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Seungkwan has always been fascinated by stars.
As a child, he would sneak down to the beachfront of his family’s home in Jeju, the cool sand beneath him and the salty breeze brushing his skin. He would lie on his back, staring up at the vast, endless sky, the stars shimmering above like distant stories waiting to be told. His mother often found him there, a tiny silhouette against the backdrop of constellations and the gentle sound of the waves. She never scolded him for staying out so late. Instead, she'd sit beside him, pointing at the stars and telling him stories of gods and legends, explaining how each constellation had its own tale to tell.
He loved the stories, of course. But even more than that, he loved the stars themselves—the way they burned millions of light-years away yet still managed to illuminate the sky. He found comfort in their presence, in the knowledge that no matter what changed in his life, the stars remained.
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Seungkwan always dreamed of something bigger, something beyond his small world in Jeju. When he was young, he sat in awe, watching his older sisters sing and dance along with Wonder Girls, their energy and grace lighting up the room. That moment—the way the stars in their eyes matched the sparkle of their performance—planted a seed in Seungkwan’s heart.
From that day on, he knew. He was meant to be up there, beneath the lights, surrounded by music and adoration. But the path wasn’t easy. At training, Seungkwan struggled with homesickness. He had left his family behind to pursue his dream, and while the thought of debuting kept him going, there were days when the longing for home felt overwhelming. His throat would tighten as he thought of the salty breeze from Jeju’s coastline, the soft sound of the waves crashing against the shore. At times, it felt like his soul was disconnected from his body, pulled in two different directions.
Each day he spent training, pushing through vocal exercises and learning complicated choreography, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of his dreams. Homesickness clung to him like an unwanted shadow. He missed the warmth of his family, the familiarity of Jeju’s coastline, the soft sound of the waves crashing on the shore.
In the quiet moments between practice, Seungkwan would stare out at the night sky, the stars offering him some solace. They were constant, unchanging, a silent reminder that he could make it, too, if he just held on. The stars were the only thing that didn’t feel out of reach.
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He kept telling himself it would get easier, that the homesickness would fade. But it didn’t. Not right away.
Then there was the voice, the one that he had always thought would carry him through. Yet, every time he stepped into the practice room, he found himself grappling with vocal control, breath techniques, and the endless battle to hit the high notes just right. It felt like he could never quite match the perfect standard set by the coaches. He would lie awake at night, wondering if he was good enough, if he had what it took.
His training was grueling. The vocal coach had never let him forget the importance of precision, his breath control a constant struggle. Doubts, like dark clouds, often overshadowed his hope. Was he really good enough? Could he ever measure up to the idols he admired, including his own sisters, who had taken a different path?
His fascination with the stars grew stronger during these moments of doubt. The stars didn’t have to try so hard. They just existed, in perfect harmony, shining without needing approval. Seungkwan would lay back on the roof of the dormitory building after practice, staring at the sky, trying to gather some of their quiet strength.
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The cold fluorescent lights of the training room buzzed overhead, cutting through the thick air of sweat and determination. Seungkwan wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, glancing at the other trainees around him as he adjusted his position for another vocal run. The room was full of voices, all different and distinct, but none as polished as the ones that Seungkwan strived to be. His gaze flitted across the faces, trying to gauge the competition, the uncertainty creeping in.
And then his eyes landed on the boy in the corner.
He was standing by the mirrors, his head tilted as he followed along with the instructor, but something about his quiet intensity caught Seungkwan’s attention. The boy wasn’t the most animated—no extravagant movements, no exaggerated expressions. Just focused, locked into the rhythm. There was a calm that radiated from him, a quiet confidence that Seungkwan couldn’t quite place.
Seungkwan felt an unfamiliar pang in his chest. He wasn’t sure why, but the boy’s presence stirred something—something soft, something almost comforting.
The instructor clapped his hands, cutting through Seungkwan’s thoughts. “Alright, take five,” he announced, and the trainees scattered, some heading for the water cooler, others collapsed onto the floor to rest.
Seungkwan kept sneaking glances at the boy, who was leaning against the mirrored wall, shifting on his feet like he wasn’t sure where to stand. He looked unsure. Not in a bad way, just hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he belonged yet. When their eyes suddenly met, Seungkwan immediately looked away, his stomach flipping for some reason.
Feeling heat rush to his cheeks. “What’s wrong with me?” he muttered under his breath.
He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, trying to act normal, but his heart jumped again when he heard a quiet, "Um, hi."
Seungkwan turned back and found the boy standing a little closer now, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie. "You’ve been here a while, right?"
Seungkwan blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, yeah. A little over a year."
The other nodded slowly. "Oh. That’s a long time."
Seungkwan shrugged, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Not really. I mean, kinda."
The boy shifted again, glancing down. "I’m Hansol. Just… just got here."
Hansol.
Seungkwan nodded, hesitating before replying, "Hansol. I’m Seungkwan. You’re the new guy?"
Hansol nodded, chewing his lip. "Yeah. Can I ask how old you are?"
“‘Thirteen.”
Hansol’s face lit up just a little. "Oh. Same." He rocked back on his heels. "That’s… good, right? So I don’t have to talk all formal?"
Seungkwan let out a small laugh. "I guess not."
Hansol smiled, but it was a little uncertain. "People keep staring at me when I talk. I think… I think they expect me to sound different."
Seungkwan tilted his head. "But you sound normal."
Hansol’s shoulders relaxed a little. "Really?"
Seungkwan nodded. "Yeah."
Hansol let out a small breath. "Thanks. Um… how’s training?"
Seungkwan hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh… kinda scary. Everyone’s so good. I feel like I’m playing catch-up."
Hansol blinked. "You feel like that, too?" He looked down at his hands. "I thought it was just me."
Seungkwan bit his lip, then admitted, "No. I feel like that all the time."
Hansol nodded slowly, like he was letting that sink in. "That makes me feel a little better."
Seungkwan felt himself relax a little, too. "Me too."
He stood there, caught off guard by the sincerity in Hansol’s voice. It was unexpected, this comfort from someone he’d just met. But it felt... safe, in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.
From that moment, Hansol became someone Seungkwan always kept an eye on, even if just from the corner of his vision.
It wasn’t until much later that he realized how much that quiet presence, that calm reassurance, had rooted itself in his heart.
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Thirteen
Hansol meets Seungkwan when he’s thirteen, in a too-bright practice room, surrounded by unfamiliar voices speaking too fast for him to catch everything.
He’s used to feeling a little out of place, used to struggling with words, used to being the quiet one in the room. He’s been training for months now, but he still feels like an outsider, still catches the way the older trainees smirk when he stumbles over his steps, when he takes a second too long to react.
And then Seungkwan speaks.
His voice is bright, sharp-edged but warm. He says something funny—Hansol doesn’t catch all of it, but he hears the way the tension in the room shifts, the way laughter replaces the low murmurs of judgment.
And when Hansol looks up, Seungkwan is already looking at him.
There’s no pity in his eyes, no hesitation, just something open, something curious. A hand, reaching toward him without needing to be asked.
Hansol, for the first time in a long time, doesn’t feel so out of place.
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Hansol and Seungkwan at Fifteen
The rooftop is quiet, the city sprawling beneath them in rivers of neon and headlights. The air is cool against their sweat-damp skin, the remnants of practice still clinging to them—aching limbs, tired lungs, the kind of exhaustion that settles deep, past muscle and bone.
They shouldn’t be here. Trainees are supposed to be in their dorms by now, but Hansol and Seungkwan had slipped away, sneakers barely making a sound on the pavement. They’d walked in silence at first, stopping by the convenience store, then climbing the stairs up, up, up, until there was nothing above them but sky.
Between them, their food sits half-eaten, forgotten. Seungkwan picks idly at the corner of a sandwich wrapper, gaze tipped upward.
“Do you ever think about stars?” he asks, voice quieter than usual.
Hansol glances at him. “Like… in general?”
Seungkwan hums. “Yeah. I used to watch them all the time back home. In Jeju, my house is near the beach, so at night, I’d just sit outside and look up. Back home, the sky is huge. No skyscrapers, no bright city lights. Just the ocean, the mountains, and the stars.” He pauses, then adds, almost absently, “They made me feel small.”
Hansol stays quiet, waiting.
“Not in a bad way,” Seungkwan continues, finally turning to face him. “Just… like no matter how big my dreams felt, no matter how impossible, the stars were always there. It felt like they were watching. Like I wasn’t alone.”
Hansol does know. He knows what it feels like to be so caught up in something that it swallows you whole. To spend every waking hour thinking about dance counts, vocal runs, evaluations, never-ending expectations. To forget, sometimes, that the world is bigger than this.
Hansol tilts his head back, following Seungkwan’s gaze. The sky above Seoul is washed out, only a handful of stars managing to break through the city’s glow. But they’re there. Distant. Unwavering.
“I get that,” he says eventually, surprising himself with how much he means it.
Seungkwan shifts, crossing his arms over his knees. “Do you?”
Hansol exhales, eyes still on the sky. “Yeah.”
“I get it,” he says, and he means it.
Because he does. He knows what it’s like to feel like you’re running toward something you can’t quite reach. To spend every waking hour trying to be better, faster, stronger, always chasing, never catching. He knows how the pressure builds, how it lodges itself beneath your ribs until you can’t tell where the dream ends and you begin.
He knows what it’s like to wonder if you’re enough.
Seungkwan sighs, long and heavy. “If I wasn’t doing this, I think I’d just go home. Open a café by the beach. Something simple.” His voice is distant, like he’s already picturing it. “I’d watch the sky every night.”
Hansol considers this. “You’d get bored.”
“Hey.” Seungkwan nudges his knee. “I might not.”
“You would.”
Seungkwan snorts, nudging him with his knee. “You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Seungkwan huffs, but there’s no bite to it, he doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans back, mirroring Hansol’s posture, eyes on the sky. They lapse into silence, the city buzzing below, the sky stretching infinitely above.
Hansol watches him out of the corner of his eye. The way his gaze stays locked on the sky, like he’s searching for something. Like he’s waiting for an answer.
Hansol doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks—if Seungkwan was a star, he wouldn’t be one of the distant ones. He’d be the kind that burned too brightly to ignore, the kind that made people stop and look.
He doesn’t say it.
But somehow, he thinks Seungkwan already knows.
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Seungkwan at Seventeen
At seventeen years old, Seungkwan has a hard time believing in fate.
If fate existed, then dreams wouldn’t come with bruises, with aching muscles, with nights where he stared at the ceiling, wondering if he’d given too much of himself to something that might never love him back.
He used to think dreams were simple—that if you wanted something badly enough, the universe would bend in your favor. But reality is different. Dreams take, and take, and take. Some days, he isn’t sure if there’s anything left to give.
Debut is close—so close he can taste it, feel it humming in the air around them. But with it comes the weight, the exhaustion, the creeping fear that no matter how hard he tries, it won’t be enough.
And yet—
Hansol is here.
Hansol, who doesn’t say much, but always seems to know when Seungkwan needs someone to listen. Hansol, who sits beside him in the practice room after everyone else has left, their shoulders brushing, the silence between them stretching comfortably.
Hansol, who looks at him like he’s already something, even when Seungkwan feels like he’s barely holding himself together.
Seungkwan tips his head back, staring at the ceiling, pretending he can see the sky beyond it. When he was younger, he used to wish on stars, whispering hopes into the night. He doesn’t do that anymore—hasn’t in a long time.
But Hansol is here. Solid and steady, a quiet presence that never falters, never wavers.
Seungkwan doesn’t believe in fate.
But if he ever did, he thinks Hansol might be the closest thing to a star he’ll ever have.
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Hansol at Seventeen
Hansol doesn’t believe in destiny.
If he did, maybe training wouldn’t feel like a test he was always on the verge of failing.
He’s been here for years—long enough that the practice rooms feel more familiar than home, long enough that he should be sure of himself. And yet, every time he steps in front of the mirror, doubt lingers at the edges of his reflection.
He’s good. He knows that. He wouldn’t still be here if he wasn’t.
But how good?
Good enough to stand on a stage? To debut? To last?
He sees the others—Jihoon with his perfect pitch, Soonyoung who never stops moving, Seungkwan whose voice fills every space he’s in—and wonders if he’ll ever reach that level.
Because Hansol tries. He trains until his throat is raw, until his body aches, until he’s replayed the same verse over and over in his head, trying to make it sharper, stronger, better.
But there’s always that voice in the back of his mind, whispering, is it enough?
But sometimes, he looks at Seungkwan and wonders.
Because Seungkwan is—everything. Too bright, too much, but somehow, never too much for Hansol. He’s loud in the ways Hansol isn’t, expressive in ways Hansol struggles to be, but he never makes Hansol feel lacking, never makes him feel like less.
They’re about to debut. The dream they’ve been chasing for years is finally within reach, but Hansol can see the cracks in Seungkwan’s armor, the way exhaustion settles deep in his bones.
He doesn’t know how to fix it.
But he knows how to stay.
So he does.
Seungkwan exhales beside him, long and heavy, and Hansol nudges their feet together, just slightly. A small reminder.
I’m here.
Seungkwan glances at him, surprised at first—then he smiles.
And Hansol, for the first time in weeks, feels like maybe everything will be okay.
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Seungkwan at Eighteen
At eighteen, it was hard to separate who he was from what he did. Idol, Seungkwan, Rising Variety Star, Boo Seungkwan—they were all roles he played, but none of them felt like him. Being in Seventeen, attending one variety show after another, taking on the world, it was everything he’d ever wanted, but somehow...the weight of it all kept him tethered in ways he couldn’t explain.
When he was younger, Seungkwan’s fascination with stars had been something that kept him grounded. He’d often lie on the sand by the beach, staring up at the sky, imagining himself shining just like them one day. He’d dreamt of being seen, of being heard, but now that he was here—an idol, a star himself—he wasn’t sure if the reality was as bright as he’d imagined. The world was watching him now, just like the stars he used to admire, but it didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t the same as lying on the roof, dreaming.
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Hansol at Eighteen
Hansol felt like the world was pulling him in a million directions. The lights, the cameras, the fans—all of it was overwhelming, but exhilarating at the same time. Hansol could feel Seventeen’s presence growing stronger, feel their voices resonating in places they hadn’t dreamed of before. It was all happening so fast—too fast, maybe. But they had earned every single bit of it.
When he was younger, he’d never imagined that one day, people would point to him and say he was a star. He'd watched others in the industry, marveling at how their light seemed to shine so effortlessly. And now here he was, on the other side of that—his own name lighting up billboards, his face everywhere. But the more it happened, the more Hansol wondered if being called a star really meant anything. Was it just a title? Something to fill the space around him? Or was there more to it?
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Seungkwan at Twenty One
Seungkwan’s life felt like it was balancing on the edge of something beautiful, but fragile. The noise of the world around him was loud, but inside, there was a quiet that was always there, just beneath the surface. Sometimes, when they were on stage, his eyes would wander to Hansol in the middle of a song, and he’d forget the lyrics for a moment.
He was good at hiding it, at keeping his gaze just a little too long, at laughing just a little too loudly when Hansol cracked a joke. His chest tightened when he caught Hansol’s smile in his direction—too genuine, too soft for it to just be a coincidence. But he never said anything. It was safer that way, wasn’t it?
Seungkwan would tell himself it was just the chaos of being in this industry that made his heart race a little faster, or maybe it was just a lingering feeling from being around Hansol for so long. After all, they had been through so much together, and yet, there were things that still felt unfinished, unresolved. It was just... there. A thread he couldn’t untangle.
And when Hansol would look at him, Seungkwan couldn’t quite hold on to his thoughts. He couldn’t decide if it was just admiration or something deeper, something he wasn’t ready to admit. Not yet. Not when everything else was still so uncertain.
They were getting closer to the top. He could feel it—the excitement, the pressure, the endless expectations. Their songs were charting, their fandom was growing, the world was starting to notice them. But no matter how much they achieved, no matter how many stages they stood on, there was always something he couldn’t quite touch.
It was the quiet moments, backstage, when the adrenaline had faded, that it felt the most real. He’d stand in the shadows, watching Hansol laugh with the others, but his gaze always lingered just a bit longer than it should have. It was when they were alone, in the quiet of the practice room, that Seungkwan could feel that connection, that strange unspoken understanding between them.
Idols, They were getting somewhere—but Seungkwan had this nagging feeling that no matter how high they climbed, he might still be stuck on the bottom rung of something far more personal, far more complicated than any fame they could earn.
But he kept it to himself, because that’s what idols did. They smiled, they laughed, they went on stage, and they pretended that everything was fine.
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Hansol at Twenty One
Vernon had gotten used to feeling like he was on the verge of something. His mind was always running, but lately, it kept landing on Seungkwan. It was subtle—just an extra glance, a lingering touch on the shoulder during rehearsals, the way Seungkwan would tilt his head when he was listening to something Hansol said.
He’d never let himself overthink it, though. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel it. He did. It was a warmth he couldn’t ignore, but also something he couldn’t fully understand yet. How was it that after all this time, there was still something so... unfinished between them?
It wasn’t just that Seungkwan’s voice had always been the first to fill a silence, or that his laughter was the loudest in the room. It was how Hansol would catch himself staring a second too long when Seungkwan wasn’t looking, or how his heart would stutter when their hands brushed just a little too close.
But Hansol knew better than to dive into it. Not now. Not when there were too many things at stake. It was easier to just keep it buried, to pretend that it was nothing. There was no need to complicate things when everything else was already a mess. But the feeling lingered, always just beneath the surface, and no matter how many times Hansol pushed it away, it kept coming back.
And that was the thing, wasn’t it? He could pretend it wasn’t there, but he knew it was. Seungkwan, always there, always close, and yet... so far away.
Sometimes, when they’d finished a show and were huddled in their dressing room, he’d catch a glimpse of Seungkwan from across the room. The way his eyes were always searching, always looking for something, even when he was surrounded by people. Hansol knew Seungkwan had dreams beyond this—just like everyone did—but there was something about him that made Hansol think it wasn’t just about the music or the fame.
Idols, taking on the world—it sounded like a dream come true, but it didn’t come without sacrifices. It was so easy to get lost in the noise, to forget that the person next to you was feeling the exact same thing, but in silence. And that’s what Hansol kept seeing in Seungkwan—his quiet battles, his struggles that no one else saw.
And maybe that was it. Maybe they had both been so consumed with their individual dreams of fame, of being idols, that they never stopped to consider the feelings they were too afraid to voice.
But as they rose higher, as their voices reached more ears and their faces were seen by millions, Hansol couldn’t shake the thought that something else was calling to him. Something far more elusive than stage lights or applause. It was the way Seungkwan’s smile always reached his eyes, how his laughter could break through the hardest days, how they could share a quiet moment in the chaos of it all and feel something that wasn’t just idolhood, just fame.
They were climbing, yes—but what if the view from the top wasn’t as fulfilling as the way they could reach for each other on the way up? But he kept those thoughts buried, because idols didn’t have time for that. There were contracts to honor, songs to perform, crowds to entertain.
But every time Seungkwan looked his way, Vernon felt like he was already falling.
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Seungkwan at Twenty Two
The kitchen is warm, the hum of the stove filling the space as Seungkwan sits at the table, cradling a cup of tea in his hands. It’s a late afternoon in Jeju, and the sun is sinking low, casting soft golds and pinks over the sea that stretches just beyond the window.
His mother is bustling around, preparing dinner, a familiar rhythm that’s always grounded him. There’s something comforting about the sounds of her movements—the way the spoon stirs the pot, the soft thud of her slippers against the floor.
She glances over her shoulder at him, as if sensing the quiet. “You’ve been quiet today, Seungkwan. What’s on your mind?”
Seungkwan looks up, surprised by the question. He hadn’t meant to fall into his thoughts, but here he is, once again caught between two worlds—the world he’s carved out for himself in Seoul, and the one that still tugs at his heart, rooted in Jeju.
“I’m just... thinking about the stars,” he says, the words slipping out before he can stop them.
His mother pauses, her back turned, but she doesn’t need to see him to know that it’s something deeper. She’s always known.
“You used to talk about the stars all the time when you were little,” she says, voice soft with nostalgia. “You’d sit on the beachfront and just watch them for hours, asking questions I didn’t always know how to answer.”
Seungkwan smiles at the memory, the image of his younger self, sitting on the porch, his eyes wide with wonder as he stared up at the endless sky. It was a simpler time—before the stages, before the lights and cameras. Just him and the stars, feeling like they were all he needed.
“I used to think they were so far away,” he admits, almost to himself. “But... now, they feel closer. Or maybe I feel farther from them.”
His mother turns, leaning against the counter with a knowing look in her eyes. “Is it because of what you’ve been chasing?”
Seungkwan doesn’t respond right away, but the weight of her words settles over him like a heavy blanket. “Maybe. It’s just... sometimes, I wonder if I’m doing enough. If I’m meant for this. There’s so much I still don’t know, so much that feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.” He laughs bitterly, almost to himself. “I thought I’d always know where I was going, but now... it’s not so clear.”
She crosses the room, sitting down across from him, her hand finding his. Her touch is warm, grounding, and for a moment, Seungkwan allows himself to lean into it, closing his eyes.
“Seungkwan,” his mother says gently, “you’ve always been a dreamer. You’ve always had your eyes set on something far away, something bigger than this world, and that’s never been easy. But do you remember what you told me when you were younger?”
Seungkwan opens his eyes, blinking as he searches her face. “What did I say?”
“You said,” she smiles softly, “that the stars might be far, but they’re always there. That even if you couldn’t touch them, they’d still be with you.”
He stares at her, the memory surfacing like a wave. “I said that?”
She nods. “You did. And I think you still believe it, even now. You don’t have to touch the stars to know they’re there. Sometimes, it’s enough to know they’re shining just for you.”
Seungkwan’s chest tightens, but there’s a warmth spreading inside him. It’s the same warmth he’d felt when he was a child, staring up at the night sky, wondering if maybe, just maybe, one of those stars was his.
“I still think about them,” he says, voice quieter now, as if the stars are still within reach. “And I think... I think I’ve found my star.”
His mother’s gaze softens, as if she understands, even without him saying the name. “I think you have, too.”
Seungkwan’s heart beats a little faster, and for the first time in a long while, the doubt begins to fade. Maybe he’s not as far from the stars as he thought. Maybe he’s closer than he’s ever been.
His mother squeezes his hand, her eyes bright with unspoken understanding. “You’ve always known how to find your way, Seungkwan. Even if the road is unclear, even if the stars seem out of reach, you’ll always find your way back to what matters.”
And in that moment, with her words echoing in his chest, Seungkwan feels the weight of it all settle into place. The stars are still there, still shining, and maybe, just maybe, the one that matters most is already with him, guiding him, even when he can’t see it.
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Hansol at Twenty Two
The gallery is quiet, save for the soft hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. The walls are lined with his father’s work—colors bleeding into one another, brushstrokes heavy with emotion, abstract but deliberate.
Hansol walks through the exhibit at his own pace, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. He hasn’t been to one of his father’s shows in years. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because time—or the lack of it—has a way of making even the simplest things difficult.
He stops when he sees it.
A canvas washed in deep blue, speckled with white and gold, the paint scattered across the surface like a constellation. The piece is titled Stardust—nothing more, nothing less.
Hansol doesn’t realize how long he’s been standing there until he hears his father’s voice beside him.
“That one caught your eye, huh?”
Hansol turns, offering a small smile. “Yeah. It feels... familiar.”
His father hums in acknowledgment, studying the painting like he’s seeing it for the first time. “It’s funny. People always think stars are just about light—about shining the brightest. But I think the real beauty comes after. The traces they leave behind.”
Hansol doesn’t respond right away. He looks back at the painting, at the way the scattered flecks of gold seem to move if he stares long enough.
Stardust is what remains after something brilliant burns.
The thought settles deep in his chest, heavy and warm.
And then, suddenly, he thinks of Seungkwan.
Of late-night rehearsals when exhaustion pressed down on both of them, but Seungkwan still found the energy to make him laugh. Of the way Seungkwan had always been there, grounding him, pulling him closer without a second thought.
Of the way Seungkwan looked on stage—bright, overwhelming in the best way, the kind of light Hansol had never been able to look away from.
His father’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You’ve been doing well,” he says, softer now. “Seventeen is everywhere these days.”
Hansol exhales a quiet laugh. “Yeah. It still doesn’t feel real sometimes.”
His father studies him for a moment. “And how does it feel? Being where you are now?”
Hansol opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn’t know how to explain the contradiction of it all—how he’s exactly where he once dreamed of being, and yet, some days, it feels like he’s still chasing something just out of reach.
So instead, he says, “It feels... like stardust.”
His father raises a brow.
Hansol clears his throat. “Like—people see the light, the stage, the fame. But after all of that, after the music fades, it’s about what’s left behind. What stays.”
His father’s expression softens, something knowing flickering in his eyes. “And what is it that stays for you?”
Hansol doesn’t answer right away.
But deep down, he already knows.
Seungkwan’s voice in his head, keeping him steady. Seungkwan’s laughter, filling the spaces that feel too quiet. Seungkwan’s presence, constant, always there.
Seungkwan, who has been leaving traces of himself in Hansol’s life for years.
Hansol swallows. The realization is slow but inevitable, like something he’s been carrying all this time without even realizing it.
He thinks of Seungkwan’s fascination with stars. He thinks of the way he’s always been drawn to Seungkwan’s light. He thinks of how, even now, Seungkwan has never really left him.
Hansol exhales. “Someone,” he finally says, voice quiet but sure. “Someone stays.”
His father doesn’t press for more. He just pats Hansol’s shoulder, his touch light but firm. “Then that’s what matters.”
Hansol stays there for a while, staring at the painting—at the stars that have burned but still remain, at the traces of something brilliant that will never really fade.
And for the first time, he understands.
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Hansol at Twenty Four
Hansol doesn’t usually think too hard about permanence. He’s always lived his life by going with the flow, letting things happen as they may. But as he sits in the small tattoo parlor, watching the artist prepare the needle, he feels the weight of his decision settle in.
“You sure about this?” the artist asks, raising an eyebrow. “It’s going to be there forever.”
Forever.
Hansol exhales. The idea doesn’t scare him. Not when he knows exactly why he’s doing this.
“Yeah,” he says, tilting his head to the side, exposing the skin behind his ear. “I’m sure.”
The buzzing of the needle begins, and he closes his eyes. He thinks about Seungkwan—his laughter ringing through the practice room, the way his fingers always find their way to Hansol’s ear absentmindedly, the way his voice carries warmth even when he’s nagging. He thinks about the way Seungkwan shines, not just on stage but in the quiet moments too, like a star burning so brilliantly it’s impossible to look away.
He doesn’t say any of this out loud. He doesn’t think he ever will. But the ink will always be there, just like Seungkwan always has been.
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A week before the tattoo, Hansol finds himself sitting in the kitchen of his childhood home, a cup of tea cooling between his hands. His mother moves around the room, washing dishes, humming softly to herself. The air is warm, familiar.
Out of nowhere, he asks, “Mom, do you think stars mean something?”
She turns, wiping her hands on a towel before leaning against the counter, considering him. “They can. To a lot of people, stars are a guide, a symbol of hope. Why do you ask?”
Hansol hesitates, then lets out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I guess I just keep thinking about how they stay in the sky, even when you can’t see them. And how… sometimes people feel like that too.”
His mother studies him for a moment before smiling knowingly. “You’re talking about Seungkwan, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but he doesn’t deny it either. Instead, he looks down at his tea, watching the ripples in the surface. “It’s just… he’s always been there, you know? I don’t think I ever realized how much until recently.”
His mother nods, walking over to ruffle his hair. “Some people are like constellations, Hansol. You might not always notice how they’re connected, but they’ve been forming patterns around you all along.”
Hansol lets her words settle into his chest, warm and undeniable. He doesn’t say anything else about it, but that night, as he lies in bed staring at the ceiling, he makes up his mind.
A week later, he gets the tattoo.
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Seungkwan at Twenty-Four
The night is quiet, save for the occasional hum of the city beyond the hotel window. The members have long since retired to their rooms, exhaustion settling into their bones after another successful concert. But Seungkwan can’t sleep.
Jeonghan sits across from him on the couch, one leg tucked beneath him, a bottle of water in his hand. His hair is damp from a shower, the soft lighting making him look almost ethereal. Seungkwan wonders, not for the first time, how Jeonghan always manages to seem so composed, like he has all the answers.
He exhales. “Hyung… have you ever been scared of ruining something good?”
Jeonghan raises a brow, tilting his head. “That’s a broad question.”
Seungkwan rolls the water bottle between his palms, fingers fidgeting with the ridges of the plastic. “Yeah. I guess it is.” He pauses, searching for the right words. “It’s just… I keep thinking about what it means to risk something you care about. Like, what if you cross a line and can’t go back?”
Jeonghan watches him carefully, his gaze unreadable. “You’re not talking about what if, though. You’re talking about who.”
Seungkwan stills. He swallows, throat dry. “...Maybe.”
Jeonghan hums knowingly, setting his bottle down. “Hansol?”
Seungkwan doesn’t answer immediately, but the way his fingers tighten around the bottle gives him away.
Jeonghan leans back against the couch, stretching slightly before settling into a more comfortable position. “You know, Seungcheol and I had this conversation once.”
Seungkwan blinks, caught off guard. “You and Seungcheol-hyung?”
Jeonghan nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “We were younger than you are now, but the feeling was the same. There’s a line that exists when you work this closely with someone. When you depend on them, when they become home to you. And the scariest thing isn’t even the possibility of rejection. It’s the possibility of changing something that was already good to begin with.”
Seungkwan lets the words sink in. He stares down at his hands, his chest tightening. “And what did you do?”
Jeonghan exhales, a quiet laugh under his breath. “We stopped running from it. We stopped pretending we didn’t already know.” He looks at Seungkwan then, eyes steady. “Because sometimes, the risk isn’t changing something. Sometimes, the real risk is losing it because you were too scared to acknowledge what was already there.”
Seungkwan feels his heart stutter at that. His mind flashes to every moment he and Hansol have shared—every late-night conversation, every silent glance across the stage, every touch that lingered just a second too long.
“You’re scared of losing what you have,” Jeonghan continues, softer now, like he’s reading the thoughts straight from Seungkwan’s head. “But have you thought about what happens if you don’t say anything? If you keep pretending it doesn’t exist?”
Seungkwan lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “It’s not that simple.”
“No, it’s not,” Jeonghan agrees. “But love rarely is.”
The word makes Seungkwan flinch. It’s too big, too heavy. But Jeonghan just watches him, patient.
After a moment, Seungkwan looks up. “How did you know it was worth it?”
Jeonghan smiles, and for once, it’s not his usual teasing grin—it’s something softer, something genuine. “Because even if we lost everything else, I knew I’d regret it more if I never let myself love him fully.” His voice is calm, but certain. “And I think you already know what you’d regret more, too.”
Seungkwan doesn’t answer right away. He just sits there, Jeonghan’s words looping over and over in his mind.
And maybe, just maybe, the fear of losing something good isn’t as terrifying as the thought of never knowing what it could become.
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Hansol at Twenty-Four
The studio is dimly lit, only the soft glow of the monitors casting shadows along the walls. The air smells faintly of coffee and lingering traces of cologne, a familiar mix of exhaustion and focus that has come to define their late-night talks.
Hansol leans back against the couch, eyes flickering between Jihoon, who is perched on the chair near the mixing board, and Myungho, who sits cross-legged on the floor, absently stretching his wrist. They’ve been here for hours, working on demos, but at some point, the conversation shifted.
Now, there’s a quiet tension in the air, the kind that only comes when something heavy is waiting to be spoken.
“I think I love him.”
The words slip out before Hansol can stop them. They feel too big, too final, but at the same time, they settle into the space like they were always meant to be there.
Jihoon doesn’t react at first. He just blinks, his fingers pausing where they had been scrolling through the tracklist. Myungho, on the other hand, tilts his head slightly, considering.
“Seungkwan?” Myungho asks, though it’s not really a question.
Hansol lets out a breath. “Yeah.”
Jihoon exhales through his nose, setting his phone down. “That’s not surprising,” he says, his tone neutral, but there’s an underlying warmth there.
Hansol laughs, but it’s a little hollow. “It should be. I should’ve figured it out earlier.”
“You did,” Myungho says simply. “You just didn’t want to say it.”
Hansol swallows, his hands fidgeting against the hem of his hoodie. “It’s just… what does it mean? For the team, for the group? For me?” He shakes his head, trying to organize the thoughts buzzing in his brain. “We’ve spent a decade building this. Seventeen isn’t just a career—it’s our lives. If I screw this up, if he doesn’t—” He stops himself, running a hand through his hair.
Jihoon watches him carefully. “You think loving him is a mistake?”
“No,” Hansol says immediately. Then, quieter, “But what if it costs something?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Myungho speaks.
“You always talk about love like it’s a risk.” His voice is even, but there’s something pointed about it. “But what if it’s not? What if it’s just… something that’s already yours?”
Hansol stills.
Jihoon leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Look, I get it. We’ve spent years making sure nothing jeopardizes what we have. We chose this life knowing that every part of it—every relationship, every decision—comes with weight.” He pauses, eyes sharp as they meet Hansol’s. “But Seungkwan isn’t weight. He’s part of the reason you’re standing here at all.”
Hansol presses his lips together, his throat suddenly tight.
“You’ve always been at his side,” Myungho continues. “And he’s always been at yours. If you really think about it, what’s actually changing?”
Hansol thinks about the years—the stolen glances, the lingering touches, the way Seungkwan’s presence has always been a constant. He thinks about how easy it is to be around him, how natural it feels to reach for him, to lean into the space they share without a second thought.
Myungho speaks again, softer now. “If it’s real, it’s not going to take something away from Seventeen. It’s just another piece of what’s always been there.”
Jihoon exhales, rubbing at his temple. “And honestly? If anyone deserves something good, it’s the two of you.”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Hansol breathes in deep, letting their words settle. He looks down at his hands, then back up at the two people in front of him—two of the people who have seen him at his best and worst, who know him beyond the stage lights and cameras.
“You really think it’s okay?” he asks, voice quieter now.
Myungho smiles, small but certain. “I think it’s already happening, whether you say it out loud or not.”
Jihoon smirks. “Besides, we’d rather have you two figure it out than keep dancing around each other forever.”
Hansol huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. But the weight in his chest feels a little lighter.
Maybe, just maybe, they’re right.
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Seungkwan and Hansol, at Twenty-Five
It’s not something they talk about.
Not in the way people expect, with confessions or careful conversations or clearly defined edges. Instead, it lingers in the spaces between them, woven into the fabric of their lives in a way that feels inevitable.
Seventeen is moving faster than ever—world tours, stadiums filled with thousands, the kind of success they once only whispered about in the dark when they were kids still dreaming. The world demands so much of them, stretching them thin, pulling them in a dozen different directions.
But somehow, no matter where they go, they always end up back beside each other.
Like now, when they’re in some unfamiliar hotel room in a city that’s just another stop on the map. It’s late—long past the point where exhaustion should have pulled them under—but instead, they’re here, pressed into the same space like they always are.
Seungkwan is curled up against the headboard, scrolling mindlessly through his phone, but not really reading anything. Hansol sits at the foot of the bed, one knee pulled up to his chest, flipping through channels on the TV without paying attention. The room is dim, the only light coming from the glow of the screen and the faint city lights filtering through the curtains.
“Do you ever think about stopping?” Seungkwan murmurs, not looking up.
Hansol doesn’t answer right away. He lets the question settle, like he always does, weighing it in that quiet way of his.
“Sometimes,” he admits. “But I don’t know what I’d do. This is all we’ve ever known.”
Seungkwan hums, finally setting his phone down on the nightstand. “Yeah.” He shifts, stretching his legs out until his foot nudges against Hansol’s thigh. “Same.”
Hansol glances at him then, just for a second, before looking back at the TV. But he doesn’t move away. Instead, he presses his palm against Seungkwan’s ankle, warm and steady.
They don’t talk about it. Not the way other people would.
Not about how Hansol always seems to wait for Seungkwan to finish getting ready before heading to the van, even if it makes him late. Not about how Seungkwan always finds Hansol in a crowded room, no matter how big the venue or how many people are there. Not about how they always end up in the same seat, the same car, the same bed, like some invisible thread keeps pulling them together.
They don’t need to.
Because at the end of the day, it’s always been this way—wherever one of them goes, the other isn’t far behind.
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Seungkwan and Hansol at Twenty-Six
The conference room is quiet.
Not in an uncomfortable way, but in the kind of silence that comes when something big is about to happen. The papers are in front of them, neatly stacked, pens resting on top. The weight of years—of memories, of sacrifices, of everything they’ve built together—rests in the air between them.
Seungkwan exhales slowly, glancing around the table. The others are here, of course. They always are. Seungcheol sits at the head of the table, fingers clasped together, expression unreadable but steady. Jeonghan and Joshua exchange a look, silent but knowing. Mingyu shifts in his seat, restless energy thrumming beneath his skin.
Hansol is next to him.
Seungkwan doesn’t have to look to know. He can feel it—the warmth of his presence, the way Hansol’s knee brushes against his under the table, grounding.
It’s strange. They’ve talked about this moment for years, wondering what it would feel like when the time finally came. Would they hesitate? Would they be afraid? Would the weight of everything they’ve built feel too heavy?
But now that they’re here, it’s… simple.
Because the truth is, Seungkwan already made his choice a long time ago.
He thinks of the first time they all stood on stage together, hands clasped tightly, promising they would go far. He thinks of the late nights in the practice room, the exhaustion, the exhilaration, the quiet reassurance of knowing they weren’t alone. He thinks of the world tours, the fans, the endless cycle of airports and hotel rooms, the moments that made them who they are.
And, more than anything, he thinks of Hansol.
Hansol, who has always been right there. In every moment, in every decision, in every uncertainty.
Seungkwan glances to the side, and Hansol looks back at him. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. There’s something settled in his gaze, something steady and sure.
Like always, like forever, they are moving in the same direction.
Above them, the ceiling lights cast a soft glow, but Seungkwan thinks about the stars instead—how they’ve always looked up at them, how they’ve chased them, how they’ve now become them.
Seungcheol clears his throat, bringing them back to the moment. “Are we ready?”
Seungkwan doesn’t hesitate. He picks up the pen, fingers tightening around it for just a second before he presses it to the paper.
Hansol signs right after him. A choice already made.
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Seungkwan at Twenty Seven
Seungkwan doesn’t quite know when he started associating Hansol with the universe. It was never a conscious decision. It just… happened. Maybe it was the way Hansol carried himself, like he was part of something bigger than what anyone else could see. Maybe it was the way he spoke—thoughtful, quiet, as if his mind was always orbiting somewhere just out of reach. Maybe it was the way he would tilt his head toward the sky sometimes, watching the clouds drift by, completely unbothered by the chaos around him.
Or maybe it was just the way Hansol had always been there, constant like the stars Seungkwan had loved his whole life.
Seungkwan never told Hansol any of this, not in so many words. But there were moments when he felt it so deeply, he thought maybe Hansol already knew. Like when they sat side by side on long-haul flights, the cabin lights dimmed, and Seungkwan would glance over to see Hansol staring out the window at the vast night sky. Or when they stood on stage together, the roar of fans washing over them, and Hansol would turn to him with that quiet, knowing smile that always made Seungkwan’s breath catch for reasons he never quite dared to examine too closely.
Hansol was just like that. Steady, unwavering. A presence Seungkwan never had to ask for, because he was always there.
And maybe that’s why, years later, in the dim light of a hotel room, Seungkwan discovers something that makes him rethink everything.
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Hansol and Seungkwan, at Twenty Seven
Seungkwan doesn’t mean to notice it. Not really.
It’s just that, after a long day—after hours spent navigating the flashing lights, the adoration of screaming fans, the weight of the music and the choreography—he finds himself lying in the darkened hotel room, next to Hansol. The tension of the stage finally falls away. They’re tangled in sheets, their limbs brushing accidentally but not unpleasantly. Seungkwan closes his eyes, listening to the rhythmic rise and fall of Hansol’s breathing, letting the exhaustion wash over him.
Hansol lies on his side, his back rising and falling slowly with each inhale, his face turned away from him. The quiet is almost deafening in its peacefulness, and Seungkwan finds himself unconsciously reaching out to touch him, to ground himself in the calmness that Hansol provides.
His fingers trace gently over the smooth curve of Hansol’s ear, an absentminded gesture he’s made countless times before without thinking. It’s comforting, in a way, the familiarity of it. Seungkwan feels the warmth of Hansol’s skin beneath his fingertips, the pulse of his heartbeat just beneath the surface.
But then, his fingertips brush something… different.
Seungkwan stills. The world seems to pause for just a moment, as his hand hovers against Hansol’s ear. He leans closer, blinking to adjust to the dim light. There, just behind Hansol’s ear, a small cluster of delicate stardust tattoos twinkle in the soft glow. Tiny specks, like stars scattered across the dark sky, trailing into an abstract shimmer. Subtle enough that it could be mistaken for freckles, if not for the faint lines of ink beneath his fingers.
His chest tightens.
He’s sure he’s never seen it before. Seungkwan’s mind races, trying to recall any moment he might have missed it. He’s known Hansol’s face better than he knows his own. The way his lips curl when he smiles, the way his eyes squint when he laughs too hard, the exact shade of his skin in the morning light. Every curve, every freckle, every mole. How could he not have noticed something so significant before?
But here it is—something new. Or… maybe not so new.
Seungkwan’s heart skips a beat. He hadn’t noticed it in all the time they’ve spent together. Had he really been blind to it all this time?
His fingers trail over the ink softly, barely touching it, as though trying to understand its meaning. “When did you get this?” he asks, his voice quieter than he expects, like the words might disturb the quiet intimacy of the moment.
Hansol stirs slightly, a soft hum escaping his lips, his voice thick with sleep. “Huh?”
“The tattoo,” Seungkwan repeats, voice trembling ever so slightly. “I never noticed it before.”
For a moment, there’s a long pause, and Seungkwan thinks maybe Hansol didn’t hear him, or perhaps he’s just too exhausted to respond. But then, Hansol’s breath hitches—just a tiny, almost imperceptible sound—but Seungkwan hears it. Feels it. It sends a strange, almost electric sensation through him.
“A while ago,” Hansol replies finally, his voice barely a whisper. “Couple of years.”
Years.
Seungkwan feels a sharp, inexplicable twist in his stomach. He’s known Hansol for so long. Shared rehearsals, meals, nights on tour. How could he not have noticed something like this? A tattoo, a mark on Hansol’s body, something so permanent—and yet it had slipped past him.
Seungkwan opens his mouth to ask why—why there, why stardust—but then it clicks.
Suddenly, it all falls into place.
He thinks back to when they were 13, 15, 17, 18, 21, 22, 24, 25, 26, and 27.
The countless rehearsals when Hansol let him tug him closer by the ear, when Seungkwan had absentmindedly traced the shell of Hansol’s ear as if it were just another part of the routine. The way Hansol never complained, the way he always leaned into Seungkwan’s touch like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then, the small moments—the touches, the closeness—that were always so effortlessly shared between them, like they had always been that way.
Like Hansol had always been there.
Like they had always been here.
Seungkwan’s heart races in his chest as his fingers brush over the tattoo once more, and he can feel it—the weight of what this mark represents, the meaning behind it. His breath catches in his throat.
"Did you get it because of me?" The question escapes his lips before he can stop it, barely more than a breath, a whisper of vulnerability.
Hansol doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, there’s a long silence. Seungkwan feels his heart pounding in his ears, the tension in the room thick and suffocating. Finally, Hansol shifts slightly, turning onto his back. His eyes flutter open, and Seungkwan can see the haze of sleep still lingering in his gaze. But there’s something else there, something softer, something unguarded.
“Yeah,” Hansol says, his voice rough, the words slow and deliberate. “I did.”
Seungkwan exhales shakily, his fingers still pressing against the stardust ink as though trying to hold onto the moment, trying to keep the meaning from slipping away. He doesn’t know how to react to this revelation—how to put it into words. “You never told me,” he murmurs, voice barely audible.
Hansol’s lips curl into a small, lopsided smile. “Didn’t think I had to.”
The simplicity of Hansol’s response hits Seungkwan in the chest, a sharp pang of something—affection, longing, realization—rushing through him. Seungkwan’s chest tightens, overwhelmed by the weight of the words, the meaning that had been buried beneath them all this time. Hansol has always been steady, always been there for him in ways that Seungkwan never fully realized. And now there’s proof of it, right there on Hansol’s skin—in the form of a tattoo, a permanent reminder of everything that Hansol had given him.
Seungkwan leans in, his forehead pressing gently against Hansol’s, heart thundering in his chest like a meteor crashing toward Earth. “I love you,” he whispers, his voice trembling with the emotion he doesn’t know how to hold back. But despite the playful words, his fingers tighten around Hansol’s hand, holding on as if he’s afraid to let go.
Hansol chuckles softly, his hand reaching up to rest against Seungkwan’s wrist. “I love you too.”
Seungkwan closes his eyes, breathing in the warmth of the moment, and it feels like everything is falling into place. Took us long enough, haven’t we? he thinks, a small smile tugging at his lips. "We’ve been here, the whole time."
For a moment, they stay like that—close, connected, their breathing synchronized in the stillness of the room. Seungkwan shifts slightly, his thumb once again grazing over the tattoo. The questions still swirl in his mind, but this time, there’s no urgency to ask them. Instead, he simply feels—feels the depth of what this moment means.
“Why stardust?” he asks quietly, his voice soft with the curiosity that has always burned inside him.
Hansol’s thumb rubs in gentle circles on the back of Seungkwan’s hand, his touch tender, grounding. “Because stardust is what remains after something brilliant burns,” he says, voice hushed but steady. “It’s what’s left after the light fades, the part that stays even when everything else is gone.” He pauses, and Seungkwan can hear the emotion thick in his words, like the weight of unspoken truths hanging in the air between them.
Seungkwan’s chest tightens, his thumb still moving over the small cluster of ink behind Hansol’s ear. He doesn’t need to say anything. Hansol’s words have already settled deep into him, sinking into the heart of everything they’ve been through, everything they’ve shared. They are stardust—small pieces of something brilliant that have always been there, even when they couldn’t see it.
“I thought…” Seungkwan starts, his voice faltering for just a second as he lets the feeling of it wash over him. "I thought I would always feel like I was chasing something—like I had to prove something. But now, it feels like... I don’t have to anymore." His fingers curl tighter around Hansol’s, grounding himself in the present moment.
Hansol presses a kiss to the top of Seungkwan’s head, a quiet, intimate gesture that feels like a promise. “You don’t have to prove anything. We’ve been here, all along, just like this. Together.” His words are simple, but they hit Seungkwan in the chest with all the force of everything they’ve built together.
Seungkwan closes his eyes again, feeling the softness of Hansol’s embrace, the warmth of their shared space. It’s not just the tattoo, not just the stardust that binds them. It’s this—this feeling of home, of knowing that everything that was supposed to fall into place, finally has.
“I’m ready,” Seungkwan says, his voice steady now, filled with certainty he never thought he'd have. “For whatever comes next.”
Hansol pulls back slightly, his hand cupping Seungkwan’s face as he looks at him with soft, almost reverent eyes. “Me too,” he replies, a warmth in his tone that’s deeper than just the words. It’s a declaration, a shared understanding that they’re no longer waiting, no longer uncertain.
They’re here. Together.
And this time, when their lips finally meet, there’s no hesitation. Only the quiet certainty that the stardust, the love, and the moments they’ve shared have led them to this—this point of resolution, of quiet knowing that they are ready to take on whatever the future holds.
Side by side.
Seungkwan laughs softly after the kiss, unable to stop himself. He leans in, pressing a lingering kiss against Hansol’s temple, right above the stardust tattoo. He doesn’t need the stars to tell him where he belongs. He’s already found his way home.
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Now, at present, they’re still twenty-seven
They stand at the edge of the stage, but for once, the world around them blurs. The deafening cheers, the glittering lights, the final night of their world tour, the last bow before the lights dim. Sweat clings to their skin, their chests rise and fall in sync, but neither of them moves—not yet.
Seungkwan turns first, searching, and Hansol is already looking at him. There’s no hesitation when Seungkwan reaches out, fingers brushing against Hansol’s palm. And Hansol, steady as ever, clasps their hands together, warm and certain. Seungkwan exhales, something unspoken settling in his chest.
Hansol squeezes once. Twice. His thumb brushes over Seungkwan’s knuckles, a quiet reassurance, a silent promise. They hold on, just for a second longer than they should. Just for them.
When they bow, it’s together. When they rise, neither of them lets go.
Seungkwan had spent his life chasing stars, looking for something steady, something constant. But Hansol has been here all along, fingers laced with his, guiding him home—stardust lingering between them, written into his skin, woven into every touch, every look, every moment they chose each other.
Seungkwan had spent his whole life searching the sky for something constant, but now, standing here—Hansol’s grip unwavering in his—he knows. They had always found their way, like stars meant to shine side by side.
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Later, when Seungkwan is 30, his eyes trace over the familiar features of his face, the way time has shaped him into something more comfortable in his skin. But then, his gaze flickers to the side—his reflection, now framed by the soft light of the bathroom.
Hansol appears behind him, warm and steady, wrapping his arms around Seungkwan’s waist with a quiet certainty. He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the curve of his neck, breath warm against his skin. Seungkwan exhales, closing his eyes as the weight of the years settles between them—not heavy, but full. Full of everything they’ve been, everything they’ve become
Seungkwan tilts his head, fingers brushing the skin behind his ear. There, beneath the surface, almost hidden from his view, something glimmers softly under the light.
A small, delicate cluster of ink, tucked just behind his ear.
Stardust.