Chapter Text
Sometimes loving someone means letting them go. That’s why Seonghyeon had purposefully been distancing himself from Keonho.
It was for the best, really. Seonghyeon had been busy, stressed, and tired, and he didn’t have enough time to dedicate to Keonho. More often than not, he found himself either feeling exhausted or frustrated, and it was unfair to sweet, loving Keonho, who kept pretending he didn’t mind. Still, Seonghyeon could see the hurt in his eyes every time he pushed the younger one away.
The pressure he had piled on himself to do well, to not just pass but excel at his exams, and to get into medicine was eating him alive. In what world was it fair for Keonho if he was dragged down with Seonghyeon?
It hurt. Not being able to give enough to Keonho. Enough of his attention, love, care, and time. All of it. His boyfriend liked to cling to him, and Seonghyeon loved that. But Seonghyeon wasn’t great at multitasking. At least not when Keonho was involved. When the younger one was near him, Seonghyeon felt the need to provide his utmost focus and attention to him. And honestly, it was hard not to anyway.
However, since he hadn’t been able to do that, he had seen the resulting consequences. Keonho had been watching him with those big, brown doe eyes that reminded him of boba. His boyfriend had always been easy to read, and this time was no different, with the hurt, confusion, and worry displayed all over his face. Seonghyeon pretended to be oblivious to the stares, even though he was very well aware.
And what’s worse is that Keonho, who thrived on physical touch—though there were random moments that he needed his own personal space—had moved from being stuck to Seonghyeon’s side to hanging out with Juhoon and Martin, and sometimes even James.
The same Keonho who would lay his head on Seonghyeon’s lap so he could run his hand through his soft curls was often tucked into one of their other friends’ embrace.
It was normal. They were all friends. Keonho was a naturally affectionate person. But it still hit like an arrow to his heart when he saw this happen with his own eyes. He wasn’t overly jealous or possessive, not really, yet it rubbed him the wrong way. Like maybe Seonghyeon would’ve been fine with this distance if he didn’t have evidence that involved others that weren’t himself and Keonho.
Everything would go back to normal once the exam season passed. Still, there was one question that would be left unanswered while they were both navigating their way through their last year of high school. Would Seonghyeon have time for Keonho after he got into medical school? If he got into medical school. There was no guarantee.
They had talked about the future before. Of course, they had—before, when Seonghyeon’s brain wasn’t filled with as many downward spiralling thought trains that left him with headaches. With Cookie right there with them, it felt like part of their future together was already set in place.
Keonho wasn’t even asking for much. Seonghyeon knew that the younger one had constantly tried to make life easier for him. But he still couldn’t give Keonho what he needed, so Keonho shouldn’t have to adjust himself. He shouldn’t have to shrink down his needs just to fit into whatever space Seonghyeon had left.
Which is exactly why Seonghyeon thought he was making the right decision for both of them by breaking up with Keonho. If Keonho hated him for it, then so be it. At least then he wouldn’t stay. At least he wouldn’t keep waiting for something Seonghyeon couldn’t give him right now, maybe never.
Even if it felt like he had just ripped his heart out of his own chest and left it there on the floor between them, Keonho would be able to move on and find someone to love him the way he deserved.
He would be lying if he said he hadn’t been pushing it back as far as he could. It was cruel of him to think this, but it would’ve been so much easier if Keonho had eventually gotten the hint and they had drifted off without Seonghyeon having to hurt him. If only Keonho weren’t so persistent and understanding.
Seonghyeon knew for a fact that Keonho wouldn’t have accepted it if he had explained properly. He knew him too well. Keonho would’ve smiled—soft, stubborn, and utterly endearing—and told him that it didn’t matter. That he could wait. That he didn’t need much. That he didn’t mind. That being with Seonghyeon, even like that, was enough. That was the problem.
Keonho deserved more than something half-hearted, more than whatever scraps of attention Seonghyeon could give him in between exhaustion and frustration and the constant pressure building in his head. He deserved someone who could look at him properly when he spoke, someone who would reach for him first instead of pulling away.
Someone who wasn’t silently counting how many hours of sleep they would lose, and the effect that would have on their studies, if they stayed up a little longer just to talk to the person they loved. Seonghyeon couldn’t be that person right now.
He had seen the way Keonho looked at him lately. The carefulness. The hesitation. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore, like he was trying to convince both of them that everything was fine when it clearly wasn’t.
And, at first, Seonghyeon had let it happen. He had let Keonho adjust himself, shrink himself down, soften every edge to mould himself into someone Seonghyeon could keep by his side. It made something twist painfully in his chest every time he thought about it.
So he had ended it. Quickly. Cleanly. In the worst way possible. Because if he had hesitated, if he had softened even a little, he knew he wouldn’t have been able to go through with it. He would have reached out, pulled Keonho back, apologised, and taken everything back the second he saw that expression on his face. Then nothing would have changed.
Seonghyeon exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the desk in front of him, though he hadn’t actually been reading anything for the past ten minutes. His pen lay abandoned beside his paper. He hadn’t touched it since Keonho left. The words were all blurry and jumbled. Nothing made sense. He couldn’t tell if the room was too quiet or if it was his thoughts that were too loud.
A sickening dread twisted in his stomach. It felt wrong. Seonghyeon’s dorm room felt empty without the person he considered the human embodiment of sunshine. Every instinct in his body had screamed at him to stop Keonho from walking out that door. Every instinct in his body still screamed at him to run after Keonho.
He had to force himself to stay seated, convincing himself that even though it didn’t feel like it right now, this was better. And after wasting hours of his supposedly precious time, Seonghyeon—who took pride in himself for understanding organic chemistry—barely slept that night after staring at the endless list of foolish mistakes he had made. In the paper and more.
🍪
Seonghyeon knew he was at fault. And quite obviously, he should have given Keonho space. It was the right thing to do. Keonho deserved space after Seonghyeon had just broken his heart, blasting a break-up unexpectedly in the younger one’s face. So that’s what he had been doing. Well, that was what he had been trying to do.
His phone lay face up on his desk. Embarrassingly enough, Seonghyeon had paid more attention to his phone than to the textbook that he was supposed to be completing questions in. His screen hadn’t lit up the way it used to before yesterday. Keonho used to spam him with the smallest life updates, cute videos of various animals he found online, or random emojis just to get his attention.
Seonghyeon didn’t want to admit it aloud, but he missed it. Missed him. Was this some kind of conditioning? He felt like Pavlov’s dog, waiting like an idiot for Keonho’s name to pop up as a notification on his phone screen. Wait, his dog… Cookie!
The thought lit up in his head like a light bulb. Maybe he should have been ashamed, but he reached for his phone anyway. Then he paused halfway to unlocking the screen. What were the chances that Keonho had gone home and blocked his number? Fuck. Just thinking about it hurt.
If he texted Keonho about Cookie, would he get a response? Imagining his text being left there, not even delivered, was painful. There was no way for him to tell if Keonho had decided to block him.
Unless… he called.
Seonghyeon muttered a fuck it under his breath. At least this way, the bandaid could be ripped off in one go, an instant pain that he would hopefully be able to deal with. If he picked up, Seonghyeon could regret his life decisions later, after he had heard Keonho’s voice and made sure he was okay.
He found Keonho’s contact at the top of his contact list because his was the only one Seonghyeon had set as his favourite—still saved as Keonie ♡ with an adorable picture, his expression similar to one of a hissing seal lion—and pressed the call option.
It rang once. Then twice. A part of him braced for it to cut off, for the silence to confirm what he had been trying not to think about since yesterday. Seonghyeon was already mentally composing the voicemail he would have to leave, explaining to Keonho why he called without making it sound like what it was, when the line clicked.
“Hello?”
Seonghyeon’s carefully prepared opening sentence evaporated completely. He had called for a reason. It had felt urgent just moments ago. Now that Keonho had actually picked up, his thoughts scattered, leaving him grasping for something sensible and normal to say.
“You picked up,” was what left his mouth instead.
What the fuck. That was not what he had intended to say. Seonghyeon really needed to build a backbone when it came to Keonho because there was no way that just the younger one’s voice alone made him turn into an absolute idiot with no thoughts other than Keonho, Keonho, Keonho.
There was a long pause from the other side of the line before Keonho responded, “You called.”
Right. Yes. He had done that. Seonghyeon exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to locate the thoughts he had before his brain had decided to give up on him.
“Uh, I wanted to ask about Cookie.” He cringed inwardly, the words feeling like a thin excuse the moment they left his mouth, even though they were somewhat true.
“Oh.” There was an immediate change in Keonho’s tone at the mention of the puppy. What had previously been indifferent and polite suddenly had a defensive, guarded edge to it.
“I figured we should… sort something out,” Seonghyeon continued. “I think we should work out an arrangement. Maybe a week each?”
Keonho didn’t answer straight away, and each ticking second felt like a year of his life span being taken off. Had he pushed too far? Did Keonho genuinely never want to see his face ever again? The suspense was killing him, and Seonghyeon felt sick to his stomach.
“Okay,” Keonho finally accepted.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I have him now, so I’ll finish the week. Then you can take him.”
Seonghyeon muted himself to let out a huge sigh of relief before replying, “Sounds great.”
The silence came back. Seonghyeon stared at his desk, at the pen he still hadn’t picked up, at the empty corner of the room where Cookie usually sat in his dog bed. He thought about saying something else. He had approximately forty things he wanted to say, none of which he had any right to say, so he said none of them.
“I’ll message you,” Keonho said. “Goodnight.”
The call ended before Seonghyeon could formulate a response in his head. He held the phone in his hands for an embarrassing amount of time, staring at the dark screen, unsure what to do with himself. Seonghyeon eventually put it down on his desk, running his hands through his hair, messing it up.
Goodnight. Not goodnight, Seonghyeon or Hyeon. Not the half-asleep mumble he used to get when they would call for hours, staying on the phone for way too long. He felt his heart sink into his stomach, the acid dissolving it into nothing.
So much for breaking up with Keonho to focus on his studies, because Seonghyeon would be lying to himself if he said that night’s study session was productive. If anything, the chemistry of alcohols and triglycerides had never felt less relevant.
🍪
Keonho’s message came three days later, which was three days of Seonghyeon checking his phone with a frequency that would have embarrassed him under any other circumstances. There was nothing more, nothing less. Just a day, time, and location. Sunday, 10 am, the park.
Seonghyeon replied okay within twenty seconds and then hated himself a little for how quickly he’d texted back, but he was not going to think too hard about that.
He got there early, because he always did when he was nervous, which was a character flaw he had successfully hidden from most people and which Keonho had identified within their first month of knowing each other.
You show up early to everything, Keonho had told him once, grinning like he’d found blackmail against him. You’re not as nonchalant as you think you are, Seonghyeon. And Seonghyeon had sighed with tolerant amusement, told him to stop making things up, and Keonho had giggled, and that had been that.
The park was quiet at this hour. The bench they usually sat on while Cookie ran himself in circles was empty. Seonghyeon stood near it with his hands in his pockets and watched the entrance, and told himself the tightness he was feeling in his chest was just the cold.
Then Keonho came through the gate at 10 am sharp.
He had Cookie on his leash and a tote bag on his shoulder. Cookie, the moment he spotted Seonghyeon across the park, let out a bark and strained forward so enthusiastically that Keonho had to take a quick step to keep hold of the lead.
“Yah—” Keonho looked down at him, exasperated but fond. “Walk properly.”
As Keonho had unfortunately predicted, Cookie did not walk properly. He pulled the entire way over, tail going the whole time, and launched himself at Seonghyeon’s shins the moment he was close enough to reach. Seonghyeon crouched down without thinking, letting Cookie climb halfway up him, scrubbing behind his ears.
“Hey, baby,” Seonghyeon muttered quietly. Cookie licked his cheek. “I missed you, too.”
Once he had ensured Cookie got an adequate amount of affection from him, Seonghyeon stood back up. He glanced at Keonho, who was standing a few feet away, lead still looped around his hand, and Seonghyeon felt a sharp tug at his chest at the fact that before all this had happened, he would have reached for Keonho first thing without a second thought.
There was no doubt that Seonghyeon would have pulled him in before Cookie even got a turn, and yet there was so much distance between them.
At first glance, Keonho looked fine. He looked like himself, which Seonghyeon had not been fully prepared for. His face was pretty as always, but his expression was composed, neutral in a way that felt unfamiliar. There were no traces of the boy who would pout or cling or complain for his attention.
He didn’t know what he had expected exactly, but Keonho standing there, looking normal, in his usual clothes—fuck, was he wearing Seonghyeon’s hoodie?—settled uncomfortably. Which was unfair, because this was exactly what Seonghyeon had wanted for him. It was just that wanting something and seeing it unfold were apparently two very different things.
“Hey,” Seonghyeon said, and his voice came out softer than he had intended.
“Hey,” Keonho echoed. He held out Cookie’s bag.
Seonghyeon took it. “Thanks.”
Keonho nodded, dropping his gaze to Cookie, who was now sitting between them and looking back and forth between their faces like he was sorting out a particularly challenging jigsaw puzzle.
“He slept okay?” he asked, because asking about Cookie was easier than saying anything else.
“Mhm.” Keonho nodded again. “He’s been a little clingy these past few days, but he was okay.”
Seonghyeon wasn’t sure why, but his chest hurt a little hearing those words. He glanced at Keonho again, taking in the small details he couldn’t stop himself from noticing.
Keonho’s hair looked softer, less styled than usual, like he hadn’t bothered fixing it properly, leaving his natural waves. There was a faint tiredness around his eyes, barely there unless you knew what to look for. His lips were a bit drier than usual—which was strange because Keonho made it his personal mission to carry around lip balm everywhere—pressed together every few seconds.
Seonghyeon knew all of this. He had spent years learning all of this. And he no longer had any right to it, which was information his brain had received and apparently decided to ignore.
“Here,” Keonho said after a moment, adjusting his grip on the leash. He stepped forward enough to close the distance between them, extending the handle out towards Seonghyeon.
He reached out without thinking, their fingers brushing for the briefest second as he took it. It was barely anything, but Keonho pulled back immediately, like the contact had burned him. Seonghyeon froze for half a second, the leash now looped securely around his own hand, the warmth of that fleeting touch lingering longer than it should have.
“Thanks,” he added belatedly, the word coming out a little rough.
Keonho crouched down to Cookie, who went to him immediately, pressing his face into Keonho’s hands, and Keonho’s expression softened completely, dropping every careful layer, as he murmured something too quiet for Seonghyeon to hear. Cookie’s tail slowed into something gentler. He pushed his nose under Keonho’s chin.
He held Cookie for a moment before he set the puppy down carefully, stood back up, and straightened his sleeves, and by the time he was upright again, the careful look was back, settled over his face as if it had never left.
“Text me when you get back,” Seonghyeon said, because that was safe. That was a normal thing friends did.
“Okay.”
Keonho stepped back first, putting a bit more distance between them, his hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. Seonghyeon noticed it again then, properly this time. It was his. The hoodie Keonho was wearing was one Seonghyeon had left in his dorm months ago and never taken back. He could tell because the sleeves were a little too long on Keonho, covering part of his hands.
It felt like a knife to Seonghyeon’s heart, but it didn’t seem like Keonho had noticed. So he didn’t say anything about it. In fact, he didn’t say anything as Keonho turned around and walked out of the park, back towards the direction of their dorms.
Seonghyeon watched Keonho go. Cookie did too. The leash tightened slightly as the puppy tried to follow, letting out a soft, confused whine as Keonho walked further away, not looking back in their direction even once. Seonghyeon swallowed, tightening his grip just a little.
“He’ll be back,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure if he was talking to Cookie or himself.
Cookie didn’t seem convinced. And, if he was being honest, neither was Seonghyeon.
The puppy let out another small whine, shifting his weight stubbornly towards the direction Keonho had disappeared, paws inching forward until the leash stopped him. When Seonghyeon gently tugged him back, Cookie resisted for a second before turning around with a soft, almost offended huff.
Cookie circled once where he stood, like he couldn’t quite decide what to do with himself now that the person he wanted wasn’t there anymore. Then, with visible reluctance, he padded back over to Seonghyeon, sitting down right against his leg, though his head stayed turned towards the park entrance as if he was still holding onto hope.
Seonghyeon let out a sigh and reached down, resting his hand lightly on top of Cookie’s head. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Cookie didn’t move right away. He stayed planted for a second longer, stubborn and silent, before finally getting to his feet with another small huff, like he was agreeing under protest. Seonghyeon swallowed, his throat feeling tight. He couldn’t help but think that it was awfully quiet without Keonho.
Even though he had convinced himself that this was the right decision, that it was necessary, that it would be better for both of them in the long run, it didn’t feel right at all.