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It’s dark, in the dead of night. A time when, even in cities that never sleep, the lights and noise fall into a slower lull, windows blinking off across uneven skylines. Though a city never sleeps, her residents certainly do.
Beomgyu knows he should be asleep. It’s the dead of night, and he has schedules in the morning. Events to attend, choreography to learn, and fans to cater towards. A life to return to, once the quiet hours end and the sun rises above the horizon and a new day starts. And yet, against all his better judgement, he lays awake, unblinking.
Sleep is hard to come by, even on the best of days. And, though he could easily blame it on the lack of time in his schedule, ever hectic, or the stress and glamor of the idol lifestyle, he knows, in his heart, that it is something much, much deeper. Something that has existed within him for years prior to the busy schedules and lights and fame– something so deeply ingrained it seems almost unavoidable. Inevitable.
Beomgyu exists, in some way, in a constant, crushing state of grief. All consuming, ever present, grief . It’s to a point where he can’t quite remember when it started– only that it did, one day, and never quite left.
Like a shadow, looming, stretching across his mind and body; a storm, raining, weighing heavy on his shoulders and dragging at his back. It clings to him like mist and clouds his mind, even on his better days, few and far between as they are.
He sighs, long and tired, flipping beneath the covers. His leg hurts. As the distant moonlight seeps through the cracks of his curtains, he pulls the blanket the slightest bit tighter, curling into the softness of his sheets.
It’s cold.
It’s so cold, and sometimes it feels as though one day he will freeze, soaked through by the storm raging in his mind and frozen solid, immobile, by the apathy and the fear and the vast, open space between his ribs.
It is the kind of winter that not even the thickest of blankets or the warmest of teas could mitigate– the kind of winter so bleak and bitter that it leaves no survivors, only frozen strays, ever searching for warmth. It’s the kind of biting cold that only comes from grief, and of emptiness.
And it’s at times like these that Beomgyu can’t help but wonder, to let his mind drift, far out into the night. What is he grieving, for it to be so omnipresent in every part of his being? Invading his mind, the hollow of his chest– caving in like an avalanche of frigid, palpable emotion so strong it makes him feel almost physically sick and tired. So, so tired.
A constant cycle of denial-anger-bargaining-sadness with no acceptance in sight– what does he need to accept? What has he grieved, endlessly? Having lived haunted by specters he cannot name, for longer than he can ever know, all Beomgyu feels is tired , tired of the grief and tired of being tired– a vicious repetition with no closure, no respite. It’s maddening.
He closes his eyes. Shifts again. It’s still cold.
As his mind drifts, he wonders what life would have been if he didn’t choose his path, of lights and cameras and adoring fans– of diets and exhaustion and absolutely no privacy. Maybe, he thinks, bitterly sardonic, that’s what I’m mourning. The life I could have led.
But where would he be, what would he be, if not an idol? In school? University? A regular, stable job, as a regular, working class citizen?
For once, Beomgyu lets himself wander down this forbidden path, questioning why he chose this life. Of fame, of suffering, of knowing he would never be enough for the company he’s under, ever overlooked and overworked, pushed to his limits in body and in mind. A life in the spotlight, vying for a goal that wasn’t his, yet had become his own over years of it being pushed into his hands. Goals that were always just out of reach, fingers grazing but never quite grasping, always falling just a hair short of where he needed to be.
As the light of dawn seeps through his window, inching towards his prone form, he lets himself imagine a life away from all this, away from the lights and the pressure. He’d be in school, studying music or art. Maybe even a degree in education– he’d always loved kids, and they’d always warmed up to him quickly. Or perhaps a cafe, waking early in the morning to bake pastries and pour coffee for a set of regular customers. Learning, connecting, a sense of the mundane.
Here, in a dormitory he’s lived in for years, so far removed from this sense of normalcy, only ever seen at a distance, in brief glances and visits, he wonders if, in another life, he would be happy, being normal. Being mundane. If this crushing grief would leave him, knowing it had no other path to grieve not taking, or if he would still be stuck in a cycle of what-if’s and maybe-when’s, inescapable in every lifetime.
And yet, even in these far-fetched fantasies of normalcy, something is always missing. An ache, deep in his chest, pain as though his very heart was held away from his body, still beating and bloody. In these musings, he is always alone.
If he had chosen the path of normalcy, away from the spotlights and recording booths, how would he ever have met the people he holds dear now? Friends, in and out of the industry, kind staff who take the time to care for and know him, and, most importantly, most pressingly, his members.
The four boys who have stood with him, who he has supported and been supported by in turn, for every step of their journey. Who is Beomgyu, without them? Who would he, who
could
he be, without their presence and influence, a constant in his every action and thought?
The sun creeps up the horizon, rays of golden light streaming into his room as the dawn greets the day.
Hyuka, their maknae, so dear and beloved, who he has watched grow from an awkward teenager into a brilliant musician, towering over almost all of them like he hadn’t been their baby from the start. He still is, in every way that counts. Kai is so bright, shining, so easily loved and loving. Beomgyu can’t imagine living without knowing his light.
Taehyun, their other maknae, one of their youngest yet so, endlessly mature. He’s a genius– quick witted and wide eyed, and so, wondrously talented. Despite being younger than Beomgyu, he is still a steady presence, reassuring and strong both in body and in mind. And through it all, maintained a level of wide-eyed wonder and love for all those around him. It was admirable.
Soobin, his best friend and soulmate, standing at his side as his home, his shoulder to lean on in the most trying of times. Always there for a late night snack or gaming session, to hear out his worries and be heard out in turn– they’ve seen each other at their lowest, especially back when they shared a room. Sometimes, Beomgyu missed the constant presence, the companionship that came with it, even despite how nice the privacy was now. There was something always comforting about knowing his best friend was just a few footsteps away, ready to talk if he ever needed it. But maybe it was better this way, so Soobin didn’t have to witness this.
And Yeonjun. Where could he start, about Yeonjun? His hyung, ever tolerant and loving, careful arms holding him together. Crinkled eyes and gentle smiles, he was ever steady at their sides, anchoring their group in a bubble of unwavering support. He was– everything. From the moment Beomgyu met him, he was golden. A light in the dark. Their fans called him the generation’s it-boy, their starboy, and as true as it was, Beomgyu could only ever think of him as the sun. The sun, the sky, and all the stars, warm like you could never imagine, thawing the ice and snow, lifting the frigid cold fog, blanketing every one of his senses. Comfort. A hand in the dark and whispered reassurances, keeping him afloat even in the hardest of times.
Beomgyu needs him now especially, when he felt like the world is crumbling at his feet, leaving him in a constant, endless freefall; unending, pitch darkness, a looming maw of nothingness awaiting even the slightest slip and fall to take and take and take and–
And god, his leg. Hurting his ankle was the worst thing that could have happened, at the worst possible time and it hurt, to feel like a burden to those around him in a way he couldn’t vocalize, in a way that the others couldn’t understand. It felt like he was dying, wasting away at home whilst the members were away, deteriorating in body and in mind, unable to move on his own or work like he should, confined to the bed or the couch or that cursed fucking chair, placed on the stage he should have been dancing on alongside his best friends.
It was agony.
He shifts again. Winces, at the brief jolt of pain through his bad leg. If he closes his eyes for a moment, all he can see is snowfall, piling along the sides of his consciousness.
Beomgyu will never understand why people love winter. It was just so, so cold.
His eyes blink open again, strained against the beams of sun peeking through his curtains as the sun rises, properly. It’s morning. Soon, he’ll hear life outside his door, as his members wake up to face yet another busy day.
It’ll be Taehyun first, calling dibs on the shower as though anyone else is awake and cognizant enough to argue. Yeonjun will be next, getting the coffee started for everyone before doing his usual morning routine– brushing his teeth, doing his morning skincare, and banging on everyone else’s doors before coming to fetch Beomgyu. Soobin would be up next, stumbling towards the coffee machine to get his brain started as Taehyun makes a quick breakfast post-shower, and Kai would follow shortly after.
And finally, Beomgyu. Who, on a regular day, would be stirred awake by a gentle shake of the shoulder, calloused fingers brushing the hair from his eyes as he blinks awake to Yeonjun’s fond grin and careful touch. He’d grumble, pleading for five more minutes that his hyung indulges, sitting on the edge of his bed to comb through his hair, a soft, stolen moment behind closed doors, their only witness, the rising sun, streaming through opened blinds.
They would have a a few minutes, Beomgyu drifting in and out of wakefulness as soft hands card through softer hair and, when their invisible timer runs out, he would be scooped up in strong arms, and twirled around in a mess of bright laughter and halfhearted complaints. On a normal day, he would be– happier . Brighter. Embracing the ephemerality of quiet mornings with his lover, pressing a gentle kiss to his sharp jawline and accepting one in turn. He’d try to steal a proper kiss, despite Yeonjun’s laughing protest that he hadn’t brushed his teeth yet, and they’d be happy.
And this , these moments, are why he does what he does. Why he stays, here, despite the pain and the cold and the gaping, cavernous hollow feeling that carves its way into his chest sometimes. Because grief is like the tides, freezing cold as they roll in, coming back again and again; a repetition unto death. But inevitably, always, he will survive. Because grief is like the tides, and just as it comes, it will someday depart, and it will not be as cold, and he will not be so achingly, desperately empty, and the sun will warm him along the shores.
And, as he hears the shower flick on, Taehyun’s beautiful vocals accompanying the torrents of water, and Yeonjun makes his way down the line of dorm room doors, leaving playful discontent in his wake, a sense of peace settles over him. And, as the door creaks open and a head of dark hair, still mussed up from getting out of bed, pops through the gap, the space between his ribs seems to fill, just the slightest bit.
Yeonjun’s eyes widen when they meet his, expectant grin falling the slightest bit when he realizes that Beomgyu is already awake. Perhaps he was excited to wake him up, to see the haze of sleep clear from bright eyes as he usually does, and carry on with their well-established morning routine. More likely, he realizes that it’s been another one of those nights, the long ones, the cold ones.
Hasty steps make their way across the room, padded by the fluffy carpet that runs along the floor, before coming to a stop at the edge of the bed. When Beomgyu makes no move to sit up, to meet him in the middle, Yeonjun sits, cautious, a hand already extended to brush flyaway hairs from his fringe out of his eyes. His touch is like sunlight on his skin, warming his frostbitten heart inexplicably. Healing. He closes his eyes, leaning into the touch, seeking more warmth, more Yeonjun.
“Hey, baby,” he hears, voice gentle, as the hand moves to caress his cheek. “What’s going on, you okay?”
Beomgyu forces his eyes open, vision still blurry from fatigue, before tilting his head to press against the palm of Yeonjun’s hand, savoring the intrinsic solace of his touch.
He isn’t sure how to reply, how to form these ever-racing thoughts into real, functional words. How does he encapsulate such a depth of emotion, concisely, without spilling the icy mess of his heart and soul onto the sheets between them too? How does he explain the hollowness in his chest, the snowstorm in his head, the grief and the tides thrumming through his veins in place of blood?
He hums, unearthing his arms from the covers to pull Yeonjun further into the blankets instead, feeling strong arms wrap instinctually around him, cradling him closer. He buries his face into the worn material of Yeonjun’s hoodie, breathing in the comforting scent that clings to it, to him. With every inhale of sandalwood and sea salt, of citrus and something so inherently unique to his hyung he can’t quite place it in words, the hollowness in his chest alleviates a bit more, until breathing no longer feels like a chore and he has the energy to open his eyes again.
Without him even noticing, Yeonjun had laid them both down, tucking them both beneath the safety of his comforter. There’s a nose buried in his hair, steady, even breaths ruffling ink dark strands, and arms wrapped securely around him, holding him close. No questions asked, no requests made, just a silent show of comfort, allowing Beomgyu to bask in his presence and open up at his own pace should he so choose to. Distantly, Beomgyu wonders how he got so lucky, to love and be loved so fiercely by this man, the physical embodiment of the sun and all its light.
Taking one more deep, steadying breath, he lifts his head out of Yeonjun’s hoodie, drawing away just enough to meet the concerned eyes looking back at him. Seemingly unconsciously, Yeonjun is already rubbing comforting circles at his waist, hands tracing beneath his shirt onto bare, sleep-warmed skin.
Beomgyu tries for a smile, hesitant. “Hi, hyung,” he whispers, voice rough from disuse. It’s barely audible, but the quiet laugh of relief he hears in return is enough to sweep over him like a warm breeze.
“Hey, Beoms,” he murmurs in response, a sweet smile appearing as his hands still.
They sit in silence for a moment, neither of them quite willing to break the serenity.
“How are you feeling?” Yeonjun continues, one hand rising to cup his cheek.
Beomgyu pauses, considering. Somehow, now, it’s easier to think, easier not to get lost in his head again.
“I– uh,” he falters, wondering how much to say. After a second, he settles on–
“I’m better, hyung. Better now that you’re here.”
At that, something in Yeonjun’s expression seems to crumple, eyes softening as he sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier, darling,” he mumbles.
And Beomgyu could cry, for how lovely he is, how kind and caring and ever-attentive, to where he’d wish to carry all the burdens in the world just to give his loved ones a moment of respite. He is all that is good in the world, the sun warming the earth and the stars lighting up the night, Atlas accepting the sky on his shoulders.
“Don’t say that,” he sighs, lifting his own hand to smooth out the crease forming between Yeonjun’s brows. “It’s alright, I’m alright. It was just one of those nights, is all. You know how it is.”
Yeonjun’s eyes close for a moment at the touch, pulling him closer again to rub his cheek against his hair again. “I know, but I always want to be here for you, even if it’s the dead of night, okay? I’ll always be here, you just need to ask.”
And isn’t that just the thing? He just has to ask, yet asking is the hardest part. And maybe one day, he finally will, when the words choke him less, and the tides of grief let him be just a little bit longer, and his chest is more spring than winter and–
Maybe one day, he’ll talk about the grief, for all he could have been and all he will never have, of dreams lost and fears held, but why would he dwell on such things, when he has everything around him now? The dorm coming to life, Yeonjun’s arms around him, the warmth of the morning sun at his back, is this not exactly what he needs? Isn’t it moments like these, suspended in time, honey-sweet and slow, away from prying eyes, what matters the most?
And, as Soobin calls through the door for them to get up and at least have some food before they leave, the smell of buttered toast and eggs wafting through the door, and he can hear the maknae’s bickering in the kitchen with the warmth of his boyfriend’s arms around him, Beomgyu is content. Happy.
He sits up, letting Yeonjun pull him up out of the sheets and back into his arms. Beomgyu giggles, a small, genuine smile on his face as he presses a fleeting kiss to Yeonjun’s cheek.
“You’re here now, hyung,” he murmurs, voice soft. “And thank you, for being here.”Eyes fond, Yeonjun sighs. “Of course, baby. I love you, and I’ll always, always be here.”
In lieu of a reply, Beomgyu presses a sweet kiss to his lips, pulling away before he could protest about having just woken up. Not that he would’ve, not today.
“I love you too,” he says with a grin, vibrant.
As they lean in for another kiss, another knock sounds at the door, Soobin’s head poking through. Seeing that they’re both up, he rolls his eyes, very much accustomed to their antics. “Please say you’re at least ready to go. C’mon guys, food’s getting cold and the cars are coming.”
Beomgyu’s eyes flick down at his pajamas, looking up as the door swings shut with a click, Soobin’s padded footsteps receding down the hall again. Yeonjun glances down at him, eyes sparkling with mirth, before dragging him in for one more peck. “Get changed, Beoms. I’ll save you some food,” he says, pulling away as Beomgyu rushes to grab a fresh change of clothes with a breathless laugh. He pulls a sweater over his head, swapping his sleep shorts for jeans, and fluffs his hair into place with a quick card of his fingers.
He walks into the living room, full of life and energy and laughter; there’s a plate of toast at his seat, a fresh cup of coffee next to it, and Taehyun shoves an apple into his hand as he passes by. Kai throws an arm around his shoulder in a quick hug before rushing off to grab his bag, almost crashing right into Soobin on his way out. Despite the mess, there is something comforting about the chaos of the morning. Over the rim of his own cup of coffee, Yeonjun sends him a bright grin and a failed wink, blinking endearingly, and Beomgyu feels better– happier – than he has in weeks.
The sun is shining, and they have the full day ahead of them. And maybe the night is long, but the morning is here, effervescent in its light, and maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay.
After all, the day is just now beginning.