Chapter Text
———
The day of the soccer finals began before Sanghyuk realized.
When he opened his eyes, the dorm was already quiet in a way that told him Sungho had left hours ago. His shoes were gone from the entrance. His training bag was no longer slumped beside the wall. The mug he usually used in the mornings sat washed and upside down near the sink.
Sanghyuk stood in the doorway of his room for a moment, hair still disheveled from sleep, staring at the empty common area.
He figured the team probably had last-minute conditioning, a meeting with the coaches, mental preparation, or all the other things athletes had to do before stepping into a match that would decide whether months of exhaustion had been worth it.
Sanghyuk knew that. He had lived a version of it. Still, he found himself looking toward Sungho’s closed bedroom door as if he might step out, sleepy and nervous and pretending not to be.
He had already wished him good luck the night before. Sungho had come home early from the final team meeting, quiet but alert in that way he got before important games. Sanghyuk had been at the table, pretending to review his notes even though he had really just been waiting.
That should have been enough.
But standing there in the morning silence, Sanghyuk wished he could have said it again. On the day itself. While handing Sungho breakfast or doing something small and ordinary enough to keep the moment from becoming too large.
Instead, he made coffee for one.
The university felt different by noon. By the time Sanghyuk stepped onto campus, the whole place had taken on the strange, excited pulse of a festival. Banners hung from railings. Student volunteers moved around with boxes of bottled water and cheering props with faces of the soccer team members. Food stalls had appeared near the field entrance, selling skewers, sandwiches, iced drinks, and things that smelled too sweet in the afternoon heat.
Everyone seemed to be wearing school colors.
Some students had painted their cheeks. Others carried handmade signs. There were posters with Jaehyun’s name, Sungho’s name, and the team slogan printed in bold letters. A group near the gate was already chanting despite the game not starting until four.
Sanghyuk paused at the edge of the walkway and took it all in.
He had seen sports events before, of course, but there was something different about being there by choice. Not as an athlete expected to attend. Not as someone passing through the noise on his way to somewhere quieter.
He was there for Sungho. That thought settled in him plainly.
“Sanghyuk hyung!”
He turned in time to see Woonhak waving with both arms. Donghyun stood beside him holding what looked like four drinks, while Dongmin wore sunglasses and looked bored out of his life.
“You’re early, Hyung” Dongmin said when Sanghyuk reached them.
“So are you.”
“That’s because Woonhak threatened us.”
“I said we had to get good seats,” Woonhak defended. “This is important.”
Donghyun nodded solemnly. “We’re here for moral support.”
“And snacks,” Dongmin added.
“And snacks,” Donghyun agreed.
Sanghyuk smiled. “Lead the way then.”
Woonhak, true to his word, had managed to save them good seats in the bleachers. They were high enough to see the field properly but close enough that the players would still be recognizable. By the time they settled in, the stands were already filling rapidly. Students packed shoulder to shoulder, the air buzzing with excitement, gossip, and nervous energy.
Sanghyuk sat between Woonhak and Donghyun, with Dongmin at the end of their row looking like he had come prepared to judge the entire event from a distance.
The game did not start for another hour, but the field was already alive.
Staff moved along the sidelines. The opposing team warmed up near one end. The university team had not come out yet, and that somehow made the anticipation worse.
Woonhak leaned toward Sanghyuk. “Are you nervous?”
Sanghyuk looked at him. “Why would I be nervous?”
“For Sungho hyung.”
Donghyun leaned forward from Sanghyuk’s other side. “You are kind of sitting very still.”
“I always sit like this.”
“No,” Dongmin said. “You’re doing your emotionally contained sitting.”
Sanghyuk turned to him. “My what?”
“See? Exactly that.”
Woonhak laughed.
Sanghyuk sighed, but there was no real annoyance behind it. Maybe he was nervous.
Not the way he had been before competitions, with adrenaline running tight beneath his skin and his body preparing to perform. This was different. He had no control over what would happen on the field. No routine to execute. No corrections to make. No way to help once the whistle blew.
All he could do was watch. All he could do was hope.
A roar rose from the stands. The team had entered the field. Sanghyuk spotted Sungho almost immediately as if his eyes knew where to look by now.
Sungho jogged in with the rest of the team, wearing his uniform, hair pushed back, expression focused. Jaehyun was beside him, saying something that made one of the younger players nod quickly. The two of them looked different on the field. Larger somehow. Not because of attention, but because they carried it without letting it bend their backs.
Woonhak cupped his hands around his mouth. “Jaehyun hyung! Sungho hyung!”
Donghyun joined him immediately. Dongmin did not shout, but he did lift one hand lazily in support. Sanghyuk stayed quiet.
Then, as if pulled by something, Sungho looked toward the bleachers.
For a moment, it was impossible that he would find them in the crowd. Then he did. Their eyes met across the field.
Sungho’s focused expression shifted. Not completely. Not enough for anyone else to notice, perhaps. But Sanghyuk saw the recognition. The surprise. The way Sungho’s mouth softened into the smallest smile before Jaehyun tugged him back toward the team huddle.
Sanghyuk’s fingers tightened around the drink in his hand.
Woonhak leaned close to his ear and whispered, “He totally saw you.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re smiling.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
Sanghyuk took a sip of his drink.
Woonhak wisely chose to laugh instead of pushing further.
The game began at exactly four.
At first, it felt like the university team had control. Jaehyun’s leadership was obvious even from the stands. He moved with sharp awareness, calling out, redirecting, setting the tempo when the team threatened to rush too quickly. Sungho was everywhere in the midfield, receiving under pressure, turning cleanly, sending passes through narrow spaces that made the crowd rise halfway from their seats before anything even happened.
Sanghyuk understood enough to know he was good. He had known that already, of course. But seeing it like this was different.
Sungho on the field was not the sleepy boy who forgot his alarm or the roommate who kept things neat almost to a fault. He was not the person who played guitar in an old music room with his ears turning pink when complimented.
He was still Sungho, but sharpened. Alive in motion.
Sanghyuk had once thought that expression belonged only to music when Sungho played. Then he realized it appeared here too. In the field. In the chase. In the split-second decisions that made him look like he could hear the rhythm of the game before anyone else.
The first half ended scoreless.
The second half was rougher.
The opposing team adjusted. Their defense tightened. A missed chance from their side made the bleachers groan. A foul near midfield had half the crowd on their feet, shouting over one another. Jaehyun argued with the referee long enough for Woonhak to mutter, “He’s so cool,” under his breath.
Sungho kept running.
And running.
And running.
By the final ten minutes, even from the bleachers, Sanghyuk could see the exhaustion. Not just in Sungho, but in everyone. The team was trying to hold their shape, but fatigue had begun to make small fractures where there had once been certainty.
Then the opposing team scored.
The stadium noise broke in half.
Then more shouting.
The university team tried to answer. Jaehyun pushed them forward. Sungho made a pass so clean it sent one of their forwards into open space, but the shot went wide. Another chance came in stoppage time, close enough that Sanghyuk stopped breathing, but the opposing goalkeeper caught it.
The final whistle blew.
The score remained against them.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the other side erupted.
Their university’s stands stayed stunned, caught between disappointment and the instinct to cheer anyway. Eventually, applause began. Scattered at first, then louder. Students stood. Some shouted encouragement. Woonhak clapped so hard his palms probably hurt. Donghyun yelled until his voice cracked.
Sanghyuk stood too.
On the field, Sungho bent forward with his hands on his knees. Jaehyun placed a hand on his back. Sungho nodded, but he did not straighten right away.
Sanghyuk watched him and felt something in his chest pull tight.
They had lost.
After everything, after the training, the exhaustion, the pressure, the interviews, the weight of being expected to win, they had lost.
And still, all Sanghyuk could think was that Sungho had done his best. More than that, he had given everything.
The post-game formalities took too long. Handshakes. Team talks. Coaches gathering players. Supporters trying to get closer to the sidelines. Students spilled out of the bleachers, still buzzing with the kind of disappointment that needed somewhere to go.
Sanghyuk stayed with Woonhak, Donghyun, and Dongmin near the lower exit, waiting.
Jaehyun appeared first.
He looked exhausted, hair damp with sweat, expression steady but tired. Woonhak immediately launched himself at him with enough force that Jaehyun had to catch him by the shoulders.
“You did well, Hyung,” Woonhak said fiercely.
Jaehyun’s face crumpled for half a second before he smiled. “Thanks.”
Dongmin, less dramatic but no less sincere, clapped him on the shoulder. “Good game.”
Donghyun nodded quickly. “Really good game.”
Jaehyun accepted all of it with a tired laugh.
Sungho came out a few minutes later.
He had changed out of his cleats but still wore part of his uniform, jacket unzipped, hair damp, face unreadable. The moment he saw their group, he slowed.
His eyes went to Sanghyuk.
Sanghyuk stepped forward before he could think better of it. “You played well,” he said.
Sungho looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled faintly. “We lost.”
“I saw.”
“That’s your response?”
“Yes.” Sanghyuk’s voice stayed even. “You still played well.”
Something in Sungho’s face shifted. For a second, it looked like the words had reached him somewhere deeper than intended.
Jaehyun, perhaps sensing something, cleared his throat and turned to the others. “We should let him breathe.”
Woonhak opened his mouth.
Dongmin grabbed the back of his jacket and tugged him away. “Come on, commentator.”
“But—
“Come on.”
Donghyun gave Sanghyuk a look that was far too knowing before following them.
Suddenly, it was just the two of them standing near the side of the field, with the crowd thinning around them and the sky beginning to darken into evening.
Sungho looked toward the grass.
“I thought I’d be more upset,” he said after a while.
Sanghyuk waited for the rest of the words to come out.
“I mean, I am upset.” Sungho let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “Obviously. I hate losing. I hate that we got so close and still couldn’t make it. I hate that Jaehyun is probably blaming himself even though he shouldn’t. I hate that I’ll keep thinking about that last pass and what I could’ve done differently.” His hands curled loosely at his sides.
“But?”
Sungho glanced at him.
Sanghyuk did not know why he asked that. He only knew there was more.
Sungho’s smile was tired and unguarded. “But then I saw you standing there.”
Sanghyuk’s breath caught.
Sungho looked away again, embarrassed by his own honesty but apparently too exhausted to hide from it now. “And I don’t know. It didn’t fix anything. We still lost. I’m still disappointed. I’m still going to hear about this from the coaches for weeks.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “But I saw you, and I thought… okay, yeah. I can go there. I can stand there for a second and it won’t feel so bad.”
Sanghyuk did not move.
The noise around them seemed to soften.
Sungho exhaled, then laughed once under his breath. “This is probably a terrible time.”
“For what?”
“For this.”
Sanghyuk’s heart began to beat harder.
Sungho finally looked at him properly. “I like you,” he said.
Plain.
Devastating.
“I’ve liked you for a while. Longer than I should probably admit. Back when we barely even talked. I know that sounds strange, and I know we’re roommates now, and maybe this is bad timing because we just lost and I’m emotional and sweaty and probably not making any sense, but I need to say it.” He swallowed.
“I like you, Lee Sanghyuk. Not because you take care of me, or because we live together, or because you’re so kind to me when I’m tired. I mean, yes, all of that too, but not only that.” Sungho’s voice softened.
“I like how you listen. I like how you move through the world like you don’t need to be loud to be certain. I like how you make room for people without making them feel like an inconvenience. I like that you’re honest. I like that you saw me when I wasn’t trying to be anything.”
Sanghyuk’s throat tightened.
Sungho laughed again, smaller this time, nervous now that the words had left him. “And I really like that you came today.”
Sanghyuk stared at him.
There were many things he could have said.
That he had liked Sungho first. That he had spent so long admiring him from a distance because he thought distance would keep everything safe. That living with him had ruined that completely.
That he had seen Sungho in too many ordinary ways to pretend he was only the star player on the field. Half-asleep on the couch. Laughing in the old music room. Exhausted after training. Carefully placing a blanket over Sanghyuk when he thought he was asleep.
That liking him had become less like falling and more like finding himself already there. But Sanghyuk had never been the best at speaking all his feelings at once.
So instead, he stepped closer.
Sungho’s eyes widened slightly. “What?”
“You talk a lot when you’re nervous,” Sanghyuk said softly.
Sungho blinked. “Sorry…?”
“Don’t be.” Then Sanghyuk reached for him.
He caught the front of Sungho’s jacket gently, giving him enough time to pull away if he wanted to. Sungho did not.
So Sanghyuk leaned in and kissed him.
For a moment, Sungho went completely still. Then he kissed back.
It was not dramatic in the way the game had been. No roaring crowd, no final whistle, no burst of victory. The world did not stop for them. But for Sanghyuk, the moment still felt enormous.
Sungho’s hand came up carefully, hovering near his waist before settling there. Sanghyuk felt the tremble in his fingers and smiled against his mouth before he could stop himself.
When they pulled apart, Sungho looked stunned. “Wha—You… You kissed me…”
Sanghyuk’s hand remained lightly curled in his jacket.
“I did.”
“Does that mean—
“Yes.”
“I didn’t finish.”
“I know what you were asking.”
Sungho’s laugh came out breathless.
Sanghyuk looked at him then. Really looked. The damp hair. The tired eyes. The disappointment still there, because one kiss could not and should not erase it. But beneath it, something bright had returned. Something hopeful.
“I like you too,” Sanghyuk said.
Sungho’s expression softened so quickly it almost hurt to see. “Are you for real?”
“Of course I'm for real.”
Sungho looked down, pouting like he could not help it. “I really wish we had won before saying all that.”
Sanghyuk shook his head. “I don’t.”
Sungho looked up.
Sanghyuk’s voice was quiet but certain. “I’m glad you told me now.”
“Even though we lost?”
“Especially now.”
Sungho stared at him for a second. Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly against Sanghyuk’s shoulder. It was a small gesture, tired and relieved and more vulnerable than anything he had said.
Sanghyuk lifted one hand and touched the back of his head gently. “You did well, Park Sungho,” he said again.
Sungho breathed out. This time, Sanghyuk thought, he believed it.
They stayed there for a bit before the awkwardness and new-found joy of it all began to dawn on the both of them. Sanghyuk was the first to suggest they should probably join their friends who were most likely waiting for them.
When they emerged from the field, Woonhak was the first to notice the shift in less than ten minutes. Donghyun then noticed because Woonhak noticed. Dongmin noticed because he had eyes. Jaehyun was the last to sense it, but only because he had been busy processing the loss and pretending not to be emotional about the whole fiasco.
By the time they all ended up outside of the campus, Woonhak was vibrating with the effort of not asking questions. Donghyun looked delighted. Dongmin looked entertained. Jaehyun looked at Sungho, then at Sanghyuk, then sighed.
“Finally,” he said.
Sungho choked. “What?”
Jaehyun clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll talk later, Yeppi.”
“We absolutely will not.”
“We absolutely will.”
Sanghyuk hid his smile by looking away. Sungho saw.
His hand brushed Sanghyuk’s as they walked. Neither of them pulled away after.
Time, after that, moved the way it always did. Too quickly in some places. Too slowly in others.
There were hard days after the finals. The loss still mattered. Jaehyun had to navigate the team’s disappointment and the coaches’ analysis. Sungho had to sit through post-game reviews and interviews that asked the same questions in different forms. Some sponsors lost interest, others stayed. The university moved on because institutions always did.
But something had changed.
Sungho and Sanghyuk returned to the dorm that night not as two people orbiting the same feeling in silence, but as something named. Something chosen.
At first, it was awkward in exactly the ways their friends expected and they feared.
They lived together, which meant there was no dramatic adjustment from distance to closeness. There were still dishes to wash, floors to sweep, alarms to wake up to, and mornings when one of them hogged the bathroom too long. But now Sungho kissed Sanghyuk’s cheek before leaving for early training if he was awake enough to be brave. Now Sanghyuk reached for Sungho’s hand under the table when they ate with friends. Now the old music room became theirs in a way neither said aloud.
They were busy but they were also happy.
They fought for time and kept finding it in small places. A shared breakfast before class. A fifteen-minute walk after dinner. A message between trainings. A song sent at midnight.
Once, there had also been a dance video Sanghyuk showed Sungho only after making him promise not to make a big deal out of it, which Sungho immediately failed at because he stared at the screen like he had seen the best motion picture of all time.
They were not perfect. They were simply together. And for a long time, that was enough.
By their last year in university, Sungho quit the soccer team.
It surprised everyone and no one.
There had been signs after all. Smaller commitments at first. Fewer sponsorship events accepted. More time spent on coursework. Longer afternoons in the music room. Conversations with coaches that ended with tired smiles instead of plans for another season.
This time, Sungho did not leave because he was injured or because he had failed or because he had stopped loving the game. He left because he was ready to want other things.
Sanghyuk understood that better than anyone.
When Sungho told him, they were sitting on the floor of their dorm room, surrounded by notes, empty coffee cups, and the quiet disaster of finals week. Sanghyuk had listened without interruption. Then he had reached for Sungho’s hand and squeezed once.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
Sungho nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Congratulations.”
Sungho smiled. “I've always wanted to hear that.”
“Good. I'll always support your decisions.”
A year earlier, Sanghyuk had needed those words. Now he gave them back.
Their last year felt different from all the others.
Sungho’s schedule was still busy but no longer impossible. For the first time, he had classes without having to sprint across campus to training. He took more music and art subjects, some of them with Sanghyuk. The first time they walked into the same lecture hall as classmates rather than by coincidence, they got looks of wonder from some people.
They spent that year busy in a way that felt alive.
Sanghyuk continued dancing at the rental studio and eventually began choreographing pieces for small student performances. He still did not boast, but Sungho did enough boasting for both of them. Sungho played guitar more openly, sometimes joining small campus music events when Sanghyuk and Woonhak bullied him into it with affection.
Their dorm became a rotating stop for their friends.
Donghyun came over whenever he needed someone to listen to him, for food, or both. Dongmin pretended he did not like visiting but always stayed the longest. Woonhak appeared without warning so often that Sungho began keeping snacks he knew the younger one liked. Jaehyun came by with his laptop, declared he needed quiet, and then proceeded to engage in conversation for two hours.
They were all older by then. Not fully grown, perhaps. But closer to it.
There were still stressful days. Deadlines. Job worries. Graduation requirements. Uncertain futures waiting just beyond the safety of campus. But there was laughter too. So much of it that sometimes Sanghyuk would look around the room and feel quietly overwhelmed by the life that had gathered around him.
One afternoon, near the end of their final year, Sanghyuk and Sungho left class together while the campus was turning orange in the late sun.
Students filled the walkways. First years rushed past with the same panic Sanghyuk remembered feeling years ago. Somewhere near the field, a newer batch of athletes were training, their shouts carrying faintly on the wind.
Sungho slowed as they passed the grounds. Sanghyuk noticed.
“Do you miss it?” he asked.
Sungho looked at the field for a moment. Then he smiled. “Sometimes, yeah.”
Sanghyuk nodded. “I get that.”
“I know you do.”
Their hands found each other naturally as they continued walking.
No one in the hallway was surprised anymore. Not their classmates. Not their friends. Not even the professors who had grown used to seeing the former star midfielder and the former dancesport athlete sitting together in music classes, sharing notes, and arguing quietly about chord progressions.
Sungho swung their joined hands once. “Do you have studio later?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come?”
“You have readings.”
“I can read there.”
“You’ll fall asleep.”
“Then I’ll sleep there.”
Sanghyuk laughed. “That defeats the purpose of reading.”
“I’ll be moral support.”
“You always say that when you just want to nap somewhere near me.”
Sungho looked offended but his laughter said otherwise. “You know me so well.”
Sanghyuk smiled, leaning slightly into his shoulder as they walked.
The distance he had once promised himself had vanished long ago.
In its place were shared mornings, unfinished playlists, late-night study sessions, cramped dorm dinners, friends who barged in like family, and a future that still frightened him sometimes but no longer felt like something he had to face alone.
Sungho squeezed his hand. Sanghyuk squeezed back.
So they kept walking together, busy and happy, toward the last golden days of their university life.
You lose things, you gain things. And to Sanghyuk, for all it was worth, distance had only ever been another way leading home.