Archive of Our Own

World tours are always difficult. 

They take a toll on the whole group, not just Doyoung. Then again, maybe this one has begun to weigh heavier on him than the other members, heavier than before. 

There’s an awful sense of uncertainty, of things left hanging up in the air, unaddressed, unspoken. There’s an awful sense of finality, and it threatens to choke Doyoung when he lies awake at night. 

There are things he needs to think about, things he needs to discuss out loud, and thoughts he needs to expel. He’s pushing everything and he knows, he knows it’s not the right approach— knows that right now, right in the middle of their tour, the tour that’d taken so much out of them just to become a reality, this is the last thing he should be doing. Pushing himself beyond the limits he knows he has, sleeping fitfully, eating irregularly. 

This is not the right time to break down, to feel, to think— yet think he does.

It’s been years, really, since Doyoung felt this uncomfortable in his skin, in his career. It feels like the safety net that has always been available under his feet— his love for music, his passion, his voice— is slowly snapping, thread by thread, and he can do little more than watch, little more than try not to let himself fall.

He’s not equipped for this— not anymore. He’d assumed he was past this, past the fear, past the anxieties. NCT 127 was a solid group— they’d carved a firm place for themselves in the industry, faced fierce competition, and had proven themselves, time and time again. He was proud, immensely proud of everything he and his members— his bandmates, his friends, his family— had managed to make of themselves. 

And yet.

Perhaps this is Doyoung’s problem; he’d become too comfortable. Too confident. 

But as things keep slipping away, as the net snaps, piece by piece, thread by thread, as the company mismanages and creates excuse after excuse; he feels terrified. 

There is no comfort in knowing that despite your best efforts, despite the knowledge that what you are doing is right, there are forces actively undoing everything he— everything the whole group —has worked hard for their whole lives. 

Because that’s it, isn’t it?

Doyoung is a twenty-six-year-old man who handed a large part of his adolescence and all of his adult life over to a money-hungry, lazy company. And he’s not sure anymore, really, if the thing that brought him fulfillment, the thing he was so certain was the key to everything— his music, his voice, his career —is truly what he wants. 

His soul feels uncomfortable. And now, he can’t fucking sleep. 

🌦

Not for the first time this week, Doyoung’s rudely shaken awake.

It’s to be expected; he’s usually meticulous, awake before the others. Now, though, he can barely lift himself off of the bed. He would blame himself for this, too, but he’s allowed a vice.

(During a live, Jaehyun reads out a question— one alarm, or multiple? 

The noise around Doyoung makes him smile as he pulls up the sleeves of his fluffy blue sweater and licks his lips. The aim is to answer at the same time, and both he and Taeyong announce, “One!”

“Oh,” Doyoung pauses, turning and pointing at Taeyong. “You’re lying!”

“I’m not lying,” Taeyong replies, a little sulkily. Doyoung can’t tell if he’s actually upset Taeyong, or if he’s just being cute for the cameras. The lines are blurry, even with all their closeness. 

He must have sensed Doyoung’s hesitance because his hand reaches up to meet Doyoung’s from where he’s still pointing at Taeyong. He plays with Doyoung’s fingers, and continues: “Doyoung’s alarm is enough for me.” The implications of their conversation make Doyoung’s brain lag for a second.

“A–ah, right, because I woke you up.” He’s not sure of how Taeyong wanted him to respond, or why he’s acting like this all of a sudden and he’s embarrassingly aware of how he stutters before answering properly. And there’s also the fact that all of this is being broadcasted live. His weaknesses, for the viewing pleasure of the public.)

As the body attached to the hand on his shoulder hisses, “Doyoung, fucking— get up,” he recognizes the urgency in their— Johnny’s —voice. This isn’t an average wake-up call; something’s wrong.

“W–what?” he mutters, groggily, a part of him still lingering in his nightmares.

“Dispatch published some—” Doyoung’s eyes fly open, “rumors, they barely have any proof,” he sits up straight, Johnny’s hand flying off of his shoulder, “but there were some pictures and people are taking it seriously and we need—”

“Okay, enough,” Taeyong says from behind Johnny, handing Doyoung a cup of steaming hot tea. Everything is happening too quickly for him to process— how long have they been awake? When was the news posted? Surely it isn’t—  

“There’s no reason to stress him out even further, John-ah,” he whispers, as though Doyoung won’t hear him. He leans up to plant a soft kiss on Johnny’s cheek, and Doyoung has to glance away, redirecting his jealousy like he always does.

“What time is it?” He asks instead, and Taeyong looks down at him, worried. Doyoung can picture him, nervously tap-tap-tapping at the counter, waiting for the water to boil over, biting his nails before remembering how he’s not supposed to do that.

“Just a little past nine. We don’t have any schedules today, I thought I’d let you sleep in, but—”

“What happened, exactly?”

“Some of the higher-ups have called a meeting. Pictures of you and an unidentified second person were leaked, and they said they want to have a conversation with you.”

Doyoung’s face pales.

🌦

Taeyong doesn’t know what to think.

Doyoung, caught in the midst of a dating scandal. Doyoung, risking his career, risking everything, for someone they’ve never heard of? He’d been acting strange, sure, but it wasn’t— well, they hadn’t expected this. They wouldn’t have.

Perhaps they’ve been taking Doyoung for granted.

None of them would’ve seen this coming. If it’d been any member other than Doyoung, it would’ve made sense— Taeyong would’ve realized, he would’ve seen something, would’ve seen him slip before the media had. But no one really pays attention to what Doyoung does, because Doyoung’s good, always good. He’s brilliant, the way he handles the fans, the way he cares for everyone.

His image is everything, right? He’s meticulous, and brilliant, and more thorough and elegant than anyone else. Of course, he wouldn’t risk his own image like that. Of course, he doesn’t start shit, he’s too careful. 

No one keeps an eye out for Doyoung— they don’t have to.

He— he’d known Doyoung wasn’t doing well. They’d all known, of course, but they hadn’t— they’d figured— they’d thought. 

That he’d handle it. That he’d course-correct. 

Sure, he’s been staying back in the studio longer than the others, recording and re-recording his own parts until someone has to pry him away from the mic, insisting that the last seventeen takes were all perfect, Doyoung, having to ignore his mumbled I can do better, I can be better. 

Sure, he’s barely eating, pushing around his food, shaking his head when someone asks if he’s sure he doesn’t want more. 

Sure, he’s lost in thought, all the time, constantly, constantly. But Doyoung will be alright, of course, he will. Doyoung catches himself, Doyoung can handle himself. 

They’d even had a conversation about it; rushedly, hurriedly, one night, and hadn’t they all agreed not to say anything yet? Hadn’t they all agreed to let Doyoung work through whatever this was by himself, hadn’t they all agreed that it was for the best?

(He needs space, Taeil had suggested. He needs space, and if we crowd him, he’ll feel suffocated. He already feels suffocated, we don’t need to make it worse. 

Maybe we can work with him, Taeyong had said. Instead of coaxing him out of his shell, we can just help him out. If he’s having trouble waking up, one of us can wake him up instead. Someone can stay back with him during practice. We can adjust ourselves.)

It’d seemed like the best course of action, of course, it had. And yet.

🌦

Perhaps the most painfully awkward thing about a dating scandal— other than having to face the fact that things are very much over and some part of your reputation has certainly been damaged— is having to head back home to a dorm full of people whose careers rely on your actions. Doyoung’s career relies on their actions as well; it’s why they all work together. 

Things have changed now; the members care about one another deeply, and they’re as close as family. Closer, even, for some. But at one point, it was very much about survival— your mistake would cost the others, and their mistake would cost you, so you learned to give a shit.

“How’d it go?” 

Taeyong’s insistent support and concern for everyone’s well-being is sweet, but it’s also starting to wear thin on Doyoung’s nerves. Taeyong is kind; too kind. He should be reprimanding Doyoung, scolding him, and reminding him of what’s at stake, what’s always at stake. Instead, he’s looking at Doyoung with wide, inquisitive eyes, placing a hand on his arm, and Doyoung feels overcome with guilt. 

The news is out— the company has always been swift when it comes to things like this. SM’s ability to care begins and ends with their pockets, choosing to confirm and terminate the scandal in one fell swoop so as to minimize loss.

Doyoung shrugs in response, causing Taeyong’s hand to slip off of his arm. A mix of emotions surges through him. Relief, regret. Nothing strong enough to linger. 

“Fine. You know how it is.”

And he does, he does know how it is. Out of all the members, Taeyong, perhaps, is the one that understands the most. Strangely enough, this is precisely why Doyoung does not want to speak to him. 

And, well. All the history.

Sighing, Doyoung walks past Taeyong, making a beeline toward his room.

He doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to think about it. One lapse in judgement, and it’ll follow him for the rest of his life. It isn’t fair, not when he’s been so careful his entire fucking career, his entire fucking life— this, too, feels like a sign from the universe. The music is eating away at his soul, so is the company. And now this.

Doyoung wishes he could become numb to everything, but it hurts, it hurts. He knows how easy it is to lose everything, how the loving, screaming fans could turn into an angry mob at the first sight of blood, of weakness. And Doyoung is weak, weak, weak.

When he enters his room and turns on the light, he expects it to be empty. Instead, he finds a wild Donghyuck, his hair ruffled, staring down at his phone, aggressively chewing away at his bottom lip. 

His first instinct is to walk up to Donghyuck and pull his lip away from his teeth.

His second is to ask, “What are you doing here?”

Donghyuck looks up, eyebrows knitted together, the brightness of his screen leaving a ghostly pale hue on his cheeks. 

“Hyung,” he says hoarsely, almost dejectedly. Has— has he been crying?

"Donghyuck-ah, baby,” Doyoung says, dropping every pretense at the doorstep. So what if he’s crumbling inside? His baby isn’t okay. He walks closer until he can stop at Donghyuck’s feet. 

“What’s wrong?”

Donghyuck looks at him with pure, raw pain. There are tears swimming in his eyes, his face scrunched up all wrong. 

Donghyuck doesn’t look at Doyoung like that, Donghyuck shouldn’t look like that. He should always be okay, he should be healthy, happy. Doyoung’s heart squeezes, and he hopes he has nothing to do with this.

Maybe— maybe Donghyuck just feels homesick— it happens, sometimes.

The longing for home hits Doyoung, personally, in waves; sometimes strong and powerful, his feelings tiding over his delicate frame, reminding him of his place in the world, reminding him of how small and weak he is in the grand scheme of things. And sometimes, it’s softer, gentler, rippling through Doyoung, reminding him of easier, more patient times. Achingly sweet, painfully soft.

“Nothing, hyung, I—” he replies, breaking eye contact with Doyoung almost instantly.

Lying, Doyoung thinks. Lying, so very clearly.

While they might have managed to curate a persona onstage and on-camera that allows them to lie to their audience smoothly, and easily, it isn’t as easy to lie to one another.

You can’t lie to the people that have seen you at your weakest, at your worst.

Not to the people that have seen every side of you— dazed and giddy at the glittering lights in front of you, each representing another person, another life that your voice has healed; weak and broken from practicing for what’d felt like an eternity; impatient, waiting for a destiny you felt was your right, after all your suffering; despairing and lost as the realization sinks in that no one truly cares if you collapse from exhaustion, not if you look pretty while doing it; gross and sweaty, unable to care about taking a bath, not when it’d take away from the precious drops of sleep you could sneak in before life knocks down your front door again.

Not to them.

“Donghyuck-ah,” Doyoung starts, gently. He places his hand on Donghyuck’s arm, just as Taeyong had done outside. Gently, as though he were likely to flee if treated too harshly. 

Taeyong has always said Doyoung is like glass. Pure, clear, pretty. Easy to break. 

Doyoung dislikes how honest this interpretation of his character is, and dislikes how true it is. The reasons for his dislike are twofold; one, that someone knows him closely enough, knows his weak little heart well enough to be able to describe it with such grace, and two, that this someone had to be Taeyong. But he’s digressing. 

Donghyuck is what matters, not his own weak glass cage of a heart.

There’s a difference in the language Doyoung uses with each of his members, a dance he’s perfected over the years. With Donghyuck, it’s always best to be honest, blunt. He doesn’t like being coddled, never has. So Doyoung pushes, instead. 

“Be honest,” he insists. 

Donghyuck lets out a pained sound, like he’d been wounded, before shaking his head. 

“I said nothing, hyung. You must be tired. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“You’re not—” Doyoung’s face twists up in confusion, but before he can say anything further, Donghyuck lifts himself up, shoving past Doyoung’s shoulder.

“—bothering me…” he mutters, staring at the door Donghyuck practically slammed in his hurry to get away, which— why?  

Choosing not to go after Donghyuck feels like a decision he might regret in the future, but for now, Doyoung wants to sleep. 

Grateful to have something to ruminate over that isn’t his own fucked little life, Doyoung turns to his closet, pulling out something comfortable to stew in for the night. 

He places his phone a significant length away from his bed, so as to not end up scrolling through comments all night, and sighs. 

Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow will be better. 

🌦

The next day, though, things only tumble further downhill, not to Doyoung’s surprise. He can lie to himself all he wants, and tell himself things will get better, but they won’t. They never do. 

Donghyuck seems to be in one of his… Well, it isn’t fair to call them his. They all tend to get these… moods.

It’s to be expected. Leading the lives they live, the way they live them, the isolation, the stress. It’s to be expected— so why does this feel different? 

The days leading up to their tours have always been stressful, in a bone-deep, satisfying kind of way. In a way that makes them feel alive. They’re preparing for something big, something wonderful, something magical, each time. 

Doyoung has always fucking loved it. 

The excitement in the air mingled with the stitch in his side for dancing too hard and drinking water too fast; the fatigue, eating too less or eating too much. Monitoring themselves, finding fresh, new ways to breathe life into old music and old performances. It grounds him, as it grounds all of them. 

The pain, the sweat, the exhaustion. The reminder of what they’re doing, why they’re doing it.

Now, though, all he feels is a sick sense of dread. This tour has dragged on for too long, the fans are upset, they’re sick and tired, and everything is changing, the future isn’t fucking set in stone, he doesn’t know what’s next for them, for the group, for himself, and he’s not even sure he fucking cares anymore. 

And then there’s— and —Donghyuck won’t even look at him. 

Doyoung thinks he’s fucked up, fucked up immensely. He should’ve pushed harder that night, asked more questions, should’ve followed Donghyuck back into his room, demanded to know why he’d— he’d been in Doyoung’s room, crying. Why, why?

And now Donghyuck won’t look at him. And it’s only him— no one else. 

There he is, chasing Mark for a kiss, giggling away with Johnny over something on his phone. Asking Taeyong for help on a particular move he wants to perfect— you’re doing so well, Donghyuck-ah, Doyoung wants to say. You’re always doing so well, you’re so beautiful, so strong, and so hard-working.

A surge of envy runs up Doyoung’s spine before he pushes it back down. He dances, and he plays around with the members. He laughs, even if it feels strained, even though he knows they have questions, he knows there’s something underlying here, that there’s more to be said, not just with Donghyuck, but with all of them, because— why?

Why would Doyoung, of all people, Doyoung have a fucking dating scandal? Getting caught, too? Doyoung, the most meticulous, the most careful of them all? The irony of it isn’t lost on him. So focused on the audience-performer divide his whole fucking life, only to have his privacy invaded in the cheapest way possible.

He hadn’t even cared about her. He’s not sure he can even recall her full name properly, he just— he wanted to feel something. 

It hadn’t fucking worked, of course, it hadn’t. Nothing does.

“Donghyuck-ah, water, please,” he tries. 

It works, because Donghyuck is a sweetheart, even when he’s inexplicably and unfairly upset with someone. He passes over a bottle of water to Doyoung, avoiding eye contact the entire time, but Doyoung holds onto it and moves closer, trying to balance being cautious of everyone else around them, and confronting Donghyuck.

“Why aren’t you speaking to me, Hyuckie?” He asks, softly, searching Donghyuck’s downcast eyes for something, anything. 

Their fingers brush, and Doyoung tries not to question why he feels the urge to— to have more. He bends down a little to catch Donghyuck’s eyes, taking note of his pretty, long eyelashes, but when Donghyuck finally looks at him, there’s only annoyance.

Okay, sure. That, he can work with.

“Did I do something wrong, Donghyuck-ah? You can talk to hyungie, you know you can.”

Donghyuck’s jaw clenches, and he lets go of the water bottle, their only point of connection. “Don’t call me that.”

He says it lowly, almost menacingly, and it would’ve been cute, it would’ve been comical, would’ve been sweet little Donghyuckie trying to be intimidating, if it wasn’t so fucking sincere.

“Call you what? Donghyuck?”

“I’m not— it’s Haechan for you.”

What?

This is absurd. Beyond absurd, actually. It’s not like Donghyuck— Haechan? — to act like this. To act this sulky, this pouty, this… upset? Doyoung isn’t sure where this is coming from. It feels like a cry for attention, but Donghyuck has always had Doyoung’s attention, so what is this, really?

“Hyuckie—”

“Don’t. I don’t want to talk to you right now, hyung. I don’t want to be around— I just— leave me alone. ”

There’s a finality in his voice, in his eyes, that makes Doyoung hesitate. His eyes flicker across the practice room where he’s rotted away half of his youth before he nods. 

“Okay,” he mutters, backing away from Donghyuck, smoothing his expression into something uncaring, nonchalant. 

“Okay, Haechan-ah. Okay.”

Another thread, snapping, snapping. Doyoung has nowhere to go, nowhere to land.

🌦

Donghyuck doesn’t know how to explain himself. 

Not to Doyoung, not to anyone. 

All he knows is that one day, an indiscernible amount of time ago, he’d realized.

Back against the bathroom door, his chest squeezing inward, his spine curling from the sheer weight. Hunched over, his cheeks cold and wet from tears unbidden, Donghyuck realized— I’m in love. And then— no one can know.

He felt foolish. Falling in love is already a luxury they cannot afford, but to fall in love with another celebrity— there couldn’t be anything more inconvenient, impractical, foolish. That too, a celebrity of the same sex— from the same band. 

And to fall in love with Doyoung, of all people. 

Doyoung, who is quiet and withdrawn at his best, who has so much to give but takes in so little. Who loves with a furious abandon Donghyuck has always found admirable, who cares with every bone in his body, who makes everyone in his presence feel special, warm, and loved. Doyoung, who is gentle, and kind, but never to himself. 

He’d gone and fallen in love with Doyoung, who’s never had a selfish bone in his body, who’s never learned to take, not in the way Donghyuck wants to give. Doyoung, who could never love Donghyuck back, not properly, not truly. Not when the group’s reputation, their careers, their lives hung in the balance. 

They’d all been asked, once, what they’d give up first, and in what order— pride, money, love, or freedom? And while they weren’t too honest with their answers, Donghyuck knows he would, truly, place love above all else. 

He knows, too, that Doyoung would let go of love first. He knows because he asked.

(Perhaps there’s something in the air, or perhaps Donghyuck has never been able to hold back his curiosity. Whichever it is, it finds him seated next to Doyoung on the ride back to their hotel. 

They’ve just finished filming for a variety show, and Doyoung looks particularly lovely today, his plush lips illuminated by every streetlight they pass by. 

They’d answered a series of questions before, as bonus content for the fans. Whether it’ll come out as an interview or as a series of short clips, Donghyuck doesn’t know, and he doesn’t have it in him to care— the logistics aren’t for him to worry about. But there was one question in particular that’d stuck to him, and it’s been nibbling away at his mind ever since. 

Pride, money, love, or freedom. What would you let go of first? 

Donghyuck knows there’s always a veil that the members consciously put up between what they reveal about themselves and what they keep hidden away. This is more so true for the 127 hyungs than the Dreamies. 

Donghyuck recognizes that this is probably because of a difference in age, a maturity that the older hyungs had managed to reach before debut, a maturity that they’d had to reach after debut. Due to this, he finds it easier to speak closer to the truth rather than completely shielding himself, and for a question as thought-provoking as that… Donghyuck chose to be honest. He’d placed love above all else. 

But what about…

“Hyung?” 

He tries to whisper, but it’s been a few minutes since he’s last spoken. His voice comes out as a croak into the peaceful silence of the car. Everyone’s dead tired— even Doyoung’s sleepy, patient ‘‘hmm?’ echoes in the quiet.

“What did you answer? For the— the question about pride, and love?”

“Ah,” Doyoung whispers through closed eyes. He’s facing the roof of the car, which makes it easier for Donghyuck to look at him, to stare unabashedly. 

He turns to look at Donghyuck, and it’s almost funny, the speed at which Donghyuck looks away. Almost.

“Love. I said I’d let go of love first.”

Donghyuck blinks. It’s the opposite of what he would’ve expected. 

There’s a childlike wonder in the magical promise of love, of romance. 

This is what Donghyuck assumed Doyoung believed as well. Doyoung, with his affinity for romance dramas, his joy and excitement about being invited to sing at weddings. He loves love, everyone knows this. He’s the first to tear up when the music builds; when the rain starts pouring and the two characters on screen finally share a searing kiss. 

No, Donghyuck wouldn’t have expected this.

“Why is Hyuckie asking?” Doyoung asks with a lilt in his voice, gentle even though he’s teasing. Donghyuck fiddles with his phone, and shrugs. 

“Just curious.”)

Maybe Doyoung’s sentiments have changed. 

The thought leaves a bitter taste in Donghyuck’s mouth because if it’s true— if it’s true, that means he’s spent three years anguishing and pining over someone very well within his reach. And, well, wouldn’t that just be foolish?

🌦

The day the scandal broke, Donghyuck remembers waking up to the hushed, hurried whispers of Taeyong and Johnny, who’d only recently become a thorn in his side, acting increasingly lovey-dovey for what Johnny’s claimed is only for fun. 

It clearly means more to both of them than they’re willing to let on, but whatever— it’s their own problem to deal with. Donghyuck has enough of his own. 

He’s digressing— these weren’t the whispers of two annoying fools in denial about their feelings, no; these were the hushed whispers of two people figuring out how to deal with a crisis. 

Donghyuck checks his phone, trying to gauge what time it is in order to see how big of a crisis it is. It’s nine am, which seems like a reasonable time, only… this is probably their last day off before the tour kicks off; before their lives go haywire for an indefinite amount of months; before everything becomes a blurry canvas of scenic views, hotel beds, and screaming lights. The day should be starting at eleven, maybe twelve pm, at least for Taeyong, if not Johnny. 

Something is really wrong.

Donghyuck rolls over to his right, in a subtle attempt to get closer to Taeyong and Johnny as they whisper away, to be able to hear them better. He catches a few words— enough to piece together that something bad has happened, and Doyoung is at the center of it.

(Later, Donghyuck will sneak into Doyoung’s room, thinking about ways to comfort and joke around with him about how silly the tabloids were, mindlessly accusing Doyoung, of all people, of dating someone. Doyoung, seriously? 

He’d think of how ridiculous it all is, how certain he is that it’s all been a misunderstanding, an attempt at defaming an idol as untouchable and meticulous as Doyoung. 

Later, Donghyuck will sit, cross-legged on Doyoung’s bed, and watch SM release a status confirming and announcing the termination of Doyoung’s short-lived relationship in a well-put-together two-tweet thread. 

He’ll refresh his timeline from the private account he has for shits and giggles and watch as the articles pour in, talking on and on about Doyoung’s scandal, and he won’t notice how blurry the screen’s become, how painful his chest feels, and he won’t cry, he won’t cry, he shouldn’t cry.)

🌦

It seeps into his skin on stage one day. That funny feeling, the sense that nothing’s going right, that nothing ever would, no matter how hard any of them tried or how much they did or didn’t deserve it. 

Doyoung would call it hopelessness but— that isn’t it. 

Doubts, questions— Does anyone even care about what we’re doing anymore? Is anyone even watching anymore? Is anyone listening? Does anyone want to?  

They spread like a disease, from the tip of his fingers to his wrists, from the stage to the practice room, to the studio. 

Is this enough? Am I enough? Do they even need me?  

To the schedules, the projects outside of NCT he’d worked so hard to land. 

Do they even like what I’m doing? Are they sick of my voice? Am I replaceable? Do I even want to know? Is anyone listening? Do I even want them to? 

That funny feeling, seeping into the walls of his room, settling deep inside his stomach, sick and uncomfortable. It bleeds into the walls of his own home, brought on by Donghyuck’s behavior, his sour mood, his sudden distaste for everything to do with Doyoung. 

Do you care? Do I matter? Did I ever? Am I that replaceable to you? Do I even want to know? 

That funny feeling, reaching every inch of his sanity, clinging to his clothes, his skin. 

Donghyuck still won’t talk to him; it’s been over a week. 

Doyoung doesn’t know why it hurts this much. Maybe because, well. What else does he have? It’s not like he has Taeyong to confide in anymore. It’s not like anyone wants to listen. Or rather, it’s not like he feels comfortable reaching out to anyone else.

Maybe it hurts because this— loving, giving, caring —comes naturally to Doyoung. It fulfills him. To be able to dole out his affection without abandon, without worrying too much about what the other person would think. 

Doyoung’s heart is soft, and he becomes lonely easily, even if he pretends like he doesn’t. And Donghyuck’s always been so affectionate. So willing to take whatever Doyoung would give him, confident enough to ask for more. He’s always there, whether it’s Haechan, bright, loud, and obnoxious, or Donghyuck, quiet, gentle, and attentive. 

He’s always there, and it feels like he sees Doyoung. Like he sees Doyoung in a way most people don’t try to see him— like he’s someone worth caring for, too.

Doyoung has never denied Donghyuck, he could never. 

Even when he jokingly turns Donghyuck away, it’s only for a second. There’s something about Donghyuck, something that makes Doyoung want to take care of him, to hold him and cherish him as much as he possibly can. To tug him close and plant soft kisses in his hair, to hold him and tell him how good he is, inside and out. 

Maybe it’s because he takes it all in his stride; he takes Doyoung’s affection and makes a silly game out of it. Sees how far he’s willing to go, and Doyoung— well, Doyoung never wants to let up. There’s something addicting about the way Donghyuck looks at him, and Doyoung hates that it took this— Donghyuck distancing himself, turning away Doyoung’s affection, for him to realize.

🌦

Trying to pass it off as playful, Doyoung reaches out for Donghyuck multiple times, his hand wrapping around Donghyuck’s arm, tugging at his wrist, pulling at his shirt, especially when the cameras are on because Donghyuck can’t push him away, not when people are watching. 

It feels as though the roles have been switched, absurdly enough. Like Doyoung’s the younger between the two, desperately searching for affection, non-verbally trying to communicate how badly he needs comfort, needs closeness. But unlike Doyoung, who has always been attuned to Donghyuck's needs— to everyone’s, really —Donghyuck does not notice.

Or, well. Maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t want Doyoung around.

The ugly little voice in Doyoung’s head hisses at him, telling him repeatedly that he’s replaceable, unwanted, that one day, everything he is and everything he’s worked hard for will amount to nothing. With everything that’s been going on, it’s only grown louder and gained a stronger holding, almost as though it’s found solid ground to stand on.

Around Donghyuck, it feels like a blaring siren. Less like a bully, more like a warning. A reminder. 

The more Donghyuck pushes away, the more he glares and tangles himself up with the other members, the louder it becomes, until it feels unbearable; until Doyoung has to move away. 

He clings to Jungwoo instead, who’s always gentle, and affectionate. He doesn’t feel better, but at least he doesn’t want to dig his nails into his skin until he can peel away whatever’s fucking him up.

Still, he doesn’t want to give up, not just yet. He’s sure they can work this out without needing to get anyone involved. So, once they pause for a break, he tries again.

“Do— I mean, Haechan-ah,” Doyoung stumbles through his words, mentally reprimanding himself for his little slip-up. If Donghyuck wants to put up boundaries, for whatever reason, the least he can do is respect them. 

Donghyuck’s waiting, looking at him with wide eyes, holding an earphone in his hand, leaning against the wall with just enough support to hold himself up. He doesn’t look annoyed, just… caught off guard. 

I need to do better, Doyoung thinks, I need to make Hyuckie comfortable around me again, before continuing.

“Do you wanna get something to eat? Hyung’s treat.”

If there’s one thing none of them can refuse, it’s free food. That’s what Doyoung’s relying on, it’s what he’s always relied on— after all, nothing brings people together like food does. If Donghyuck wants to take them back to step one, then Doyoung will put in the work. 

“No.”

Doyoung blinks, almost certain he’s misheard.

“What?”

“No, I don’t want to get something to eat, but thank you.” 

Short. Clipped. Formal. 

Doyoung recoils. He’s embarrassed at his reaction, embarrassed at how it feels like he’s been slapped. This— this is the last thing I fucking need, a part of him thinks before he shoves the thought down deep. It doesn’t matter what he needs, not right now. Not when Donghyuck’s acting like this. 

“That’s okay,” Doyoung says, trying to recover. He’s honestly reeling a little. He feels out of his element and… strange, as though his body isn’t his own, which… it’s a feeling that he’s become familiar with over the course of the last few months, except. Well, it’s never been around someone he loves, has it? 

“But can we still talk? Please, Haechan-ah?” 

Give me a fighting chance, Hyuckie, Doyoung thinks, and he tries not to let the helplessness he’s feeling bleed through.

🌦

Donghyuck considers it denying Doyoung this, too; genuinely considers it, but Doyoung’s eyes are round and desperate, and it feels like he’d drop to his knees if Donghyuck asked, and Donghyuck’s heart clenches. 

He hates himself, he really, truly does. Reducing someone he claims to love to this? Over his own heartbreak? It isn’t fair; Donghyuck knows it isn’t fair. Doyoung doesn’t deserve to be punished for the things Donghyuck feels. He doesn’t deserve to be facing consequences for sins he hasn’t committed.

Nodding in place of an actual verbal agreement, Donghyuck moves to place his earphone back in, hoping it counts as a polite dismissal. 

“I’ll see you at home, then?” Doyoung presses. 

“Yes, hyung.” Donghyuck winces at the ice in his voice and wishes he could take it back. Wishes he could take it all back; wishes he’d never fallen in love with Doyoung in the first place. But there’s no point anymore, is there? 

Doyoung smiles at him, half-hopeful, half-painful, before walking away. 

Donghyuck switches off his mind for the rest of the day— no use of thinking when there are bigger, more important things to focus on. 

They have less than a week left before they leave for Manila, for the continuation of their tour, and there’s nothing that matters more than work. 

Nothing, he repeats to himself, over and over as they run through the motions. 

Nothing, he thinks as he slides into the car to head back home. 

Nothing, he feels like screaming as he heads to the elevator, trying to ignore the ever-present, looming shadow of Doyoung behind him, whose eagerness is practically radiating off of him. Clearly, he thinks he can solve the fucked up mess inside Donghyuck’s head with a single conversation.

The assumption infuriates Donghyuck, and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why he’s acting like this, doesn’t know why there’s so much going wrong inside of him. He feels like a child again, unable to control his emotions, incapable of holding his reactions back. 

It’s a new state of helplessness, this unpredictable nature of his anger, of his pain, of the way it’s causing him to behave. He’s dreading this confrontation. He’s dreading whatever he’ll end up saying, dreading how much of it will be hateful, spiteful waste.  

The urge to hold the truth back is so, so much stronger than his need to be normal, kind, good. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, he doesn’t want to be around Doyoung, he doesn’t— he needs to breathe. 

“Haechan-ah,” Doyoung whispers from beside him. Donghyuck looks around, surprised to find himself in Doyoung’s room, surprised to find that he’d ended up here of his own volition.

“Hi,” he replies, awkwardly. Donghyuck’s thoughts feel rattled. He wants to reach out, wants to envelop all of Doyoung’s thin, delicate frame in his arms. He wants to run, run as far as he possibly can, lock himself out of the possibility of ever having to share his feelings, of ever being honest. 

He does neither. He clenches his fists instead and waits, biting the inside of his cheek.

🌦

Donghyuck looks upset, like he doesn’t want to be here, which is odd, because he’s the one who’d made a beeline straight to Doyoung’s room as soon as Johnny had unlocked the front door. Doyoung had thought— well, he’d wanted to change into something comfortable. Get some food into both of them. Everyone’s calmer with a full stomach. 

“Hi,” Doyoung says, and forces an uncomfortable grin onto his face. Tries to force a sense of normalcy into this increasingly painful interaction. “I just– I guess I wanted to talk to you?” 

Doyoung winces internally. God, he thinks. Sound a little more uncertain, why don’t you?

“You guess?” Donghyuck replies with a flash of amusement in his eyes.

Doyoung lets out an exhale in place of laughter, then shakes his head. “No, I mean, I do want to talk to you. I just– is everything okay?”

“Yes, hyung, everything is fine,” Donghyuck replies, monotonous and dull, and it’s an insult to Doyoung’s intelligence, really, if Donghyuck believes this’ll work on him.

This is unfair, says a voice in Doyoung’s head, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push it back down. I’m making an effort when I shouldn’t be, and he can’t even be bothered to—

“How can you say that? When you haven’t been speaking to me at all?” 

Doyoung tries not to sound accusatory, but it’s impossible when there is an accusation to be made. He’s never been one to demand better treatment, but this— this isn’t fair. Donghyuck has the decency to look ashamed, the decency to avoid Doyoung’s eye as he stammers, unable to defend himself. Of course, he has nothing to say. 

“It’s not like that, hyung. I just— I need some space.” 

He’s avoiding Doyoung’s eye, and it feels like there’s more to be said.

“Only from me?” The hurt that creeps into his voice makes Doyoung feel weak.

Donghyuck hesitates like he’s unsure of what to say. Like he’s trying to come up with something convincing enough. 

“I don’t know why hyung. All I know is how I feel.”

“And how do you feel?” Doyoung presses, feeling a headache coming on. He wishes Donghyuck would stop talking in circles. Maybe he wishes Donghyuck would leave, too. Maybe he’s just fucking tired of it all.

“Like… like I need to be away from you, for a while.” 

Donghyuck looks up, then, and there’s so much emotion in his eyes, swimming beneath the surface. Doyoung finds that he doesn’t want to decipher any of it. 

“Okay,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. “Okay, Haechie. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

Doyoung hears Donghyuck exhale, but he doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to see. Whatever this is, it’s only hurting him more. Hurting them more. If Donghyuck is here, telling him what he needs so politely, and considerately, then who is Doyoung to pry? 

Maybe it’s on himself, really, that Donghyuck is acting like this. Maybe his desolate, dull personality has begun to leech away on Donghyuck’s energy, too. 

It wouldn’t be the first time, he thinks bitterly, mind flashing back to Taeyong, to when things were good, before—

“Thank you, hyung,” Donghyuck whispers, and it makes Doyoung’s heart squeeze. He wishes he could be fine, he wishes he wasn’t so low all the time. Maybe then, people would stop leaving him behind. 

He says nothing, just nods, accepting his fate. He gestures toward the door behind them, still silent, still quiet. You can leave now, he thinks. You can leave now, and it won’t matter. 

It isn’t until Donghyuck shifts, breezing past Doyoung to leave that something inside him slots back into place, and jolts him out of his reprieve. 

“Haechan-ah,” he says, clearing his throat, turning around to face Donghyuck’s back as he pauses, his hand hovering uncertainly above the doorknob. “You know I love you, right?”

Donghyuck’s head hangs low, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he nods. 

“I know, hyung,” he replies, before leaving.

🌦

I love you too, Donghyuck thinks, closing the door behind him. I’m sorry. 

🌦

The tour kicks off, and then, it’s a whirlwind of performances, recordings, schedules, and delays. 

Everything is last-minute decisions and hurried appearances, and it only serves to heighten Doyoung’s growing anxiety, his fears confirmed. His career, the thing he’s given up everything— everything — for is one (more) wrong move, one (more) stumble away from becoming nothing, disintegrating. 

The same is to be said about his personal life, too. 

It takes the loss of Donghyuck’s constant, gentle support for Doyoung to understand that… he really, truly has nothing. He’s nurtured these bonds, these relationships to the best of his abilities, but when it all comes down to it… as long as he’s functioning, nothing matters. 

It’s not that no one cares, it’s just that no one sees.  

And it’s not even on purpose— no, everyone has their own problems, and everyone is dealing with their own battles. It’s just Doyoung, it seems, who’s been placing everything on the back burner and prioritizes everyone else’s well-being over his own. 

He knows why he does it, too. 

He’s not a saint, he isn’t a martyr, he isn’t a god amongst men; no, he’s simply running away from himself. And what better way to blind himself than to hover around the truth of others, absorbing their reality as his, denying himself the time and space needed to actually check in on whatever the fuck kind of internal mess has accumulated while he’s been away. What better way to blind yourself than to pretend true meaning lies within the palms of the people you surround yourself with? 

If Doyoung gives, and gives, and gives, then surely, eventually, he’ll rid himself of the need to take, to yearn, to wish. Isn’t that how it works?

This past month has felt like nothing more than a whirlpool of airplanes, screaming hands, and blurry faces, of performances both on and off stage, of emptiness and too much all at once. 

The stage is where Doyoung has always allowed himself to be vulnerable, where he lets his emotions pour out. A healthy outlet, one could call it. A safe place for him to be distant from the why of his emotions, a safe way to let it all out without questioning how it came to be. 

Now, though, there’s too much inside of him, too much to trickle it out bit by bit, performance by performance, stage by stage. A bottleneck of emotions, a sick congestion that's rooted itself in Doyoung’s lungs without him ever realizing it. 

He feels like there’s nothing left like when he sings, like it’s a mockery of what he used to be, of what he used to try to be.

Still, Doyoung clings. He clings to the dream, onto the stage, the tour, the flashing lights, and the screaming fans. He clings onto the sense of normalcy he derives from the stage because what else is familiar to him, if not his? What else does he have? 

He’s dreading the last stop, dreading going back home to Seoul. The threat of things unknown loom over their heads; of the lack of organization from SM, the uncertainty of when their next comeback would be, of enlistment, of so many things that Doyoung’s afraid of. 

More than anything else, though, Doyoung is dreading the feeling of being stagnant, unmoving. If he’s not busy, he’s thinking, and if he’s thinking, he’s fucked. He doesn’t want the tour to end, he doesn’t want to have to walk off of that stage knowing that there’s no excuse left for him to keep ignoring things with Donghyuck, keep tiptoeing like there’s nothing wrong. 

Perhaps the confrontation, above all else, is what he fears the most. Because it’s inevitable, isn’t it? Donghyuck can’t keep oscillating between being draped all over him, teasing him playfully in front of the audience, to ignoring him and refusing to meet his eye, refusing to accept his— admittedly lukewarm —attempts to balance giving him space and trying to fix things. 

He’s just so tired. 

(Doyoung has been treating his heart like something to be traded, to be pawned off. Offering it away to the highest bidder, trading it in for that which he craves most, convinced that this is the right way to go about it. 

Take it, he begs. Take it, take it, take it. I have nothing else to offer, I have nothing else to offer. My worth is in your palms, in the way they smooth over my skin. 

My worth is in your palms, and yours, and yours, and yours. My worth is what you make of it. All of you. I have never learned to be my own.)

A stab to the heart would feel more euphoric than this.

🌦

Before he knows it, he’s back in his bedroom, back in Seoul, facing everything he’s been dreading for the last month or so. Tomorrow, they’ll practice on stage, and after these last two dates, the Neo City: The Link tour will conclude, everything coming full circle from when they’d kickstarted the tour in Seoul. Almost a lifetime ago, it seems. 

Now that he’s actually here, at the summit, actually about to face the reality he’s been trying his hardest to ignore, Doyoung feels… numb.

Perhaps the anticipation, the anxiety, the swirly whirlpool of emotions twisting, turning, churning, and bubbling away in his chest have finally decided to rest. Or, perhaps, they have permanently made a home in Doyoung’s body, so familiar that they no longer pose a threat to his ill-equipped heart.    

Whatever the reason, he still needs to unpack. There’s a joke in there, somewhere. Doyoung won’t be the one to make it.

“Doyoungie~“ Jungwoo sings, sauntering into the room with a little sashay in his hips, a hilarious contrast to the blanket-wrapped, absolutely desolate Doyoung curled up in the corner of the room.

Doyoung half-mumbles, half-groans out something indecipherable, turning around so he doesn’t have to face the light daringly pouring in from the door Jungwoo hasn’t had the courtesy to close. Jungwoo coos in return, and Doyoung buries himself further into the covers. 

“You still haven’t unpacked?” He asks, his voice pleasantly neutral. Doyoung wonders what he’s thinking.

Poor Doyoung hyung, probably. Poor, poor Doyoung, good for nothing anymore. 

“Hyung?” There’s an edge of concern in Jungwoo’s voice, so Doyoung turns around again, and faces him properly. He even manages to muster up a half-hearted smile.

“No, Woo, I haven’t unpacked yet. I’ll do it later though, don’t worry. Did I accidentally pack something of yours?”

(It wouldn’t be the first time, through no fault of Doyoung’s, of course.)

Jungwoo shakes his head before lying down next to the Doyoung-burrito. He nudges and nuzzles his way into Doyoung, his limbs flinging across Doyoung’s disgruntled figure, his lips in Doyoung’s hair. 

“You didn’t. Are you okay, hyung?”

It comes out muffled, and when Doyoung hesitates, Jungwoo squeezes him closer. It feels like he’s being asphyxiated by a large, enthusiastic, well-meaning octopus. The thought is so absurd, so off-track from what he’d been thinking about before Jungwoo came in that Doyoung laughs, a strange, bark-like sound. He realizes, then, how long it’s been since he’s laughed so easily, so effortlessly.

Huh, says a voice in his head, distinctively his own. It’s almost as if isolating yourself from the people that love you is bad for you. 

“Hyung?” Jungwoo asks again, only this time, he sounds a little amused. Incredulous, even. 

“I’m okay,” Doyoung manages to get out. Jungwoo hugs him even tighter, the little bastard, and Doyoung grits his teeth, squeezing his eyes together in pain. “I would be better— if you could stop squeezing me.”

“Oh,” he says, the little shit. Doyoung can hear the smile in his voice. “Sorry, hyung.” 

He lets go, just enough to let Doyoung breathe, not enough for him to start missing the contact. 

“Using Donghyuck-level tactics on me,” Doyoung scoffs. “I expected better than this from you, Jungwoo.”

Jungwoo hums into Doyoung’s hair and says nothing. On paper, this is peaceful, but Doyoung feels stiff and awkward again. Jungwoo is smart and knows how to monopolize silence. Doyoung’s moping period needs to come to an end, and they both know this.

“He sent me here, you know. To check up on you.”

He says it so casually, so softly. They both know it’s anything but. 

“He misses you,” Jungwoo continues, and Doyoung wants to roll away, bury himself further under the blankets. He’s managed to avoid thinking about it for some time now, and he doesn’t— he’s not exactly sure he’s ready to think about it yet. 

“Then he should’ve come here himself,” Doyoung mutters, surprising himself. So there is something there, then, underneath all that numbness. 

“I don’t know what happened between you two,” Jungwoo says, lifting a hand to card through Doyoung’s hair, his touch soothing even as Doyoung’s heart trembles a little. “But he misses you. And you miss him too, hyung.”

Doyoung can’t find it in himself to deny it, or to protest. He closes his eyes, and drifts off into sleep, his heart squeezing uncomfortably. 

🌦

To Doyoung’s credit, he really did try to keep it together for the first thirty-eight songs, holding back the swirling mess in his chest to the best of his abilities.

The second last song is where things go south, through no fault of his own. Looking up at the glimmer of lights shining down at him, the fans singing, screaming, some of them crying, free and vulnerable in a way Doyoung hasn’t allowed himself to be… it all feels so— so painful. His heart squeezes, almost folding in on itself as he walks back to the main stage, his eyes glued to the audience. 

Each waving light in the distance, each of them their own stories, their own lives. Doyoung wonders how many of them are hurting like he is, hurting in ways he could never understand. He thinks of how they gain strength from him, from his members, from their music; their voices, a vessel for their fans’ pain. He wishes he could do the same. He used to. 

The relationship he’d nurtured between himself and the fans was one of mutual respect, mutual love, and affection. And it helps, it does, it usually— it used to. It was enough, but it feels so distant now, so far away. He wishes someone would hold him, he wishes he knew how to ask for help, and he wishes his pride didn’t hinder his ability to ask for help. He doesn’t want this to finish, he doesn’t want to leave. It can’t be over yet, it can’t. 

They’ve prepared so endlessly, they’ve sacrificed so much of their time, it can’t just— just be over like that. He needs to hold it together, he needs to hold it together.

He feels the tears building, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He needs to sing, he needs to be okay. He turns his eyes away from the audience, trying to snap himself out of it. 

He sings the chorus, his lips forming a natural pout as he tries his best to hold it together, trying to walk forward, reach the main stage— 

And then, he looks up, to where Taeyong is walking straight toward him, a mix of affection and understanding welling up in his eyes, and Doyoung can’t do this, can’t hold it back anymore, has missed him so much. Taeyong opens his arms wide, walking toward him, and it feels like permission, it feels like home; like Taeyong’s saying it’s okay, it’s okay if you’re not okay. 

It has been so long since he’s allowed himself to be close to Taeyong like this. He’d forgotten, it seems, that before they were in love; before something snapped and became ugly and festering between them; before Taeyong moved on and left Doyoung in the dust, they were friends. They were family. 

Doyoung breaks, the first, ugly sob wracking through his body so strongly it forces his head down.

He registers Taeyong’s little chuckle of affection, can feel his arms envelop Doyoung, can feel his hand patting his back, but it feels like he’s breaking.

He stands there, for a second, allowing himself to be held, simply soaking up the affection, before he jolts back into action, his hands coming up to squeeze.

There’s so much in his head, so much to be said, so much he wants to say, but now isn’t the time, not while he can hear the little rain, rain, always be there of the pre-chorus. 

His knees buckle under the weight of his emotions, just for a second, and even though Doyoung knows it doesn’t last that long, it feels like an eternity before he looks up from where he’d buried his head into Taeyong’s shoulder.

Sweet, lovely Taeyong, who has the ability to care and love and give, more than Doyoung ever could. Their leader, their pillar. At that moment, it feels absurd to Doyoung that he’s been isolating himself.

He’d convinced himself that no one sees; but how can anyone see if you never let them in?

He looks up, breathing through his mouth, willing his tears away. 

🌦

During the ment, and for a large part of Promise You, Doyoung oscillates between trying (trying) not to let the tears pour again, and allowing himself to accept the affection that his members dole out freely. 

They have so much love to give, Doyoung thinks. And I have never let them give it. 

He’s been unfair, he realizes. He looks over at the people around him and he craves the safety of being able to love, give, and take in peace. It isn’t some fault of the universe that he hasn’t been able to do so; it is simply his own fear of being vulnerable. 

So when Johnny lifts him up, when Mark practically flings himself around Doyoung, and when Jungwoo gently offers him a tissue, he accepts it all; takes it in his stride. He even grabs Yuta by the sleeve, pulling him in for a quick hug. 

He lets them give, he lets himself take. 

When Donghyuck pulls him into a gentle hug during the ment, Jaehyun at the back saying Doyoung, don’t cry, he lets him. He lets him, and he doesn’t wonder if it’s only for the stage. He doesn’t question the lingering kindness in Donghyuck’s eyes, even if he turns away as soon as he can, even if he feels overwhelmed. 

When the concert ends, once they bow out of view and there’s a distinct lack of noise, it feels as though the silence is ringing, even though his ears are fine. 

Deafening, he thinks. This silence is deafening.

It’s over and, for all of his anxieties, it feels so anti-climatic. So hollow. Where will they go from here? When will they ever perform again? 

He’s halfway through pulling off all the wires he has on before the tears overwhelm him again, and he has to grab at the nearest sturdy thing around him so he doesn’t keel over. 

There’s noise all around him, then, of his members, his friends, laughing, singing, cooing at him, and telling him not to cry. Mark, calling him a baby, a fool, the fondness dripping from every syllable. Donghyuck, singing along with Jaehyun, telling him not to cry. Johnny, cooing at him, announcing to everyone that he’s crying again, cradling him to his chest, and Doyoung feels loved, so loved, and it hurts, but in a different way, a good way. His chest squeezes, and it hurts, but it hurts in the right way.

🌦

Doyoung’s called aside to say a few things to the fans once he’s changed into more comfortable clothes, and Donghyuck watches as he speaks into the camera, his eyes shimmering with tears. 

“Are you crying again?” Donghyuck asks, unable to hold back the affection and endearment in his voice. He doesn’t want to, anymore.

The time away from Doyoung only hurt more, and Donghyuck’s realized how unreasonable his response to the whole scandal, to Doyoung’s behavior, to everything has been. 

Even if he has been hurting, it’s not like Doyoung wasn’t hurting as well. Even if Doyoung isn’t his responsibility, he shouldn’t have distanced himself like that, not when he knows— he’s always known —that Doyoung is horribly good at isolating himself and not reaching out when he needs support, affection. 

He’ll twist his needs and find a way to care for someone else, to morph his own wants into someone else’s and Donghyuck knows this. He wishes he could rewind and replace the time he’d spent brooding and ruminating over things but… at the same time, he knows it was necessary. Now, though, he’s done being selfish. 

Doyoung’s nose and lips are red, and even though he’s washed most of the tears away, his eyes are still a little puffy. He looks so cozy in his blue hoodie, and Donghyuck loves him. Donghyuck loves him, and it’s time to fix things. Once he’s done speaking into the camera, Donghyuck walks up to Doyoung and pulls him into a tight hug. 

To his relief, Doyoung stays quiet and hugs him back. His grip on Donghyuck is weak, but that’s alright. He squeezes Doyoung, planting a soft kiss on his cheek before pulling away. Doyoung looks at him with a questioning glint in his eyes, and Donghyuck shrugs.

“No more space?” Doyoung asks, and Donghyuck blinks. He smiles sheepishly at Doyoung, and even though Doyoung smiles back, it doesn’t feel quite right. 

Doyoung looks… empty. Like someone reached inside him and pulled out everything that made him Doyoung. Like his essense has been stolen. Donghyuck reaches out, taking Doyoung’s hand in his.

“I’m sorry, hyung. I’m going to fix this. Us.”

Doyoung nods. He stares down at their hands and draws a gentle pattern around Donghyuck’s knuckles. 

“Why did it go wrong in the first place?” He asks, soft, low. 

“I’ll tell you, hyung. I’ll tell you everything, just not right now. Do you trust me?”

It’s a bold ask, but Doyoung nods. He’s exhausted, and he’s hurt, but he nods, because of course he does. 

“I do.”

Donghyuck nods then tugs Doyoung a little, so they can move out, and head to the car. He doesn’t let go, not until they’re back in Doyoung’s room, not until Donghyuck tucks Doyoung into bed and tucks him in, kissing his forehead, stroking his hair until he finally falls asleep.

🌦

When Doyoung wakes up, only a few hours later, Donghyuck’s sitting at the edge of his bed, cross-legged and beautiful. His hair looks soft, and his face is bare of any makeup. He looks beautiful, and Doyoung missed him so, so much. 

Pushing himself up into a proper sitting position, he smiles at Donghyuck as he glances up from his phone. Donghyuck smiles back, and everything feels calm, nice. 

Doyoung doesn’t say anything, simply stretches his arms out a bit and stares at Donghyuck in his room, in his bed, drinking him in.

There are two bags, packed and placed next to Donghyuck’s feet. Doyoung frowns. Those… were not there before. 

“Haechan-ah,” Doyoung says, surprised at how hoarse he sounds. “What are those for?”

He doesn’t bother to point, but Donghyuck looks down at the bags anyway, then smiles. There’s a hint of excitement in the air, even though Doyoung’s still too drowsy to pick it up.

“We’re going on a trip, hyung.”

🌦

(“Hyung, do you remember that one question we answered for Teach Me Japan? Almost three years ago?”

He plays with Doyoung’s fingers, almost nervously, and shifts a little to use Doyoung’s chest as a pillow. A weak attempt to avoid his eye.

“No. What was it?”

“It was just— what would you let go of first, and in what order? Pride, money, love, or freedom.”

“Ah, I remember that.”

Donghyuck looks up at Doyoung, his hair tousled, his lips well-kissed, his eyes shining. He looks alive again, alive in a way Donghyuck had forgotten. 

“Do you think your answer back then… has it changed?”

Doyoung smiles at Donghyuck, and there’s a little glimmer in his eyes, a spark of something that makes Donghyuck realize just how transparent he is.

It isn’t uncomfortable, though.

“It has, Donghyuck-ah.”

With the sun setting behind them through the glass windows, Donghyuck thinks he’ll never forget this moment. The way Doyoung’s looking at him, the way they’re intertwined. He plants a soft kiss on Doyoung’s bare shoulder, then meets his eyes again.

“Can you tell me?” He asks, a little nervous.

Doyoung hums. He runs his fingers through Donghyuck’s hair, then lowers his hand onto Donghyuck’s waist, tilting down to kiss the top of his head.

“It goes— pride, money, love, then freedom.”

Donghyuck hums back, nuzzling Doyoung’s cheek. He understands, here, that Doyoung is still very much Doyoung.

His career matters, but if there’s anything that they’ve both learned over the course of the last few months, it’s this— they deserve to be more selfish. And Donghyuck understands what Doyoung is saying, understands that he’s willing to try, now. That Doyoung is allowing himself this, allowing himself to be able to love Donghyuck back.

"For me, too, I think."

It's not an I love you. It won't be, for a while. But it's enough.)