Archive of Our Own

“I don't go out, but I'll do it for you.”

The sun set at the horizon where Dylan lay on his bed facing his window facing west, looking as the line of the glowing star reached the seams where it sank. He doesn’t want to be anywhere but right here, where he rested his head on the arms he has crossed over, separating his face from sinking fully into the mattress below. Life has been on automatic. Time drifted by like clouds, mellowly but hurriedly by the force of wind. Nature hummed a melody, one that Dylan could feel like he could memorize and write the words to.

It was his birthday. Twenty. Supposedly, he should’ve been celebrating—flashing his ID, downing shots, laughing over slurred words—but none of it appealed to him. It never had. He never understood what was worth celebrating. It was just another day, marking another year of being here, of existing. The only thing he felt like doing was to lie here until the light left the atmosphere and he would drown into the darkness, humming along the sound of wind.

*Knock knock*

The knock came. Dylan stayed still. The sun was dipping, slipping lower, stretching shadows over his mattress. If he focused on that—on the way the light bled out—he wouldn’t have to think about who’s standing at the door. Dylan didn’t turn to look; he didn’t bother. Probably someone coming by to drop off a gift. Maybe the manager, who would complain about how much gift he has and how he should take a photo with them and post it within the day as an appreciative post. Maybe it’s a worried younger member who would ask him stupid questions like “You good?" “Tell me if you need me," “Happy birthday," or...

“I brought over all kinds of booze; which one do you prefer?” the voice at the door called out. 

The voice was low, warm. Too familiar. A heartache to listen to. A voice Dylan knew he shouldn’t have wanted to hear but couldn’t stop himself from listening to.

 “I got tequila, whiskey, brandy, gin, rum, vodka, and a bunch of sodas. Basically, my whole bar with me.”

Dylan swallowed, the words scraping against something raw in his throat. He knew who it was. He didn’t need to turn around.

“Why are you here?” His voice came out flat, barely above a mumble. He still didn’t move. Didn’t look.

A pause.

“You hate being out in public after—” Dylan cut himself off, jaw locking. He wouldn’t finish that sentence. He wouldn’t bring her up. Wouldn’t acknowledge the thing that had been gnawing at him since the rumors started, since he’d seen the way Jun looked beside her. His eyes still looked at the sun, disappearing by a milli-inch at a time. 

“This isn’t about me. It’s your birthday.” Jun answered, like the topic didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t even worth bringing up. Dylan heard him set something down—probably the bottles, clinking against the carpet. “I don’t mind going out here and now if it’s for a friend.”

A friend. See? What was there to hope for?

Dylan nearly scoffed. That should’ve told him everything, right? Should’ve cleared up whatever stupid hope curled inside him whenever Jun was near. He stared harder at the fading sunlight, as if willing it to disappear faster.

“I made you food too,” Jun continued, a little lighter now. “Italian. I know you like that.”

Dylan squeezed his eyes shut. He shouldn’t have cared. It shouldn’t have made his chest feel warm in a way that didn’t belong on a chilly January evening.

“You never liked it when I drink too much.”

“I thought you never liked when I drank,” he muttered, referring back to the bag of liquor bottles set at the corner of his bed.

Jun hummed, something almost amusing in his tone. “I still don’t.”

“Then why did you even bring it? Leave with it.”

Dylan regretted it the moment the words slipped his tongue. He wasn’t sure what he expected Jun to do. Leave, maybe. Give up, like most people eventually did.

“I’m not going anywhere until you at least eat something,” Jun said, like he knew. Like he had read Dylan’s thoughts before Dylan had even had the chance to process them. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll even plan to crash here tonight. At least you’re not drinking yourself into oblivion alone.”

And the warmth once again, like a breeze of hot air towards Dylan’s frozen heart, he thought was stuck that way. Dylan wanted to throw the covers over his head and pretend none of this was happening. Wanted to ask, Why do you care so much? Wanted to demand, Who are you to act like you know me?

But he didn’t.

Because if he did, he’d have to admit what he already knew—that Jun had been different from all. That Jun was the only person who could make him feel like this, like the silver hair wanted to fight against his own instincts just to be near Jun.

The floor creaked. Jun was moving closer.

Dylan turned his head away, burying his face into the covers, his hands pulling over his eyes like that could block everything out.

“Tee,” Jun sighed. A soft, teasing lilt. “Come on. Let’s eat. Then we can drink till we black out, if you really want.”

Dylan didn’t move. Never once looked at J’s way.

“I hate to dance, but I'd dance with you. 

'Cause I'd do anything to feel your touch.”

They were in the silence, neither speaking nor moving, until Dylan felt the shift beside him—the quiet absence of warmth as Jun pulled away. The rustle of a bag followed, glass bottles clinking together as they lifted off the floor. Footsteps trailed off, each one softer, fading.

Dylan exhaled. It should’ve been a relief, right? Jun was leaving, finally. He’d done his part, and now he was like everyone else—walking away when Dylan became too much.

That was how it always went.

People cared until they didn’t. Stuck around until they had their fill. They tolerated Dylan’s weight until it became too heavy to carry. It was stupid to think Jun would be any different.

A dull clatter snapped him out of his thoughts.

Something landed on the nightstand, followed by the shift of fabric. Then—warmth.

A blanket draped over his shoulders, a firm yet careful touch settling it in place. And then fingers—soft, threading through his hair, ruffling the silver strands before smoothing them down again.

“You’re so stubborn.”

The voice was low, amused, but not unkind.

Dylan blinked against his pillow.

Jun hadn’t left. He was still there, still close. His hand slowed, adjusting Dylan’s hair before settling into a lazy rhythm, petting through the strands like Dylan was some stray cat curled up in the dark.

“Tell me when you’re hungry,” Jun murmured. “I’ll heat up the food for you.”

A pause. A final, lingering touch.

“And drink your water.”

Then, just like that, the warmth was gone. But Dylan still felt it, like a phantom weight pressed against his skin.

“Don't like anybody; tell me why it's different with you.

Don't believe in love, but no one makes me feel like you do.”

Under the blanket Jun had draped over him, swallowed in the darkness of his room, he’d listened to the distant sounds of movement outside his door. Clattering. Shuffling. The occasional thud. A part of him wondered if Jun had turned his apartment into a war zone. Another part of him—one he didn’t want to acknowledge—knew Jun was still there.

And he was waiting.

That should’ve made Dylan feel trapped, but strangely, it didn’t.

It was easeful enough that he fell into a nap when the sun finally left the evening sky, drowning the room in darkness. But instead of feeling blue, cold and lonely,. It was warm, cozy, and odly peaceful. Of course, it would be nicer without the noise, but Dylan couldn't care less. He could deal with it all later.

Maybe it was the nap. Something about sleeping dulled the weight in his chest and made it easier to move. 

It took Dylan over an hour and a half to find the courage to leave his room. He emerged from his room, empty glass in hand, the one Jun had given him earlier.

Jun was in the kitchen when Dylan walked in, his voice greeting him before his face did.

“Good nap?”

Dylan glanced up.

Jun stood by the counter, arms deep in plastic gloves, an apron tied over his clothes, hair wrapped in a bandana. He grinned, looking completely at home.

Dylan squinted, his eyes scanning the room. The place was clean. Like, disturbingly clean. Not a single pile of clutter. No dust on the floors. No stray wrappers on the table.

“You cleaned the house?” Dylan cocked his head.

Jun shrugged, casually wiping down the counter. “Since I’m such an intruder in your house, I figured I’d make myself useful.” He shot Dylan a pointed look. “Besides, this place was a depressing burrow. How do you even live like this?”

Dylan didn’t answer.

He wandered instead, stepping over the newly exposed floors, subtly dragging his foot in search of dust—any proof that his mess still existed. There was none.

A small smile tugged at his lips before he even realized it.

“I did well, didn’t I?” Jun called from behind him, his voice practically glowing with pride.

Dylan rolled his eyes. “Dunno.” He leveled Jun with a look. “Aren’t you going to leave soon?”

“No,” the other guy said simply. “Stop chasing me away. Told you—I’m staying.”

Dylan’s fingers tightened around the empty glass.

Something about the way Jun said that sat heavy in his chest. Like there was more to it. More than just a casual statement. More than just a stubborn friend refusing to leave.

Before he could dwell on it, Jun groaned loudly, rubbing his stomach in exaggerated hunger.

“Let’s EAT! I’m STARVING.”

Dylan scolded. “You could’ve eaten first.”

Jun gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “How could I eat first on your birthday?”

Dylan froze.

For a second, his mind flickered back—years of birthdays spent in silence, forgotten by everyone but himself. The times he’d scraped together enough money for a single cupcake, eating it alone just to feel something.

By fifteen, he’d given up. He told himself it was just another day. That it didn’t matter. That he didn’t need it to matter.

But a part of him still wanted to be remembered. To be seen.

He shoved the thought down, ignoring the sharp ache in his chest.

“Why are you making such a big deal out of this?” Dylan muttered, stepping into the kitchen. “It’s just a day.”

Jun raised an eyebrow, showing all of the disagreement on his face.

Dylan didn't look. He grabbed a serving container and went to the cabinet for a fork—pausing when he saw how neatly the utensils were organized. It wasn’t the random, chaotic mess he usually left them in. Jun had sorted them by size; everything lined up like it actually belonged there.

Dylan swallowed. Gosh, that warmth again. Damn it.

Acting like he couldn't have cared less, he walked by Jun with the two things he needed and left the room. Without a word, he set the food and fork on the coffee table before flopping onto the floor.

Jun stared at him in horror. “Eh? Why are you sitting on the floor? What’s the point of having a dining table?”

“Too much effort.”

Jun’s expression twisted further. “And you’re just eating straight from the container? Use a plate.”

Dylan waved him off. “Too much washing. I’m lazy.”

Jun scoffed. “It takes like two minutes to wash a plate.”

“Then you do it.”

“I will.” Jun huffed. “Seriously, how do you live like this?”

Dylan didn’t answer. He just stabbed his fork into the food and took a bite.

It tasted warm. Like it was made just for him. Not just because it was his birthday but because this meal felt like it was curated for just his existence.

"I don't say it much 'cause I just always thought
that you knew, oh."

The sun hung low in the sky, casting warm streaks of orange through the streets. Jun walked at an easy pace, a plastic bag filled with the food he’d prepped since dawn in one hand and a canvas bag stuffed with every bottle of alcohol he owned in the other. His thumb lazily scrolled through his phone as he made his way to Dylan’s apartment.

He wasn’t in a rush, but he couldn’t take too long either—not that Dylan was expecting him today. He’d likely be chased off. Not gonna lie, Jun was testing his luck.

Scrolling on his phone as the elevator brought him to the needed floor, the actor’s social feed was full of nonsense—fan edits, inside jokes, a couple of tags with his name and the series he was starring in. One post caught his eye: a blurry behind-the-scenes photo of him and the female lead with the caption: MY PARENTS! Trust me when I say they are a married couple, and I’m their child.

Jun clicked like and shut off his phone. Gotta keep the business going. If he wanted to go far in this industry, he had to keep fans entertained and keep their minds running.

His steps slowed when he reached the familiar orange-painted apartment door. He knocked once, then twice.

No answer.

Typical.

Jun let himself in. The passcode was burned into the back of his mind— 160403 . It sounded like a birthdate, but it wasn’t his. It wasn’t Dylan’s either—except for the year. Just a coincidence. But still, he let himself wonder. Just for a second.

People say actions speak louder than words. And if that were true, then every action Dylan had ever taken told Jun the same thing: don’t hope.

Jun wasn’t the type to take what wasn’t his. But as far as he knew, Dylan was still single, and Jun had chosen to take the thin opportunity and give everything he had to make the best offer in an auction he wasn’t sure he could win. He promised himself that if he lost, he wouldn’t be petty. He would never see Dylan as something to own. Only someone he wished he still had the chance to stand beside.

Inside, the place was a mess. Not disgusting—no rats or bugs crawling through the walls—but the kind of clutter that told him Dylan hadn’t been taking care of himself. Jun had been too busy to come by lately, tied up in the endless cycle of filming, interviews, and being somebody . He wouldn’t complain about his success—he loved it, thrived in it—but sometimes it left him missing the people he cared about.

He should say something. A simple hey felt too small. Complaining about the mess would just get him kicked out. He needed something more... genuine. More clever.

What actually came out of his mouth was:

"I brought over all kinds of booze. Which one do you prefer?"

What the fuck, Jun? Seriously?

That earned him nothing but a tired, “Why are you here?” before the conversation spiraled into more of the same—too close, too careful, too much proof that whatever Jun was feeling, he was feeling alone.

"It's what you do to me.
I'm wrapped around your finger, and I can't stop."

Even so, Jun’s heart wasn’t ready to stop. Not until Dylan showed him—undeniably—that he no longer had a place by his side.

"Tell me when you’re hungry," Jun said, looking down at the boy who had been dodging his eyes since the moment he arrived. "I’ll heat up the food for you."

A little ache lingered in his heart. He didn’t know when, but he had started preparing for the inevitable—for the day Dylan introduced him to someone else. How would he react? Would he beg him to stay? Or would he just smile, play the part of an actor, and bury years of love in his heart?

"And drink your water," he added.

Jun had a moment—a split second—where he almost leaned down to press a kiss to Dylan’s head. But he held himself back.

You're just a friend to him, Jun. Don't make things weird.

So, he turned and left the room instead.

The clutter was all that surrounded him now, no warmth reaching where he stood. With a sigh, he rolled up his sleeves and started cleaning.

The apartment was more cluttered than usual, and it took some time to figure out where everything belonged. Still, Jun managed. By the time he finished taking out the trash, an hour had already passed.

Somewhere along the way, he stumbled upon a stack of photo albums.

Most were filled with pictures of their friend group, some with stunning landscapes from Dylan’s solo trips. But one album stood out—worn, its edges curled from being flipped through too often.

It was filled with pictures of Dylan and his younger sister.

Jun smiled as he flipped through the pages, watching the years unfold—from their childhood days to the present.

He carefully placed the albums back where he found them before dusting off the rest of the apartment.

"You know I got a soft spot for you.
You know I got a soft spot for you."

Jun had known Dylan the longest in their group, but ironically, they had never been the closest. Jun had tried, but finding common ground with Dylan had always been tricky. He had learned through quiet observations instead.

Dylan wasn’t close to his family. Not really. Except for his younger sister.

She was the only person Jun had ever seen Dylan truly smile for.

And something Jun had never stood a chance at seeing.

By the time Jun reached the kitchen, Dylan was finally up.

Bedhead. Crinkled clothes. Wearing his large frame glasses. The water glass in his hand—the same one Jun had set aside for him earlier—now emptied.

Jun paused. Silver hair, unstyled and messy, without the layers of makeup or styling products. Just Dylan, as he was.

A grin tugged at the corners of Jun’s lips.

Cute.

“Baby, can't you see?

I need you 'cause you're everything that I'm not.”

It took way too much effort for Jun to get Dylan to sit at the dining table. It had started with a tug-of-war over the container of spaghetti—Jun insisting on plating it properly, Dylan calling it tacky and unnecessary. Jun won, of course, pouring the pasta onto a plate and setting it in front of Dylan like some kind of fine-dining experience.

"You’re so damn technical for what?" Dylan scoffed, rolling his eyes as he dragged himself to the table.

"It’s called professionalism. You’re still an idol, you know," Jun quipped, unfazed.

"And did I choose that life? I only signed up because the damn company made me believe I’d get to produce music. Now our group is on the brink of breaking up because Ai'Thame decided to chase his dream in motherfucking Korea."

Jun knew the truth about Thame’s situation, but now wasn’t the time to explain it. Dylan was angry—angry at Thame, at the industry, at himself. Telling him the full story would only make things worse.

As Dylan sat down, Jun disappeared into the kitchen and returned with his own plate of food and two glasses of water. He had taken off the apron and the bandana tucked into one of his pants' pockets. The table could fit six, but Jun sat right next to Dylan anyway, nudging his chair in close.

The first bite had Jun groaning dramatically, leaning back with a hand over his face like he’d just been touched by the divine.

"I think I’m seeing heaven," he said. "How am I such a good cook?"

Dylan snorted, shaking his head. "Get over yourself."

"Never, just like I would never be over you, bii," Jun murmured under his breath.

Dylan froze, spaghetti still hanging from his mouth. "What… did you just say?"

Jun smiled, a little shy this time. "I said, ‘Only for my bii.’ Is it too cheesy?"

Dylan blinked slowly, but his brain was going at full speed, overheating like a laptop fan on the verge of self-destruction.

"What do you mean, 'bii'? What is that?"

Jun tilted his head, scratching at the back of his neck. Was Dylan messing with him? He couldn’t be serious. But Jun explained anyway.

"I have always called you ‘tee’, but we have known each other so long; you're technically my ba-bii now."

Dylan hated Jun at that moment—he hated him more than ever. Not because he actually hated him, but because Jun did things like this. Things that made Dylan want. 

Jun was everything Dylan wasn’t. And somehow, Dylan needed that. He needed Jun.

"You know I got a soft spot for you."

"Don’t say things you don’t mean," Dylan muttered.

"I do mean it," Jun said, unwavering.

"Don’t lie, Jun."

"Why would I ever do that with you?"

"You know I got a soft spot for you."

"Because..." Dylan's voice wavered. His fork slipped from his fingers, clattering against the plate. He turned to Jun, his eyes glassy, the weight of everything cracking through his carefully built walls.

He didn’t know what to blame for the feelings surging inside him—anger, longing, fear—but he knew one thing: if he held it in any longer, it would destroy him. And with MARS on the brink of losing everything, with the real possibility of losing Jun in the process, Dylan decided to speak. Hoping Jun won’t slip away like sand, like everyone else had.

Jun was one of the few people Dylan had left. Too precious for Dylan to let his pride win.

"Because, Jun..." Dylan stammered. The words felt like jagged stones caught in his throat, cutting with every attempt to push them out. His breath hitched. His silver hair clung to his damp forehead.

Jun's fingers twitched against his glass of water. The shift in Dylan’s voice was impossible to ignore. Jun stayed quiet, letting him speak, but his entire body tensed like it was bracing for impact.

"Too late; I don't wanna fall, baby; I just
don't need somebody else to throw me aside." 

"You obviously don’t mean it," Dylan whispered, his voice barely holding together. "And no matter how much I love hearing those words—how much I want them to be true—I know they aren’t. I know whatever this is, whatever we are, it’s not two-sided."

Jun swallowed hard, his throat dry. That wasn’t true. That wasn’t true at all. But the way Dylan said it—so sure, so broken—made something inside Jun ache.

Dylan clenched his fists. His breathing grew shallow.

"If you truly liked me—" A sharp exhale. "Oh, but could you? You and her... maybe you should be by her side right now, not wasting time with me. Don’t give me hope, Jun. Don’t say things you don’t mean. Don’t—don’t make me think there’s something here when there isn’t."

Jun's chest tightened. He wanted to reach for Dylan, to shake him, to tell him he's wrong. But Dylan wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was folding into himself, unraveling, spiraling into his own mind.

"I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t want to be confused either. You’re playing with my head. My heart. Don’t make me fall deeper with these stupid, meaningless acts. I’d rather you act like you hated me than keep doing this while being with her."

Dylan’s voice broke completely, his entire body trembling. Jun barely had time to process the words before he saw Dylan gasping, struggling against the weight of emotions crushing him. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his fingers clawing at his shirt like he was trying to physically hold himself together.

Jun moved without thinking.

He grabbed Dylan’s wrist, firm but careful, pulling it away from his chest before he could hurt himself. His other hand found Dylan’s shoulder, gripping tight, grounding him.

"Dylan," Jun said, his voice steady but gentle.

Dylan barely reacted. His eyes were unfocused, his body locked in a panic he couldn’t fight his way out of.

Jun did the only thing he could think of—he tugged Dylan closer, forcing their foreheads to press together, anchoring him.

"Hey. Look at me," Jun murmured. "Breath with me, okay? In—" Jun inhaled deeply and exaggerated, hoping Dylan would mirror him. "And out."

Dylan's breaths came in sharp, choked bursts. He sucked in a shaky breath.

"That's it," Jun whispered. His grip on Dylan’s wrist tightened just slightly, just enough to remind him— I’m here. I’m not going anywhere .

Dylan’s body sagged against him, exhaustion hitting all at once. His fingers curled weakly around Jun’s wrist, like he was holding on for dear life.

Jun sighed. "You're an idiot," he muttered, his voice quiet but fond. "I don’t say things I don’t mean, Dylan. I never have."

Dylan didn’t reply, but he didn’t pull away either.

Jun didn’t let go.

“But I'm up all night, thinkin' 'bout how

It could be you to change my heart.”

A few minutes or hours went by, and they remained like that—foreheads pressed together, breathing in sync. The air between them was thick with exhaustion, Dylan’s body worn out from the weight of years crashing down on him all at once. His face was sticky with dried tears, his throat raw, his fingers still clutching Jun’s wrist but with less urgency now, like he wasn’t holding on for dear life anymore.

Jun’s other hand rested against Dylan’s nape, fingers threading through sweat-dampened baby hairs. His touch was light, painfully careful, as if pressing any harder might shatter Dylan into unfixable pieces. He wanted to say something, anything—but he also feared saying the wrong thing, feared making it worse.

The untouched spaghetti on the table had long since gone cold. Not that it mattered. No one was in the mood to eat anymore. The silence wasn’t awkward, but it was unbearable in its own way. Dylan wanted to speak—an apology, maybe, or a thank you, or something he hadn’t yet found the words for—but nothing came. He’d spent years locking his feelings up. Now that they were out, they choked him more than ever.

“Can I say something?” Jun whispered, barely audible, but Dylan heard it anyway.

He gave a small nod against Jun’s forehead, though his stomach twisted at the vulnerability in Jun’s voice.

“You said that whatever we are, we aren’t two-sided. That I don’t like you.” Jun’s thumb brushed over Dylan’s wrist, grounding, hesitant. “That’s not true.”

Dylan’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. He wasn’t sure he could pull away.

“I do like you,” Jun continued, voice barely above a murmur. “I have for years. Before we were even trainees.”

Dylan’s fingers tensed around Jun’s wrist again, a tremor running through his body. He wasn’t sure if it was disbelief, anger, or just sheer exhaustion at this point. He wanted to believe it, wanted so badly for this to be real—but his head was already screaming at him that it couldn’t be. He had spent so long convincing himself that Jun was untouchable, that wanting him was foolish, and that their friendship was built on a foundation that never included this . If he let himself believe it now—if he let himself hope —then what?

Jun must have noticed the way Dylan’s breathing changed, the way his body stiffened, because he pulled back just enough to reach for the untouched glass of water on the table and pressed it into Dylan’s hands. “Drink,” he murmured, soft but insistent. Dylan didn’t even argue; he just downed it in one go, gripping the cup too tightly, like if he let go, the entire world would slip out of his grasp.

“And about Cream.” Jun sighed. “It’s just a contract deal. I’m not supposed to talk about it, but I swear—there’s nothing between us but business. The person I like has always been you.”

Something ugly twisted in Dylan’s chest. His fingers clenched around the empty glass so hard he thought it might crack. He should feel relieved, maybe even happy, but all he felt was this awful, hollow ache—like someone had opened him up and found nothing inside. Like he had spent so long convincing himself of a lie that now, standing in front of the truth, he had no idea how to handle it.

He forced a grin, the corners of his mouth barely turning up. “Give me some times. I’ll answer you soon,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, before pushing himself up and heading toward the bathroom without looking back.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Dylan pressed his hands against the sink, staring at his reflection through the fog of his own breath. He looked like a mess. Red eyes, blotchy skin, lips trembling despite his best effort to steel himself. He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face, willing himself to feel something other than this unbearable tightness in his chest.

Maybe if he stayed here long enough, it would all feel like a bad dream. Maybe if he blinked hard enough, he’d open his eyes and find himself back in that dark, safe place where he didn’t have to deal with any of this. Where Jun was just Jun, and he was just Dylan, and there were no tangled feelings or painful truths between them.

"But I...don't like anybody; tell me why it's different with you.”

Outside, Jun didn’t move from his seat. He only let out a long, unsteady breath, eyes fixed on the closed bathroom door. The truth was out now, and all his carefully built assumptions had crumbled in front of him. He had spent years thinking Dylan knew—had been sure of it. How could he not? Jun had never been subtle. His constant teasing, the way he gravitated toward Dylan, the way his touch lingered longer than necessary—he had convinced himself that Dylan had known and had simply chosen not to acknowledge it.

But now? Now, it was obvious they had never been on the same page at all. The guilt settled deep in his chest, suffocating. Had he been playing with fire all this time without even realizing Dylan was burning?

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the past—to the years that had shaped them into this mess. To middle school, where it had all started.

Jun had been the odd one out; the new kid, transferred from the U.S., his pronunciation strange, his mannerisms different. The other kids called him Farang , some with admiration, others with mockery. But Dylan? Dylan had been different. The boy who sat next to him bandaged up and bruised, always picking fights he never talked about. Their only bond had been the half of them that was Thai, but even that had been enough to form the barest of connections.

Then Dylan disappeared. One day he was there; the next he was gone. No warning, no explanation. Jun had asked, but no one really knew the full story. Family issues, they said. Dropped out. Just like that, he was gone.

And then, years later, Jun saw him again.

Seventeen years old, standing in the same audition room, looking almost the same but somehow not . The Dylan Jun had known had been loud, reckless, and always ready to throw a punch. The Dylan in front of him was quiet, distant, headphones always in, and his gaze always averted. Jun had orchestrated this moment carefully, using Thame as an unwitting bridge to reconnect them. It wasn’t an accident they ended up in the same friend group—it was Jun’s silent determination. And yet, when Dylan’s eyes met his, there was nothing. No flicker of recognition, no sign that he even remembered Jun had once existed in his world.

Jun had laughed it off at the time and followed with the flow that he didn't know Dylan. But deep down, it had hurt . He had spent years wondering what had happened to Dylan, only to realize that Dylan hadn’t spent a second wondering about him—or at least, that’s what it had looked like. Maybe that was what stung the most. The idea that Jun had held onto something that Dylan had let slip away without a second thought.

So he had tried again. And again. Pushed his way back into Dylan’s orbit, convinced that the familiarity would come back. But Dylan had dodged him every time, and Jun, for all his stubbornness, eventually learned to stop trying to make Dylan recover those old days.

“Don't believe in love, but no one makes me feel like you do.”

So what happened during those years they were apart? Where had Dylan gone? And why did it seem like he had no recollection of Jun and who he was? Did the rapper suffer from long-term amnesia?

Not really.

As the warm water hit Dylan’s skin and steam wrapped around him, the four walls of the bathroom became his only refuge. A thin barrier between himself and Jun—one that felt safer than the real world ever had. He was finally accepting the truth: this wasn’t a dream he could wake up from. He would never be back in that dark room where he had once been trapped, and Jun would never just be Jun. And Dylan... would never just be Dylan.

Something had changed today—not just his age, but something deeper. Maybe growing from a teenager into a young adult had forced everything about him to shift. And yet, he feared it. Change had never once brought him anything good.

When he was seven, his family welcomed his younger sister into the world. But it wasn’t that peety jealousy that made things hard for him—it was the pity. His family had never been kind to women. He saw the disgust on his parents' faces every time the little girl cried, so he took it upon himself to raise her the best he could.

When he was eleven, he realized he wasn’t like the other boys. Sure, he liked the same things they did, but he never found himself drawn to girls the way they did. Sure, they were pretty, but never in the way his classmates described. Instead, he found himself understanding the girls more, relating to their conversations about their crushes. His parents didn’t react well when they realized he was gay. They beat him for it. Half his scars came from them, the other half from the fights he started at school, taking out his anger on the boys who mocked him.

It was a cycle. He went home to be beaten, then lashed out at others to cope.

Then Jun appeared in his life, piecing together what was broken, making him believe there was light at the end of the tunnel. Dylan still remembered the first day they met—Jun handing him a bag of American snacks with a bright smile, speaking in broken Thai about how much he wanted to get to know him. He remembered how Jun struggled to understand their classes because the education system was so different from his home country and how he never even bothered hiding the fact that he was copying Dylan’s notes. And how, no matter what, Dylan could always feel Jun staring at him, he thought about how the Farang was probably judging him for his small eyes and cheap wired headphones while he flaunted the latest wireless edition around his neck.

Then, at fifteen, Dylan’s father died from lung cancer, the result of a lifelong smoking addiction. It left him and his sister under the care of their mother—an emotionally absent woman who begrudgingly took them in while doting on her much younger boyfriend. Dylan knew it wouldn’t end well, so he spent every spare moment searching for a way out. That’s when he found ONER. They promised him a future, a chance to become an idol, a home for him and his sister. And he fell for it.

Just when he thought his life was changing for the better, he met Jun again.

Jun had barely changed, except for his Thai, which had improved so much that Dylan could no longer hear an accent. But acknowledging Jun meant acknowledging his past. Admitting that Jun had been special. And that was something he couldn’t afford to do. He couldn’t let anyone see him the way the people in his past had, so he forced himself to be cold—not just to Jun, but to everyone. 

Then came the biggest change yet.

He was debuting. As a rapper. With Jun.

The company put them in the same house, forcing Dylan to face Jun every single day. Old feelings turned new, only growing stronger with Jun’s relentless flirting—effortless, like breathing. And just when it seemed like life was finally going well for him, ONER threw it all away. They discarded the band, keeping only Thame, and left Dylan with nothing. No future. No safety net. Nothing but the past he had tried so hard to bury.

He had bottled it all up until now. Until he broke.

Because all this time, the distance hadn’t been indifference.

It had been pain.

“I don't say it much 'cause I just always thought that

You knew, oh.”

The last of the soap rinsed off his skin, the water washing away the foam but doing nothing to cleanse the weight pressing on his chest. Dylan wrapped a towel around his waist, stepping out into the thick warmth of the steam-filled bathroom. The mirror was fogged over, his reflection barely visible.

For a moment, he thought about leaving it that way.

But old habits made him wipe the glass clean, forcing himself to meet his own gaze. Puffy face. Tired eyes. And then, inevitably, the scars.

They traced over his torso like reminders he could never forget, barely hidden beneath patches of ink. Some tattoos were clean and well-done, but others only made the marks stand out more. His fingers ran over them, tracing the memories stitched into his skin—the ones that had shaped him, the ones that had taught him to expect pain before comfort.

He had spent years making himself untouchable. If he stayed alone, nothing could hurt him. No expectations, no disappointments, no sudden changes forcing him to adapt.

Yet, despite everything, he felt... safe with MARS. At least a little.

The members had been nothing but kind, even when he pushed them away. And Jun—

Jun had never given him a reason to be afraid. No matter how impulsive, reckless, or frustrating he could be, Jun had never once intentionally hurt him.

And that was a kind of change Dylan wasn’t sure how to handle.

For so long, he had convinced himself he didn’t need anyone. That he could survive alone. But if everything fell apart again—when it did—Dylan couldn’t shake the feeling that Jun would still be there. That no matter how much time passed or how much distance came between them, Jun would be the one thing that never faded.

And that realization? That was terrifying. Because needing someone meant giving them the power to break you.

But wasn’t he already broken?

Dylan exhaled, gripping the edge of the sink. He had spent years running from the past, avoiding anything that might tether him to something real. But maybe—just maybe—he was done running.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, he was ready to let someone stay. And he wanted Jun to be the one who does. 

Even if he had to go back to those old days, even if MARS were no longer with him, he hoped Jun would still be his light at the end of the tunnel.

“It's what you do to me.”

The door to the bathroom clicked open, the soft sound cutting through the heavy silence between them. Jun instinctively straightened, his breath hitching slightly as a wave of steam curled out into the room. The scent of Dylan’s shampoo followed—fresh, slightly floral, mixed with the lingering warmth of the shower.

Then came Dylan himself. His silver hair clung damply to his forehead, strands darkened by water. His skin was flushed pink from the heat, droplets still trailing down the sides of his neck before disappearing beneath the towel draped lazily around his shoulders. The oversized shirt he had thrown on hung slightly off one shoulder, exposing just the faintest glimpse of a tattoo peeking from beneath the fabric. He rubbed the towel through his hair, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion but sharp as ever when they landed on Jun.

Jun just sat there, gripping his own knees, unable to find words.

What was he supposed to say?

He had pushed too hard before—he had made Dylan cry. The memory still clung to him, a warning whisper in the back of his mind. If he spoke now, would he ruin everything again? Would Dylan shut him out?

But before Jun could spiral further into uncertainty, Dylan moved. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and sank onto the chair across from Jun, as if the weight of everything had finally settled enough for him to face it.

"I've thought a lot about what you said," Dylan murmured. His fingers twisted the edge of his towel, his expression unreadable. Then, after a heavy pause, he exhaled. "I think you deserve to know the truth."

Jun swallowed. His throat was dry. He gave a slow, encouraging nod, afraid to speak in case Dylan changed his mind.

Dylan hesitated. He didn’t look away, but something in his face flickered—like he was standing on the edge of something, unsure if he should step forward or retreat. But then, with quiet resolve, he met Jun’s gaze head-on.

"I suppose I should start from the beginning." He glanced away briefly, almost like he was searching for a good place to begin, before his lips quirked into the faintest, almost bitter smirk. "Well, middle school, actually."

Jun’s heart jumped in his chest.

"You remember ?!" He shot upwards, nearly knocking over the chair he sat in, excitement bursting through before he could stop himself.

Dylan’s eyes twitched in irritation. " I can choose not to talk and kick you out of my house if you interrupt me again."

Jun shut his mouth immediately, eyes wide like a scolded puppy.

Dylan sighed, shaking his head. "...Anyway."

And so he began.

For hours, Dylan spoke.

Piece by piece, he laid it all out—everything Jun had missed in the years Dylan had disappeared, every scar, every shift that had shaped him into the person he was now. He spoke about how his life had turned inside out, about the moments of rage and sadness, about the rare fleeting joys that had felt too distant to hold onto. He told Jun about the nights when he felt like he had lost himself completely, about the helplessness of realizing that even MARS—his last tether, his last hope—had been slipping through his fingers.

But even with all of that, there were things he still left unsaid.

His voice would waver slightly when the memories pressed too hard against his ribs, but he never spoke about Jun.

Never admitted how much he had longed to see him.

Never said how, even in his worst moments, his mind had drifted to the warmth of a boy who had once been the closest thing to safety.

But Jun didn’t need to hear it.

Because he felt it.

He felt it in the way Dylan hesitated when speaking about the hardest parts. In the way his fingers clenched against his towel as if grounding himself. In the way, despite everything, he was still sitting here, still choosing to let Jun in—even if only just a little.

And Jun? He listened.

Not in the way he usually did, where he’d jump in with jokes or half-thought-out responses. He just listened , absorbing every word, every pause, and every unspoken weight between them.

For the first time in a long time, Dylan wasn’t just a mystery or a ghost from his past. He was here. He was real .

When Dylan finally reached the end of his story, he leaned back against the chair, exhaling like he had just run a marathon. The weight on his shoulders hadn’t disappeared, but at least now, he wasn’t carrying it alone.

Jun didn’t say anything at first. He just moved.

Before Dylan could react, Jun pulled him into a tight embrace.

A deep, warm hug—one that was solid, unshaken.

Dylan stiffened for a second, instinctively unused to the comfort, but Jun didn’t let go. He held him there, breathing in the scent of shampoo, the warmth of his skin still lingering from the shower.

“Thank you for being so strong," Jun whispered against Dylan’s hair. His voice was steady, filled with something so soft it almost hurt. "I’m proud of you.”

Dylan squeezed his eyes shut. His throat burned. His chest ached.

If Jun had said anything else, if he had tried to sugarcoat things or tell him everything would be okay, Dylan might’ve brushed it off. But this? This was simple. Honest.

And maybe that was why, despite everything, Dylan found himself believing him.

"Thank you for understanding," Dylan whispered back, his voice thick but steady.

"I'm wrapped around your finger, and I can't stop."

They stayed like that for a while—long enough for them to almost melt into each other, long enough for the tension to settle into something quiet and safe .

But, of course, Jun couldn’t stay serious forever.

He eventually pulled back just enough to grin down at Dylan, mischief creeping back into his expression.

"Okay, one question," he said, his voice lighter now.

Dylan sighed, already bracing himself. "...What?"

"When did you start liking me?"

Dylan blinked, visibly thrown off. " Does it matter?"

"Very much. I need to know how many years I’ve been owed for crushing on you."

"Do you really have to win everything?"

"Bii, I’ll lose to you in anything and everything. I just need to know the record."

Dylan exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his head. He hesitated—clearly reluctant—but eventually mumbled under his breath, "When you gave me the snack bag on the first day you transferred in."

Jun went still .

Then, his entire face lit up like a child on Christmas morning.

"You mean —?! All this time—?! Since then ?!"

Dylan groaned, running a hand down his face. "I knew you’d be annoying about it."

Jun, completely ignoring him, all but launched himself onto Dylan’s lap in pure excitement. "Dylan, do you know how much time I’ve wasted?!"

"I swear to God, if you don’t get off —"

"OH MY GOD, I COULD'VE BEEN FLIRTING SO MUCH MORE—"

And just like that, the tension cracked, the air between them shifting from something heavy to something lighter—easier.

Dylan still had a long way to go.

But here, in this moment, with Jun’s arms wrapped around him, with laughter bubbling up despite himself—he felt like he had taken the first real step forward.

“You know I got a soft spot for you.”

“So…” Jun let out a smile—not as cunning as usual, but still carrying that familiar glint like he had something up his sleeve. “Will you consider dating me then?”

Dylan’s fingers stilled where they had been fidgeting with the towel draped around his shoulders. He looked at Jun, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, with a small huff, he leaned back in his chair.

“You know I got a soft spot for you.”

“You know I got a soft spot for you.” Dylan’s voice was quieter now, softer in a way that made Jun’s heart do something complicated in his chest.

Jun tilted his head, pushing. “So that’s a yes?”

Dylan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You could get a yes from me if we hadn’t just become unemployed.”

Jun blinked, then snorted. “Actually, that’s just you ... I’m still an actor.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “And how much do you even have from being a side character?”

“Enough to keep us from starving.”

“But I don’t know you that well; we’ve not been the closest.”

“Then ask me anything,” Jun challenged, leaning in slightly. “I’ll tell you everything. If you want, I can even give you my social security number for a background check.”

Dylan let out a laugh—an honest, genuine one that caught Jun off guard for just a second. It wasn’t loud or sharp, but something warm, something real .

Jun stared at him, his chest suddenly feeling too tight.

He wanted to hear that laugh more. He wanted to see Dylan’s shoulders relax like that more often.

“Baby, can't you see?

I need you 'cause you're everything that I'm not.”

“So?” Jun leaned in closer, eyes locked on Dylan’s lips, then flicking his gaze up to Dylan’s eyes, his hand brushing under his chin. “Can I be your boyfriend?”

Dylan raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking slightly as he matched the energy and leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t know... are you willing to make our anniversary and my birthday on the same day? That’s a lot of gifts for one day, don’t you think?”

Jun let out an exaggerated sigh, sitting back in his chair with a groan. “Fair point made. I’ll try again some other day. You wait for it.”

“Alright, Farang,” Dylan teased, his grin widening at the flash of annoyance in Jun’s eyes.

“Don’t call me that,” Jun muttered, leaning forward again. “You know how hard I worked to get out of that label.”

“Faranggggg,” Dylan drawled, stretching out the word for maximum irritation.

“Ai’Bii,” Jun shot back, his voice dripping with mock-seriousness, though his lips betrayed him with a faint smile.

“You stop that,” Dylan warned, though his voice carried a teasing edge.

“Not if you do it first,” Jun countered, leaning in just slightly; their faces got close, inches away.

Dylan smirked. “What if I don’t?”

“You know I got a soft spot for you.”

The tension hung in the air for a moment, both of them a little too aware of how close they were. Just as things felt like they might tip over into something more, Dylan glanced at the table and broke the moment. “We should clean up the spaghetti.”

Jun blinked, momentarily taken off guard by the sudden shift in focus. “Uh... yeah, alright.” He stood up, his movements still a little stiff, and glanced at the table where spaghetti sauce had splattered all over from Dylan's incident earlier. “Guess we should get this cleaned up before you ruin all of my afternoon work on keeping this palace livable.”

Dylan rolled his eyes as he grabbed a napkin, wiping down the mess on his side of the table. He swiped over the spot where the spaghetti had splattered, his eyes lingering on the red stain that marked the table. 

“So... do you want to get drinks while we do this, or...?” Jun shot Dylan a questioning look. “We’ve got that whole bag of alcohol in the corner. We can do it if you want to. It’s your birthday.”

“Right,” Dylan said, looking over to the alcohol bag that had been lying there for some time now.

Jun walked over to the bag. He fumbled with it before pulling out a bottle of rum and a few cans of Coke, grinning mischievously. “Guess it’s time we made use of it.”

“You sure we should drink now, now? I mean, we’re supposed to be cleaning.” Dylan pondered about their half-done task.

Jun shrugged, cracking a can of Coke and pouring it in the now empty glass on the table. “It’s our love confirmation day, right? Should be allowed a drink or two.”

Dylan nodded, smirking as he looked at Jun, who then poured rum into each glass. “Fine, but this doesn’t mean I’m off the hook with the ‘Bii’ stuff.”

As they cleaned up, the tension didn’t fade. The teasing continued, but it felt like something more was lurking just under the surface. Jun knocked back a sip, his words starting to drag a bit. “You know... you’re not as bad as I thought you’d be.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow, giving him a look. “I’m not bad? What are you referring to?”

“Hey, I’m not digging your pain. I’m just saying... I could get used to this. You, me, clean-up duty.” Jun’s voice was more relaxed now, though his tipsiness hadn’t fully set in yet.

Dylan was a little slower, still processing the playful jab, but he couldn’t help but smile. “Right, because cleaning up spaghetti is romantic.”

Jun’s lips twitched. “It’s... a little romantic, don’t you think?”

“Romantic? We’re cleaning up food off a table. How is that romantic?”

“Well, you’re here,” Jun said, meeting his eyes with an intensity that caught Dylan off guard for a moment. “And that’s enough for me.”

Dylan opened his mouth to reply but then froze, realizing the words weren’t coming out as smoothly as he’d hoped. Instead, he focused on wiping the table again, trying to avoid the sudden shift in atmosphere. “Right, well, I’m not here to impress you with my cleaning skills.”

Jun chuckled, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks. “You’re doing great, Bii.”

Dylan shot him a warning look, but his heart wasn’t in it. He smiled, the playful edge to his voice still present. “Stop saying that; it’s sending chills to my back.”

Jun leaned in, eyes a little too intense. “What if I don’t?”

“You know I got a soft spot for you.”

Dylan chuckled before grabbing Jun’s cup, lifting it to his lips and drinking from the exact spot Jun had. Throughout the whole thing, he never broke eye contact with Jun, his smirk growing with every second.

Jun’s jaw dropped so far it might as well have hit the floor. If it could’ve widened any further, it would’ve.

Dylan, with a mischievous glint in his eye, casually set the glass back down on the table, then grabbed the plates of spaghetti, slipping away toward the kitchen.

“Wait! You’re not escaping after doing that!” Jun yelped, his voice rising in indignation as he scrambled to his feet, hurrying after Dylan.

Dylan, already halfway around the corner, shot him a playful glance over his shoulder. “I’m not escaping. I'm just cleaning up.”

“You’re not—” Jun paused, his steps faltering slightly. “I can’t believe you just did that!”

Dylan was already out of view, his laugh echoing faintly from the kitchen. Jun’s frustration morphed into amusement, and he couldn’t help but grin as he dashed after him, knowing full well that Dylan wasn’t going to make this easy.

The chase was on.

“For you. For you. For you

You know I got a soft spot for you.”

They chased each other around the kitchen, laughter bouncing off the walls as they dodged and weaved through the space. Eventually, they slowed down enough to do the dishes—well, Jun did, while Dylan wrapped his arms around his waist, swaying them both in lazy circles.

"Where was this version of you all this time?" Jun chuckled, glancing over his shoulder as Dylan hummed contentedly against him.

"Only for my special ones," Dylan mumbled, his words brushing against Jun’s skin.

"So, I'm special?" Jun teased.

Dylan smirked against Jun’s shoulder. "Consider it a free trial. If you piss me off, you're getting professional Dylan again."

Jun's breath hitched slightly, but he just nodded, suppressing the shiver that ran down his spine. They kept swaying to invisible music, the warmth between them enough to make the world outside the kitchen feel distant. By the time the last dish was put away, it was already 9:30 p.m.

"It's what you do to me

I'm wrapped around your finger and I can't stop

You know I got a soft spot for you."

They spent the night drinking, experimenting with different combinations of liquor until their vision blurred, words slurred, and laughter filled every corner of the house. They talked about their past, their feelings, swapping stories that weren’t supposed to be funny but had them wheezing with laughter anyway.

At some point, Jun leaned over, pressing a lingering kiss at the corner of Dylan’s mouth. The moment should have been soft, but instead—

Dylan burst into tears.

"Aaaahhh, that's my first kiss!" he sobbed dramatically, kicking out at Jun but missing by miles in his drunken state.

Jun gasped, clutching his chest. "Aww, biiiii, I'm sorry." He reached out, wiping the tears from Dylan’s flushed face, only for Dylan to shove at him weakly.

"Farang! Give it back!!!" Dylan wailed, covering his mouth as if he could trap the stolen kiss.

Jun, suppressing his laughter, leaned in again. This time, he didn’t stop at the corner of Dylan’s mouth. The kiss was longer, deeper—still sloppy, still hazy, but enough for Dylan to sigh into it, his hands finding their way into Jun’s hair.

"I don’t count this unless we’re sober," Jun murmured between kisses.

"Whatever," Dylan slurred, pulling him closer.

"We kissed. Does that mean we’re dating now?"

"No. Break up with your girlfriend first, then we can talk."

"Pfft. She isn’t my girlfriend. Actually, she doesn't even like men"

Dylan blinked at him clearly.

Jun just grinned, pressing another kiss against Dylan’s jaw. "Shhh. That's a secret between us”