please, care for him. That’s all I want. Someone to care for my Daeyoungie.”
And Riku had promised.
He wasn’t sure he had spoken the words aloud that day, but the vow had formed all the same, quiet and steady in his chest: I’ll care for him. No matter what.
So instead of telling her the truth, he bowed his head slightly and said, “He’s going to be amazing today.”
Her smile grew. “Of course he is. But he’ll be even happier knowing his family is here.”
They made their way into the theater together. The hall was larger than he remembered, dim and elegant, rows of deep red seats stretching out before the stage. The lights were still low, the pre-show chatter echoing gently across the space. Daeyoung’s family filled a small cluster of seats in the center section. Riku took his place between Daeyoung’s mother and second brother’s wife, clutching the small playbill between his hands.
He stared at the name printed just beneath the title: Starring Maeda-Kim Daeyoung.
He folded the edges of the paper until the corners bent.
“I think he was nervous this morning,” his mother whispered beside him, voice low with pride. “He didn’t say it, but I could tell. He kept checking his hair in the mirror.”
Riku smiled faintly, looking down. “He always does that when he’s anxious.”
They shared a small laugh, just for a moment.
The lights dimmed.
The curtain began to rise.
And Riku sat there, heart pounding, waiting—hoping—that when Daeyoung stepped onto the stage and looked into the crowd, he might see Riku and know, even after everything, that he had always been there.
The lights dimmed, and the hush that fell over the audience was immediate, almost reverent.
Riku sat upright in his seat, hands clasped around the crumpled edge of the program in his lap, knuckles tight. The red velvet curtain began to rise, and the first swell of music filled the space, rising slowly from the pit like the breath before a confession.
And then Daeyoung stepped onto the stage.
Riku’s chest clenched.
Daeyoung didn’t just perform—he became. There was no sign of hesitation in the way he moved, no uncertainty in his expression. His presence onstage was effortless, like the lights had always known him, like the floor had been built to carry only his steps.
Riku’s breath caught.
It was like watching someone you thought you knew turn into something larger than life.
He was so beautiful.
He smiled easily during his lines, danced with elegance during each transition, and when he sang, it was like the entire room leaned in to catch every word. His voice was steady, rich, filled with texture and emotion, as if the song had lived inside him all along, waiting for the right moment to be let out.
Riku couldn’t help it.
He fell in love all over again.
With his husband’s warmth, his strength, the way he brought an entire theater full of strangers to tears without even realizing it.
But the ache came too.
It settled low in his chest, familiar now.
Because as much as he loved Daeyoung, as much as he was proud beyond words, he couldn’t stop thinking about Yumi.
About her little crayon-tiger drawings. About the way she’d handed him a pink crayon, her fingers barely brushing his. About the way she’d looked at him like she trusted him. Like she wanted him there.
And sitting here, watching Daeyoung shine in a world where Riku had no place to bring Yumi with him, he realized something that hurt more than he wanted to admit.
He couldn’t have both. Not the way things were now.
Daeyoung wasn’t ready. He didn’t see her the way Riku did. He didn’t feel the pull of her the way Riku felt it… like something missing that had finally taken shape. And Riku knew Daeyoung loved him. That wasn’t the question. But he was beginning to understand that love might not be enough to close the distance between where they were and where Riku’s heart was already reaching.
The spotlight shifted on stage. Daeyoung stood alone in the center, his figure bathed in gold as he began to sing a quiet, aching ballad about love that comes too late and the fear of not knowing what to hold onto when everything feels like it might slip away.
It wasn’t about them. But it was.
Riku blinked rapidly, the sting behind his eyes sharp and sudden.
He couldn’t have both.
At least not now.
Not the child he couldn’t stop thinking about and not the man whose name the crowd would cheer by the end of the night.
He clapped along when the number ended, his hands moving on instinct, his smile just barely held in place. But his heart was somewhere else entirely. It was split between two worlds he loved with all he had.
As the lights dimmed for intermission and the applause rippled through the room, Riku stood with the others.
But he didn’t cheer. His palms were tight at his sides, the edges of the program still crumpled in his fist.
Because he didn’t know how to be proud without breaking.
And he didn’t know how to choose without leaving something behind.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗
After the performance, Riku and Daeyoung’s family had reservations at an upscale restaurant, courtesy of Daeyoung’s mother.
Daeyoung was at the other end of the long table, laughing at something their mother had said, smiling politely as their nephews tugged on his sleeves for attention. He looked tired… Riku could see it in the slope of his shoulders, but he also looked light. Lighter than he’d been in days. The kind of lightness that came with a successful performance and the safety of being surrounded by people who didn’t ask questions he couldn’t answer.
Daeyoung’s second brother and his wife had joined just for dinner, having missed the show because of their newborn. Riku didn’t mind. He was grateful for the excuse to excuse himself emotionally from the rest of the table.
Because Youngmin was fussy. And small. And warm in his arms.
And it was easier to focus on rocking him, walking slowly in gentle loops near the end of the room while his in-laws talked, laughed, and caught up. Youngmin’s tiny hand clung to the collar of Riku’s sweater as if it were the only anchor in the world. Riku swayed with him instinctively, barely even noticing when the baby fell asleep against his chest.
It kept his hands full. His thoughts busy. It kept his heart from breaking out loud.
After dinner, the goodbye hugs were long and affectionate. His mother-in-law kissed his cheek again and reminded him to get some rest. Riku held onto her for half a second longer than he meant to. She said nothing about it.
When he and Daeyoung climbed into the car together, the silence between them wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t healed either. Just quiet. Delicate. Like a bridge stretched too tight, not yet broken, but swaying with every movement.
They didn’t speak during the ride home.
And as awkward as it was, as full as it made Riku’s chest feel with everything they hadn’t said, they still went home together.
The apartment was still and dim when they stepped inside. The hum of the heater kicked on as Riku shut the door behind them, slipping off his coat with slow, tired hands. Jelly didn’t even bark, she just peeked out from her dog bed in the corner, then tucked her nose under her paw again.
“You did amazing, Daeyoung,” Riku said softly, voice carrying into the quiet as they moved to the entryway, stepping out of their shoes. “You really were… breathtaking.”
Daeyoung didn’t look up right away.
He crouched down to untie his own laces, then hesitated. Without saying anything, he reached over and gently began to untie Riku’s too.
Riku froze at the gesture. It was tender in a way that made his chest hurt.
“Thank you,” Daeyoung murmured after a moment. “I couldn’t help but look for you in the crowd. Whenever I had the chance to.”
Riku’s heart twisted at that.
Because he had been there. He had clapped, had stood, had watched with so much love in his chest it felt like it might burst. But they were still standing in the entryway now like strangers who weren’t sure how to find their way back to something soft.
Once their shoes were off, Riku stood on his toes and leaned in, pressing a quiet kiss to Daeyoung’s lips. It was brief. Barely a second. But the sadness behind it lingered even after he stepped back.
Daeyoung didn’t stop him. But he didn’t pull him closer either.
And that was somehow worse.
They said nothing else for the rest of the night.
Riku changed into his pajamas in silence, brushed his teeth beside Daeyoung without looking at him in the mirror. They got into bed without turning off the bedside lamp. They lay back to back, with inches of distance between them that neither of them reached across.
And in that quiet space between warmth and cold, love and doubt, Riku let his eyes fall shut.
Wondering how long it would take before one of them said the thing they were both afraid to hear.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗
After opening night, Riku fell into a rhythm that felt more like penance than routine.
Daeyoung would be gone by the time he woke up, long before sunlight could spill across their bedroom floor. Sometimes there was a used coffee mug in the sink. Sometimes nothing at all. He never left a note. Riku stopped expecting one by the second morning.
By day, Daeyoung was at the theater or music hall either rehearsing, resting, or preparing. By night, he became someone else entirely onstage, shining so brightly that Riku could barely look at him without something cracking open inside his chest.
Riku, meanwhile, began each morning by lacing up his sneakers, buttoning a borrowed coat, and walking down the hill to the community center.
The first time he arrived outside of his scheduled volunteering slot, the staff were surprised. Hesitant. They kindly reminded him that they didn’t take outside volunteers on the weekdays.
But then someone mentioned they were short-staffed in the orphanage wing. Again. And someone else recalled how easily the children responded to him. How quickly they quieted in his presence. How Yumi, of all the children, had started smiling.
They made a quiet exception.
And Riku didn’t stop coming.
For the next seven days, his life became a loop of quiet devotion.
Morning to late afternoon: the community center, Yumi. Evening to late night: the theater, Daeyoung.
Between: silence.
It was as if the days were split into two halves of his heart, one that was quietly blossoming, and one that was slowly beginning to fray.
By the third day, Yumi no longer needed prompting to come sit beside him. She would find him when he arrived, her tiny tiger always tucked under one arm, and silently pull out a second chair.
She had started drawing for him.
Pictures scrawled in thick, earnest lines. Sometimes of them together, his messy hair in brown crayon and her face drawn in soft, wide circles. Sometimes it was Jelly, with tiny hearts floating above her round cartoon head. Sometimes it was just tigers and flowers and skies painted in strange, beautiful colors that made no sense to anyone but her.
She would hand them to him quietly at the end of the day, and Riku would fold each one like a sacred thing, sliding it into his jacket pocket with trembling fingers.
He lost count of how many he collected. Or how many nights he cried over them.
Because each drawing felt like proof that he was being seen. Known. Loved, even by someone too young to understand the word but wise enough to show it anyway.
And every night, after leaving the community center with red eyes and Yumi’s latest drawing cradled against his chest, he would sit in a darkened theater and watch his husband command a stage full of strangers.
He would clap. Stand. Smile at the right moments.
And they would go home together in silence.
No words. No warmth. Just the quiet shuffle of shoes at the entryway, the gentle click of doors, the soft, strained breathing of two people sharing a bed while living in two separate worlds.
Riku sometimes watched Daeyoung from across the room when he thought he wasn’t looking. Watched the slope of his shoulders. The tired bend in his spine. The way he would sometimes sit on the edge of the bed and rub his hands over his face like he didn’t know who he was when he wasn’t being watched by an audience.
And Riku loved him.
He absolutely loved him.
But each day that passed, each word they didn’t say, made it harder to know where that love was supposed to go. Because Daeyoung never asked about Yumi. He never asked where Riku went during the day. And Riku couldn’t bring himself to force the conversation.
So he kept giving his days to Yumi and his nights to Daeyoung.
Two kinds of love. Two kinds of silence.
And a heart stretched so thin between the two that Riku feared it might eventually disappear.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗
After a full month and a half in Korea, Riku was exhausted.
Not just physically, though his body ached in ways he couldn’t name, and sleep never came deep enough, but emotionally, quietly, devastatingly exhausted.
He stared at the ceiling most mornings, unable to move until Jelly nosed at the covers and whined softly. That was the only reason he ever got up now because Jelly still needed walking, and the children at the orphanage still looked for him with wide eyes and hopeful hands.
But everything else?
Everything else felt like trying to swim through fog.
He missed Japan. He missed his family. His sister’s lazy weekend calls. His mother’s handwritten recipe notes left in his pantry. The way their home smelled like theirs– lemongrass from the diffuser, Daeyoung’s cologne in the hallway, the unmistakable scent of their shared life.
Here, everything was unfamiliar. The sounds outside their window. The arrangement of furniture in the too-small living room. The way the city never really slept, and neither did they.
And Daeyoung…
Daeyoung was disappearing.
Not in the dramatic, storm-out-and-slam-the-door kind of way. But in the quietest, worst kind– bit by bit. Into rehearsals. Into performances. Into a version of himself that didn’t have room for Riku during the day, and barely noticed him at night.
They hadn’t had a real conversation in over a week.
Sometimes Riku would say goodnight first, softly, hoping for a response. Most nights Daeyoung would mumble “you too” without turning to face him.
And Riku felt it. All of it. The distance. The ache. The way this new version of their life was slowly wearing him down from the inside out.
The orphanage had become his only solace. The only place where his presence still felt like it meant something. Where someone still reached for his hand, still looked for him every morning. Yumi now waited by the doorway as soon as he arrived, her tiger clutched in one arm, a drawing in the other. She didn’t say much, but she didn’t need to. She simply looked at him like he mattered.
And he gave her everything he had left.
But even that wasn’t enough to anchor him.
Because he was burning out. Quietly.
One night, after another performance, another wordless walk home, another dinner eaten in silence, Riku stood alone in their kitchen with his palms braced on the countertop. The hum of the refrigerator filled the quiet.
Daeyoung was in the shower. Riku could hear the distant sound of water hitting tile.
And suddenly, the ache in his chest cracked open into words.
I want to go home.
No. He needed to go home.
He needed the weight of his pillow back in Japan. He needed his friends, his language, his mother’s cluttered kitchen, and the way the sun filtered into their home through the rice paper screens.
He needed to stop feeling like a ghost in a life that didn’t belong to him.
Because being here, in this city, in this silence. It was hurting more than he thought it ever could.
He closed his eyes. Gripped the counter. Breathed in through his nose.
He didn’t want to hurt Daeyoung, but maybe he was already hurting him just by staying. Maybe they were hurting each other.
He didn’t know what the answer was. But he knew he couldn’t do this much longer.
And when the bathroom door opened behind him and Daeyoung stepped out with a towel around his shoulders, saying nothing, offering nothing—
Riku didn’t turn around.
He just stood there.
Still. Quiet.
Breaking.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗
The decision came not with a bang, but with the smallest, quietest sound.
A laugh, soft, bell-like, barely louder than a whisper, from Yumi, sitting cross-legged in front of him on the play mat, her tiny tiger plush tucked under her knee as she carefully stacked colored blocks into a crooked tower.
She looked up at him for a second and smiled.
And in that moment, something in Riku gave out.
Not out of anger. Not even sadness. Just… enough.
It had been building all day. All week. All month.
The way the sun rose over a city that didn’t feel like home. The way he waited for Daeyoung to ask him how he was doing—and how that question never came. The way he’d poured every last drop of himself into this child, knowing full well she wasn’t his to keep.
And now, here in the stillness of the playroom, with soft lullaby music playing over the speakers and Yumi carefully humming along under her breath, Riku felt something inside him settle.
He couldn’t stay here.
He had tried, he really had tried.
But Korea wasn’t healing anything. It was pressing harder into the wounds. The silence between him and Daeyoung wasn’t closing. It was spreading wider with every day spent in this life that no longer felt like it belonged to either of them.
And the deeper he let himself love Yumi, the more it hurt to know that he wasn’t in a place where he could be anything for her, no matter how much he wanted to.
I need to go home , he thought again, the words no longer shaking inside him, but solid.
It wasn’t giving up. It was… letting go.
For now. Maybe not forever. But he needed to go home. For his own heart. For whatever was left of his marriage. For the parts of himself he had forgotten in trying so hard to hold everyone else together.
He stayed with Yumi for as long as he could.
He helped her build towers. He poured juice into tiny cups for a pretend tea party she didn’t invite anyone else to. He let her place a piece of yarn into his sleeve, even though he knew it would be tangled forever. He sat beside her while she drew, quietly, humming that same gentle tune, lost in a world of color and crooked shapes and absolute focus.
And when the shift was nearly over, when the sun had shifted and the shadows stretched long across the floor, Yumi tugged on his sleeve.
Riku looked down.
She was holding a piece of paper. It was creased at the corners, crayon smudged at the edges.
She offered it without a word.
He took it with both hands, carefully unfolding it.
The drawing was simple, like all of hers. Her and Riku, holding hands. Two stick figures, one with long black scribbles for hair, the other in a sweater with crooked arms reaching out. The sky was purple. There were hearts above them.
Before he could say anything, she whispered, “Thank you.”
Just like that. Barely audible.
Then she turned and ran back to her toys, tiger trailing behind her like always.
Riku’s throat burned.
He stared down at the picture, fingers trembling, and folded it gently, reverently, before sliding it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
He didn’t cry there—not in front of her, but something inside him caved all over again.
It was the sweetest goodbye he never wanted to need.
And he left the community center knowing this chapter was over.
Not because he wanted it to be. But because it had to be.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗
The suitcase lay open on the bed, half-packed. Riku folded his shirts with steady hands, slow and deliberate, pressing down the sleeves and smoothing the fabric like it was the only thing he could control.
The apartment was dim. Jelly lay curled by the door, her eyes flicking to him every time he crossed the room.
He didn’t know exactly when Daeyoung would come home, only that he would. And when he did, Riku wanted to be ready—emotionally, mentally, practically. Because once he said it, once the words left his mouth, there would be no way to take them back.
The front door opened quietly just after eight.
Daeyoung stepped inside, tugging his scarf loose, face flushed from the cold, his expression drawn from another long day. He was humming something under his breath—something from the show—until he turned and saw the suitcase.
His body stilled.
“What… what are you doing?”
Riku didn’t look up as he zipped one side of the suitcase shut. “Packing.”
Daeyoung stepped into the room, eyes scanning the mess. His gaze caught on the folded clothes, the drawer left slightly ajar, the empty hangers.
“You’re leaving?”
Riku exhaled, finally turning to face him. His voice was low, steady. “I need to go home.”
Daeyoung blinked like he hadn’t heard him right. “Home? To Japan?”
“Yes.”
The word landed like stone between them.
“Why?” Daeyoung asked, barely louder than a whisper.
Riku’s throat ached. “Because I can’t live here anymore.”
“But… we just got here,” Daeyoung said, trying to keep his voice even. “We moved here for—”
“For you, ” Riku cut in, not unkindly. “We moved here for your musical. For your career. And I was happy to do it. I wanted to support you. I still do.”
Daeyoung shook his head slowly, like he still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Is this about the orphanage? About Yumi?”
“It’s about everything, ” Riku snapped, louder than he meant to. “Yes, it’s about her. It’s about the silence between us. It’s about how we haven’t looked each other in the eyes in weeks. It’s about how I feel like I’m disappearing and you don’t even notice.”
“I didn’t know you felt like that,” Daeyoung said quietly.
“I didn’t know how to say it without making it worse. I didn’t want to have another argument that didn’t resolve.”
A silence fell between them, deep and sharp.
Daeyoung took a slow breath. “Do you want me to drop out of the musical?”
Riku turned, shocked. “What?”
“If that’s what you need. I’ll—” His voice broke slightly. “I’ll step away. We’ll go back. We’ll reset.”
“No,” Riku said quickly, pain flashing in his chest. “No. I don’t want that. I don’t want you to give up something you’ve worked so hard for.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I think we need time apart.”
The words landed like a stone between them.
Daeyoung stood frozen in the middle of the room. His mouth opened, then closed again. He blinked rapidly, like he wasn’t sure what world he was standing in anymore.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” Riku said, voice soft but unrelenting. “We’re not growing together here. We’re just breaking. I need to go back to where I feel like myself again. And maybe you need space to remember who we were… without all this in the way.”
Daeyoung sank onto the edge of the bed, eyes glassy. “So that’s it? You’re just… leaving.”
“Not forever,” Riku said, heart pounding. “But for now. I need this. I need to go home.”
Daeyoung didn’t argue again. He just sat there, hands clasped tightly in his lap, as Riku zipped the suitcase closed.
And in the silence that followed, it wasn’t hatred or anger that filled the space between them.
It was grief.
The quiet kind that comes when two people love each other enough to know that love, sometimes, isn’t the only thing that matters.
And that sometimes, the kindest thing someone can do for the person they love is walk away.