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“why do you keep saying i need to play guitar faster?”
the bar is warm, buzzing with conversation, but sungho isn’t really listening. not to the music playing overhead, not to the bursts of laughter from the table behind them, not even to the sound of ice shifting in his drink as he moves it in slow, absentminded circles. he’s listening to dongmin.
he just wishes he weren’t.
he blinks up, eyes slow like he’s pulling himself back to the table, back into this conversation that he never even meant to start. “i wasn’t saying that.”
“you were.”
“i wasn’t,” sungho sighs, pushing his glass away. “i said that you talk about playing fast like it’s the only thing that matters in music, and i don’t think that’s true.”
dongmin looks at him like he just suggested music doesn’t need sound. “it does matter. speed is a skill, and skill is the difference between being a hobbyist and being a professional.”
“sure, but—”
“that’s what separates someone like me from someone who just strums chords at a campfire.”
“i wasn’t talking about you—”
“and you don’t think that’s important?”
“maybe to you.”
“not maybe. objectively.”
sungho exhales through his nose, short and sharp. “that’s not how art works, dongmin.”
“that’s exactly how it works. the best musicians are the ones who push the limits of what’s possible. who innovate. who master their craft to a level other people can’t even touch. skill is what separates them.”
“i just don’t think technical skill is the same thing as talent,” sungho says finally. “you can be a fast guitarist and still make soulless music.”
“you can also be a slow guitarist and be bad,” dongmin says flatly.
“so you think the best writers are the ones who know the most words?” sungho asks, eyebrows raising slightly.
“no, because writing isn’t performance-based.”
“neither is all music.”
“it is if you want it to matter.”
“right, but that’s not—”
“are you seriously trying to argue that talent exists without skill?”
“no, i—”
“because that’s not true.”
“dongmin—”
“skill is what proves talent. you can have all the passion in the world, but if you don’t have skill, it doesn’t mean anything. no one’s going to care if you love music if you’re bad at it.”
sungho sighs, pushing his drink away. “you don’t have to be good at everything to love it, though. people write songs all the time without being virtuosos. it’s not all about mastery.”
“it is if you want to be the best.”
sungho looks at him, mouth pressing into a thin line. “do you hear yourself?”
“yeah, i do. and i hear you acting like i’m wrong when i’m not.”
“god, it’s not about being right,” sungho says, shaking his head. “i was just making a point. but you always—” he exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “never mind. let’s talk about something else.”
dongmin looks to the bar, to a couple sitting a few tables down. sungho follows his gaze and thinks they look happy to be together, then wonders if dongmin even sees them.
dongmin lifts his chin slightly, now watching him like he’s waiting for an opening. but then he shrugs, taking a slow sip of his drink. “okay.”
sungho exhales, relieved. “okay.”
he thinks for a second, then lands on something neutral. “sanghyeok’s dog got into his closet again.”
dongmin hums. “chewed up his shoes?”
“his headphones.”
“tragic.”
“he says he’s thinking about getting a cat instead.”
dongmin scoffs. “sanghyeok is a dog person. he’d hate having a cat.”
“that’s what i said.”
“he’d name it something stupid.”
“like ‘whiskers’ or something.”
“or ‘daebak.’”
sungho laughs, shaking his head. it’s easy, familiar. for a second, he lets himself think that maybe they’re fine.
he looks up at dongmin, who still has that same sharpness in his eyes, but it’s dulled just slightly, like he’s actually in the conversation now instead of just strategizing his next move.
it’s hard to believe in moments like this that there is some softness in him, the kind that’s peeked through just for a moment. it’s just harder to find these days.
“you know,” sungho says, “you’re a talented musician, dongmin. you don’t have to worry so much.”
dongmin stills, barely perceptible.
he doesn’t say anything right away, and for a second, sungho thinks maybe he’s going to ignore it. but then dongmin lifts his drink again, taking his time with it before setting it back down.
“i’m not worried,” he says.
sungho gives him a look. “you’re always worried.”
“no, i’m not.”
“you are,” sungho says, amused now. “you just don’t call it worrying. you call it ‘thinking ahead.’ or ‘anticipating problems.’ or ‘being realistic.’ but it’s worrying, dongmin.”
dongmin doesn’t argue right away, which means sungho is right.
for a second, there’s a silence that isn’t tense, just lingering. dongmin taps his fingers against his glass, then glances up at sungho, eyes steady. “you think i’m talented?”
sungho rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “obviously.”
dongmin presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. he looks down at the table, like he’s cataloging the words, storing them somewhere deep.
sungho watches him, something warm settling in his chest. he wishes this could be enough.
but then—dongmin lifts his gaze again, something shifting back into place, something sharp-edged and restless.
“there’s a lot of talented people out there.”
“you’re one of them.”
sungho is used to this kind of pushback, so his response comes automated. it’s not the kind he minds, in fact it’s rather mundane.
sometimes he’d like a boyfriend who doesn’t need his ego stroked like clockwork but it makes him rather docile in bed so sometimes becomes something that’s tolerable. but it doesn’t look like they’re going to be fucking tonight and sungho’s head is starting to hurt.
“there’s one of something in many categories that people can fit into.”
sungho exhales, slow. “stop worrying.”
dongmin taps his fingers once against his glass. “that’s easy for you to say.”
“what does that mean?”
“it means you’re not the one trying to make something of yourself in a field where everyone is disposable.”
“and you think that makes my life infinitely easier than yours?”
“you study literature,” dongmin says simply. “you don’t really need to worry about where you end up.”
sungho almost laughs. “so now you think my major is useless.”
“i didn’t say that.”
“you implied it.”
“i meant that you don’t have to worry about whether people will respect you. you read books. you write essays about books. what’s the worst that happens, you become a teacher?”
sungho watches him for a second, then shakes his head. he knows that was an insult, but he doesn’t give it grace. “you act like you’re fighting for survival out here.”
“i am,” dongmin says, too serious.
“no, you’re not.”
“you don’t get it.”
“maybe because you make it impossible to talk to you,” sungho mutters, taking another sip of his drink.
“so you’d rather talk to your baseball friends?”
sungho blinks. “what?”
“the guys from your lit seminar,” dongmin says, tapping his fingers against the table again. “the ones who play baseball.”
the warmth vanishes. the tension snaps back into place like a rubber band pulled too tight.
sungho frowns. “why do you say it like that?”
“like what?”
“like it’s stupid.”
“i didn’t say it was stupid.”
“you said it like you think it’s stupid.”
dongmin tilts his head slightly, like he’s not sure why they’re talking about this at all. “i just don’t get what you have in common with them.”
sungho blinks. “what do you mean?”
“i mean, you study literature. they spend their free time lifting heavy objects and putting them back down.”
sungho exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “jesus, dongmin.”
“what? i’m just saying, i don’t know why you like them so much.”
“i don’t like them,” sungho says. “they’re just nice. they invited me out for drinks, so i said yes. i didn’t realize i needed to run my social calendar by you.”
“you don’t,” dongmin says quickly. “i just think it’s weird that you act like they’re the most entertaining people you’ve ever met.”
“i never said that.”
“you did.”
“i didn’t. i said they were interesting.”
“right,” dongmin mutters, looking down at his drink.
sungho studies him for a second, something clicking into place.
“are you seriously jealous?”
dongmin scoffs immediately. “of who?”
“them.”
“you think i’m jealous of a bunch of guys who hit balls with a stick?”
sungho kind of wants to hit him in the balls with a stick right now, but he just closes his eyes and takes a deep breath instead.
“i think you’re jealous that i might enjoy talking to them.”
“jesus christ,” dongmin mutters, shaking his head. “i thought we were talking about something else.”
“you started this conversation.”
“no, i didn’t.”
“you did,” sungho says, exasperated. “you’re the one who brought them up.”
“yeah, because i thought it was weird that you—” dongmin exhales sharply, cutting himself off, pressing his fingers against his temple like he can physically stop the frustration from spreading. “never mind.”
“do you realize what’s happening here?”
“we’re just having a conversation.”
“no, we’re not,” sungho says. “you don’t have conversations, dongmin. you have debates. you have to turn everything into some kind of intellectual chess match, and if someone disagrees, you make them feel stupid for it.”
“i don’t make people feel stupid,” dongmin says immediately.
sungho lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. he picks up his drink and takes a sip, lets the bitterness settle on his tongue before he says, “you really don’t get it, do you?”
dongmin watches him. “get what?”
“that not everything has to be an argument. that i don’t need you to correct me, or fact-check me, or—god, you just—you make it so fucking tiring to talk to you sometimes.”
dongmin’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a beat of silence, like something almost lands. then—
“i don’t make people feel stupid,” he says, again.
sungho lets out another laugh, but this one is quieter. “you do. you do, dongmin. and the worst part is, i don’t even think you mean to. i think you just—” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. ”—i think you just can’t stand when people don’t think the way you do, but you can’t stand when they do either, because it means you’re no longer the smartest person in the room.”
dongmin looks at him for a moment, long and unreadable. then he glances down at the table, tapping a finger against the side of his glass. “that’s not true.”
“it is,” sungho says, voice softer now, more tired than anything else. “you need to be the smartest person in the room. even with me. especially with me.”
dongmin leans back, folding his arms. “i don’t think you’re not smart. i think you can be misinformed.”
“jesus christ.”
sungho shakes his head and grabs his coat. he doesn’t want to do this anymore. he was in a good mood when he got here, and now his headache is starting to turn into a migraine.
dongmin isn’t even mad, not really—he’s just locked into this mode where he has to be right, and sungho has to be wrong, and sungho is getting really tired of playing this game where he never comes out the winner.
“where are you going?” dongmin asks.
“home.”
“why?”
“because i don’t want to keep having this conversation.”
“so we can’t just talk?”
“we never just talk.”
“that’s not true.”
sungho gives him a look, one that lets him know that they’re going in a circle again.
“yes, it is,” he says, voice tight. “you never let anything be just a conversation. you twist everything until you feel like you’re in control of it. and if you’re not, you pull shit like this—” he gestures vaguely between them. ”—like somehow me saying a bunch of guys are interesting is an insult to you.”
sungho watches him, waits for a response that doesn’t come. the seconds stretch out, too thin, too sharp. he swallows. “this is why it’s not working anymore.”
dongmin’s fingers still against his glass.
“the conversation?” he asks, too casual, like he’s brushing dust off a sleeve. “we can talk about something else. let’s just order food. you haven’t eaten.”
and maybe the flicker of something apologetic in his eye is what makes sungho hesitate, but it also could’ve just been the reflection of the streetlights leaking in when someone opens the door.
he exhales, pressing his lips together.
“no,” he says. “us.”
dongmin blinks at him, once, then twice. his lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. somehow, he didn’t see this coming. sungho knows well enough that he doesn’t like when things happen that he doesn’t see coming.
“you don’t think this is working anymore,” he repeats, slow, like testing the words for weight.
“i don’t.”
for a second, dongmin just looks at him. his fingers curl slightly against the tabletop, then straighten out again, like he’s resisting the urge to drum them against the wood. like he’s still calculating, still working out the angles. “because i disagreed with you about music.”
sungho exhales sharply, barely a laugh, but not amused. “jesus, no.”
“then why?”
“because of everything,” sungho says. “because of—this. because we’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes and i don’t even think we’re having the same conversation.”
“i’m sorry if it’s something i said.”
“it’s more than just something you said.”
dongmin folds his hands together in his lap, gaze steady. “explain it to me, then.”
“explain what?”
“why you’re breaking up with me.”
sungho looks at him. really looks at him, like he’s trying to figure out if dongmin is fucking with him, if he’s actually asking or if he’s just stalling, playing for time the way he plays for control in every other conversation.
but no—he’s serious.
so sungho swallows, sets his glass down, and tells him.
“because you’re impossible to talk to,” he says. “because i leave our conversations feeling like i have to prove something to you. because every time i say something, i know you’re just waiting to correct me.”
“i don’t do that,” dongmin says immediately.
sungho laughs, but it’s thin, humorless. “you’re doing it right now.”
dongmin’s fingers tighten slightly where they’re laced together. his eyes look dark where they’re slightly visible through his bangs and his mouth is curved down into the pout it naturally sits at and sungho sees why people think he looks mean. he used to have dozens of reasons he could pull out at any time why that isn’t true, but now he can’t think of any.
“because you make me feel like i have to be the smartest version of myself just to keep up with you,” sungho continues. “and if i say something you don’t agree with, you don’t take a second to consider it, you just—” he gestures vaguely, like he’s trying to grab the words out of the air. “you just dismiss it. like i’m wrong, automatically. like you’ve already decided i’m wrong before i even finish talking.”
dongmin opens his mouth, then closes it again.
it’s quiet between them for a moment.
then—“that’s not fair,” he says.
sungho smiles, small and exhausted. “yeah,” he says. “i know.”
dongmin exhales through his nose, a slow, controlled thing. “so you think i don’t respect you.”
“i think you respect me the way a teacher respects a student who’s just not quite getting the material.”
dongmin frowns. “that’s not—”
“it is,” sungho says, voice steady. “it is, dongmin. and i don’t want to be with someone who sees me like that.”
dongmin sits back, arms folding across his chest. “i’m sure the baseball guys are nice. i apologize if i offended you.”
his voice is light, casual, like they’re still two people sitting at a bar and not two people breaking up.
sungho huffs out a bitter laugh, exhasperated. “this is not about that.”
“so what do you want me to say?”
“it’s not about what i want you to say.”
“then what do you want me to do?”
sungho breathes out, slow and careful, like he’s already expecting the next words to hurt.
“just let me go home.”
dongmin looks at him, really looks at him, and sungho can see in his eyes that he realizes something awful. but the worst part is that he can’t even tell how much of that is the realization that their relationship is crashing and burning or that he’s lost his footing in this conversation.
“this is real then,” dongmin says slowly, his voice flat, but sungho hears it crack at the edges, barely noticeable, like a hairline fracture in glass. “you’re breaking up with me?”
“yes.”
“but why?”
“you think being smart is a personality trait,” sungho says, voice sharper now because he’s past the point where he can pretend to be cordial about this.
maybe he could have faked an offer to maintain a friendly distant relationship before dongmin prompted him to defend their breakup like he’s on the stand in fucking court, but now that it’s too obvious that they won’t be able to be in the same room together for the foreseeable future he can’t bring himself to bite his tongue against being cruel any longer.
“you think people should be impressed by you just because you can argue better than them or because you can name more beatles songs or because you can fucking play guitar faster. but it’s just exhausting, dongmin. it’s not fun, it’s not charming, it’s just fucking tiring. and i’m sure you’ll be amazing when you become the next john lennon or whatever it is you’re trying to do prove your way to through burning every bridge you’ve ever built and i really genuinely hope that it’s worth it when you get there.”
dongmin’s eyes widen, just for a second, just enough for sungho to see the words land somewhere deep. it should be a relief, it should feel good, it should mean something that he’s finally broken through—but it’s not enough. he knows already that it’s never going to be enough. because dongmin’s validation can never come from just one person. not even him.
dongmin sets his glass down with a little more force than necessary. “i don’t need people to be impressed by me.”
“then why are you so fucking insecure?”
that lands. for just a second, dongmin’s expression flickers—just once, a quick flash of vulnerability that cuts deeper than anger ever could. something wounded, something real. something sungho hasn’t seen in ages.
then dongmin shutters himself, visibly sealing over every crack sungho’s words just opened up. he folds his arms, leans back, and says nothing at all.
and sungho realizes then, with a slow, sinking kind of clarity, that he’s just delivered the killing blow to something that was already dead. he hadn’t meant to—not like this, not here, not tonight—but he did it anyway. all of the time spent carefully tiptoeing around each other’s faults, all wasted in a single breath.
he grabs his jacket off the back of the chair, the material stiff and cold in his fingers. he pulls it on without looking at dongmin, but he can feel him still sitting there, unmoving, like he’s waiting for sungho to take it all back. like he’s waiting to argue again, or to say something biting that might win back a sliver of control.
but sungho won’t this time. he can’t do this again.
“take care, dongmin,” sungho says quietly, finally glancing down at him again. dongmin looks smaller now, somehow, even with his posture rigid and closed-off, even with his eyes blank and detached. maybe it’s because sungho isn’t trying to see him as something he’s not anymore—someone who can change, who’ll soften if sungho just tries hard enough.
dongmin doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look up. he just reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, the screen lighting up his face in the dimness. he starts typing, already moving past this moment, already turning this into something different—something he can shape, control, and mold into a version that makes him hurt less.
sungho stands there for a beat longer, watching, knowing exactly what dongmin is doing because unfortunately at this point he does know him very well.
he’ll write a song about this, or five, and he’ll write it like he’s the one who’s hurt. he’ll turn it into something beautiful and tragic and unfair, and maybe he’ll make sungho into a villain, maybe he’ll make him a girl, or even into someone who never really existed at all. he’ll twist it until it’s nothing but melody and fiction.
sungho turns away, adjusting his jacket as he moves toward the door. he feels cold, hollowed out and raw at the edges.
maybe dongmin was right about him. maybe sungho was never going to understand him—never going to be able to keep up, to match him, to meet him where he needed to be met. maybe he’d known that from the start. his own ego isn’t too inflated to think he could’ve been foolish to even try.
sungho pushes the door open, stepping outside. the night air bites sharp against his skin, but it’s a relief from the warmth of the bar, from the feeling of dongmin’s eyes still burning into his back.
his throat aches as he swallows, chest tight. he turns back once, just once, glancing through the window, and sees dongmin illuminated by the soft glow of his phone, his fingers already moving quickly over the screen, shaping this moment into whatever he wants it to be.
sungho turns away, pulling his coat tighter around him.
the streetlights blur in his vision, and he wipes his eyes, angry and exhausted at the same time. he doesn’t know if he’s crying because it’s over or because thinks there’s a chance dongmin will go home and sleep with his roommate sungho’s been telling himself not to worry about for the past three months.
it doesn’t matter. none of it matters anymore.
he walks away, footsteps echoing against the wet sidewalk, knowing he never really cared that much about the fucking beatles.