Chapter Text
The dorm was quiet by the time Martin got back.
He could hear Keonho's muffled laughter from behind a closed door, Seonghyeon's voice responding in a low murmur. The hallway smelled like someone had made instant coffee and forgotten about it. Martin toed off his shoes, dropped his bag by the entrance, and padded to the living room silently.
Juhoon was lounging on the couch, messy brown hair catching the blue glow of his phone screen. He glanced up when Martin came in.
"You look like hell."
"Thanks." Martin pulled his hoodie over his head and tossed it at the arm of the couch. Missed. Left it on the floor.
"James came back twenty minutes ago," Juhoon said, casual in a way that wasn't casual at all. "Seemed quiet."
"Okay..."
Juhoon set his phone down at Martin’s awkward response. "You two talk?"
Martin sat next to Juhoon and pulled at his earring, a habit when his hands needed something to do. "Yeah. We talked."
"And?"
"And I told him I'd stop avoiding him."
Juhoon was silent for a beat. "That's good. That's a start." He paused. "Is it?"
Martin tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. "I don't know what it is."
He expected Juhoon to push. Instead, Juhoon just turned off his phone and got up, walking to the bedroom he shared with James. "Get some sleep, Martin. You look like you haven't in three days."
"Two."
"You should know by now I couldn’t care less about that contrarian bullshit, Martin. I’m the only one in this dorm who doesn’t entertain that… so just go to bed." Juhoon rolled his eyes with a small smile, and lightly rubbed his eye as he disappeared into his bedroom.
Martin sighed, turning off the dorm lights and retiring to his shared bedroom as well. Both Keonho and Seonghyeon were lightly snoring, but Keonho had left a reading light on as well as an ASMR video quietly playing on his phone. Sleep came faster than Martin expected, pulled him under like a current he didn't have the energy to fight.
The dream started in the studio.
He was sitting at the console, headphones on, but no sound came through them. The screens were dark. The only light came from somewhere behind him, warm and gold, and when he turned, James was on the couch.
Not doing anything. Just sitting there, one leg tucked beneath him, looking at Martin with that expression—the one from the practice room floor, open and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and had chosen to spend it here.
"Play it," James said.
Martin knew what he meant. His hand moved to the console and found the file without searching. Demo_1014_untitled. The song he'd buried three folders deep. It filled the room, that mid-tempo ache, the melodic hook that lived in the space between Martin's ribs.
James closed his eyes and listened. Martin watched him listen—the slight movement of his lips as he found the melody, the way his head tilted, the line of his throat. The dream had the sharpness of real memory but none of its rules. Martin stood and crossed the room and sat beside him on the couch, close enough that their arms touched.
James opened his eyes. "You wrote this."
"Yeah."
"For me."
Martin didn't deny it. In the dream, there was no reason to. James's hand found his on the leather between them, fingers threading together slowly, deliberately, and Martin felt the contact like voltage—not painful, just alive, every nerve ending switching on at once.
James leaned closer. Martin could smell that clean scent, the one he hadn't named, the one that clung to the studio’s walls. James's forehead rested against his temple and Martin stopped breathing.
"Stay," James said, barely a whisper.
Martin turned his head. They were so close he could feel the warmth of James's breath. James's eyes were half-closed, warm brown gone dark, and his free hand came up to rest against Martin's jaw, thumb brushing his cheekbone. Martin's whole body went still and loud at the same time, heart slamming, skin burning where James touched him.
He leaned in.
He woke up gasping.
The room was dark. Keonho was asleep across from him, breathing evenly. Seonghyeon’s back was facing him a few feet away, clearly also deeply asleep. Martin's heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. He pressed his hand over his face, then his mouth, as if he could push the dream back in.
He couldn't.
He lay there for a long time, staring at nothing, feeling the phantom weight of James's hand against his jaw. The dream was already fading at the edges but the center held—the warmth, the closeness, the absolute certainty with which dream-Martin had leaned in. No hesitation. No panic. Just want, clear and heavy and undeniable.
That wasn't creative chemistry.
He rolled onto his side and curled his knees up to the best of his ability. His pulse wouldn't slow. He thought about every moment from the past two weeks—the studio, the jjajangmyeon, the mirror, the formation changes, the song he couldn't stop writing, the way James's grip had felt pulling him to his feet. Every single one rearranged itself under this new light, and the picture they made was so obvious he almost laughed.
I want him. I actually want him.
The thought landed with the force of something that had been true for much longer than he'd been willing to look at it. Not curiosity, not confusion, not leader-concern dressed up as something warmer. He wanted James the way people wrote songs about, and he had been writing songs about it, and he was an idiot.
He pressed his face into his pillow. His chest ached. Not the exhaustion-ache from too many hours in the studio. Something rawer, something with teeth.
Across the room, Keonho shifted in his sleep and mumbled something incoherent. Martin envied him so fiercely it almost hurt—the ease of unconsciousness, of not lying awake with your whole identity rearranging itself at three in the morning.
He picked up his phone. The screen burned his eyes. He opened the browser, typed two words, deleted them. Typed them again. Deleted them again. Set the phone face-down on his chest.
Tomorrow, he thought, but it sounded different than it had two nights ago in the studio. Less like a delay and more like a deadline.
He didn't sleep again. He simply waited until the first obvious stirs of the other members and their manager in the common area to reluctantly greet another day.