Chapter Text
"I have always liked you. Please go out with me."
Ricky says it in one breath, steady but not quite even. His cheeks are warm—probably red—but he holds Gyuvin’s gaze like it’s the only thing grounding him.
The art room is quiet except for the distant hum of the late afternoon. Sunlight filters in through the windows, stretching golden across the wooden floor, as if the universe itself has set the scene for this moment.
He finally says it. The real thing. No teasing, no cover-ups, no turning it into a joke at the last second.
It’s terrifying.
For a split second, Gyuvin just blinks at him. Then, as if on cue, he lets out a laugh, easy and light, like the words had never been anything more than another practice run.
"Man, you really got it down now, huh?" Gyuvin grins, nudging Ricky’s shoulder like always. "You're all set to confess for real, Ricky. I'm rooting for you!"
Ricky’s breath catches.
No.
That’s not what this is.
But Gyuvin just looks at him, unbothered, completely unaware of what Ricky has just laid bare between them.
Ricky feels his heartbeat in his throat, hands curling into fists at his sides. His mouth is dry, thoughts spinning too fast, too loud.
Gyuvin doesn’t know.
Gyuvin still doesn’t know.
And Ricky has no idea how to make him see the truth.
Looking back, Ricky isn’t sure when it started.
Maybe it was always there, a quiet feeling buried beneath years of friendship, slipping between the spaces of their laughter, their shared walks home, the countless times Gyuvin would throw an arm around Ricky’s shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe Ricky had loved him forever. He just didn’t realize it at first.
So when the words came out for the first time, they were accidental.
"Hey, Gyuvin." Ricky leaned back against the desk, casually twirling a pen between his fingers. Gyuvin sat across from him, lost in his own world, absentmindedly doodling in the corner of his notebook.
"What?" Gyuvin muttered, not bothering to look up.
Ricky hesitated for a moment before speaking again. "If I confessed to someone like this— 'I’ve liked you for a long time' —would it be good?"
Gyuvin barely glanced up, his focus still on his notebook. "Dude, what?"
"Just practicing," Ricky had shrugged, too casual, too relaxed for the way his heart was hammering in his chest.
Gyuvin finally glanced at him, eyebrows raised in amusement. "That was sudden."
"Did it sound convincing?"
"Kinda," Gyuvin had said, resting his chin on his hand. "But if you’re actually confessing, you should say it like you mean it."
Ricky had nearly laughed at the irony. I am saying it like I mean it.
But he didn’t say that. Instead, he leaned in, lowering his voice, teasing. "Like this, then?"
And with all the sincerity in the world, Ricky had looked straight into Gyuvin’s eyes and said:
"I’ve liked you for a long time."
For a fraction of a second—just the smallest moment—Gyuvin froze. His fingers tightened around his pen, his lips parted like he was about to say something.
But then he scoffed, shoving Ricky’s shoulder. "Damn, dude. You’re really getting into this."
The moment was gone.
Ricky exhaled, hiding his disappointment behind a smirk. "Told you I was practicing."
Gyuvin had laughed, shaking his head. "Well, whoever you're planning to confess to is gonna be lucky."
That was the first time.
It wasn’t the last.
"Hey, Gyuvin, I think I might like someone."
The words slip out casually, almost effortlessly, but Ricky can already feel the way his heartbeat stutters in his chest. He tilts his head up, pretending to admire the sky, even though he’s really watching Gyuvin from the corner of his eye.
Gyuvin barely reacts. He’s too busy scrolling through his phone, thumb idly swiping as the glow from the screen reflects against his skin. His legs are stretched out in front of him, one knee bent, his posture relaxed.
Ricky exhales, forcing himself to act nonchalant. "What do you think about this: ‘I’ve liked you for a long time, but I was too much of a coward to say it.’"
That gets Gyuvin’s attention. He finally looks up, an amused scoff escaping his lips. "That’s dramatic as hell, dude."
Ricky shrugs, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. "I’m serious," he says, resting his chin on his knees. The wind tousles his hair, cool against his flushed cheeks. "Would that make someone’s heart race?"
Gyuvin hums, considering. "Depends. If they liked you back, sure. If not, it’s just cringe."
Ricky’s fingers tighten around his sleeve.
"And… if they don’t know how they feel?"
Gyuvin tilts his head, thoughtful. "Then you just have to wait for them to figure it out."
Wait.
Wait for them to realize.
Wait for them to see what’s been right in front of them this whole time.
Ricky doesn’t say anything else after that. He just leans back on his hands, staring up at the stars beginning to scatter across the sky.
And he wonders how long he’s willing to wait.
"What if I told you I liked you?"
Ricky’s voice is light, almost teasing, but there’s a weight in his chest that makes it hard to breathe.
Gyuvin blinks, caught off guard. They’re walking home from school, their steps slow, shoulders occasionally bumping as the sunset paints their shadows long on the pavement.
"What?"
Ricky shrugs, kicking a loose pebble down the road. "Just hypothetically. If I confessed to you, would you reject me?"
Gyuvin lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Dude, you’re getting way too into this confession practice thing."
Ricky forces a chuckle, though it feels like something inside him is slowly unraveling. "Yeah."
There’s a moment of quiet before Gyuvin speaks again, rubbing the back of his neck. "But to answer your question… I wouldn’t reject you."
Ricky almost stops walking.
His heart stutters, breath catching in his throat.
"Oh?" he teases, bumping Gyuvin’s shoulder. "So you’d accept me?"
Gyuvin laughs, nudging him back without hesitation. "I’d hear you out, at least."
Ricky smiles, but it feels weak. Hollow.
It wasn’t the answer he wanted.
But it was enough to keep him hoping.
The moment the message is sent, Ricky feels his stomach twist into knots.
" Come to the art room after class."
No explanation. No context. Just seven simple words.
He watches the screen, breath shallow, as Gyuvin’s typing bubbles appear—then disappear. Then appear again. A second stretches into eternity. Ricky wonders if Gyuvin can sense something, if the weight pressing against his ribs somehow bleeds into his words, if the way his heart hammers in his chest can be felt through the screen.
Then, the reply comes.
"Art room? For what?"
Ricky hesitates, fingers hovering over the keyboard. His pulse roars in his ears. The truth sits at the tip of his tongue, dangerously close to spilling out.
"Just come. I’m confessing for one last time."
Last time.
The words feel heavy. Maybe too heavy. But Gyuvin, as always, doesn’t pry.
"Ugh, fine. You owe me food after this."
Ricky exhales, shaky, as he sets his phone down. His hands press against the cool surface of his desk, fingers splayed as if bracing himself, steadying the tremor in his bones. The classroom is nearly empty now, desks abandoned, chairs pushed back haphazardly. Outside, the noise of the school filters in—footsteps shuffling down the hallway, lockers slamming shut, laughter bubbling from the courtyard. Somewhere, a basketball echoes against the gym floor.
The sky beyond the window is shifting, deepening into dusk. Warm hues of orange stretch across the horizon, streaks of pink bleeding into violet, soft and endless like waves meeting the shore.
And Ricky—Ricky just sits there, gripping the edge of the desk as if letting go would send him spiraling.
This is it.
No more excuses.
No more playful rehearsals to mask the truth.
No more hiding.
Today, he’s saying it for real.
The art room is quiet when Ricky pushes the door open. Sunlight spills through the large windows, casting long shadows on the wooden floor. The room smells faintly of acrylic paint and pencil shavings, remnants of the art classes held here earlier. Desks are pushed to the side, making space for the easels that now stand abandoned in the corners.
This place has seen everything.
His rehearsals. His stolen glances. The moments where he almost, almost let the truth slip out.
And today, it will witness the real thing.
Ricky steps forward, his footsteps muted against the floorboards. He moves toward the center of the room, hands flexing at his sides, pulse loud in his ears. His mind replays every “practice” confession he’s done, every teasing smirk he’s thrown Gyuvin’s way, every time he’s pretended it was all just a joke.
“It has to be perfect,” he told himself the first time.
“I just need to say it enough times to get it right.”
“If I practice enough, it won’t feel so scary when the time comes.”
But it’s all a lie, isn’t it?
Because no matter how many times he’s rehearsed these words, no matter how many times he’s looked Gyuvin in the eyes and said "I like you," no amount of practice can prepare him for this moment.
Because this time, there’s no safety net.
This time, it’s real.
The door creaks open behind him.
Ricky turns just as Gyuvin steps in, his presence filling the space with effortless ease. His school jacket is slung over one shoulder, his hair slightly tousled.
“Yo,” Gyuvin greets, his tone light. "What’s up?"
Ricky lifts his head, and their eyes meet.
For a brief moment, something flickers in Ricky’s expression—something Gyuvin wouldn’t understand. It’s a mix of nervousness and anticipation, the way his chest tightens every time he’s about to say what’s been on his mind for too long. His heart races, but Ricky quickly suppresses it, forcing a calm exterior. He can’t let Gyuvin see the truth in his eyes just yet, not when everything feels so fragile, so unspoken between them. The moment passes quickly, but it leaves him wondering if Gyuvin saw more than he was meant to.
“Dude, I had to speed through my homework because of you.” Gyuvin sighs, running a hand through his hair before dropping his bag onto a nearby desk. He stretches, his limbs lazy, movements unbothered. “This better be good.”
Ricky swallows, shifting his weight. “It won’t take long.”
Gyuvin raises an eyebrow. “So, what is it? Presentation practice? Or are we back to this confession thing?”
A pause.
Ricky clenches his fists, forcing himself to meet Gyuvin’s gaze. “It’s a confession.”
Gyuvin smirks. “Yeah, yeah. Go on, then.”
He says it like a joke, like he’s heard it a thousand times before. Because he has.
And that’s the problem.
Because Gyuvin doesn’t know—he doesn’t realize that this time, Ricky isn’t playing around.
Ricky inhales sharply. The air feels heavier now, the golden light from the window casting warm hues on Gyuvin’s face, accentuating every familiar feature.
He looks the same as he always does.
And yet, Ricky feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.
"I have always liked you. Please go out with me."
A beat of silence.
Ricky’s heart pounds so loudly that it feels like Gyuvin must hear it. His fingers twitch at his sides, but he forces himself to stay still. His eyes lock onto Gyuvin, desperate for any sign that this isn’t just another one of his rehearsals. He’s been practicing for so long, but now that it’s real, nothing feels right. He’s afraid this confession will ruin everything, but all that fear melts away as he stands there, just Gyuvin—completely unaware of the storm inside him.
The seconds stretch on, heavy with anticipation. Ricky’s chest tightens, his palms start to sweat. He wants to look away, to run, but he can’t.
Gyuvin blinks, then grins. “Damn, dude. You really got it down now.”
Ricky freezes.
No.
No, no, no—
But Gyuvin keeps talking, his voice light, teasing. “You’re all set to confess for real, huh? I’m rooting for you.”
Ricky stares at him.
The confession is real.
But Gyuvin thinks it’s just another practice round.
The weight in Ricky’s chest crushes him, the tightness in his throat nearly unbearable. His face is burning, his pulse erratic, and yet—Gyuvin just smiles, completely unaware.
Ricky had thought he was ready for this.
But nothing could have prepared him for this.
For Gyuvin to look at him like that—like a friend, like someone who is here to support him, not someone who is the reason behind Ricky’s every word.
Ricky swallows.
His hands are trembling.
His confession—his real confession—is hanging in the air, unanswered.
And he doesn’t know how to fix it.
The moment feels heavy, pressing down on him, suffocating, yet exhilarating. Gyuvin’s laughter echoes in the room, and it’s like a bell tolling, a reminder of the distance between them. Ricky finishes, his cheeks flushed with heat, not just from embarrassment, but from the storm of emotions swirling within him—fear, hope, longing.
How does he bridge that gap? How can he show Gyuvin that this isn’t just another rehearsal, that this is real?
“Gyuvin,” he starts, voice shaky, “I—”
But Gyuvin cuts him off with a playful grin. “Don’t worry, man. You’ll nail it next time. Just remember to make it more dramatic, yeah?”
The words crash down around Ricky, a tide of frustration and longing. Gyuvin’s easy-going demeanor—his obliviousness—makes Ricky want to scream.
“I’m not joking!” he finally blurts out, the confession spilling from his lips unfiltered, unpracticed, raw.
Ricky watches as Gyuvin’s smile fades, his body freezing, the teasing spark in his eyes vanishing.
And for the first time, the air shifts. The laughter fades, replaced by a silence that feels electric, crackling with potential.
Ricky’s heart pounds, waiting for Gyuvin to respond, the real confession hanging in the balance.