Chapter Text
Ni-ki didn't remember exactly when he stopped sneaking into Sunoo’s bed. Maybe it was the night he overheard that conversation—Jungwon laughing as Sunoo read fan comments aloud, teasing about how their maknae clung to him like a child seeking warmth.
“Ni-ki’s so attached to you,” Jungwon had mused.
Sunoo had giggled, unbothered. “That’s just how he is. He’s still a kid.”
A kid. The words stuck to Ni-ki’s ribs like something undigested, something rancid. He hadn’t reacted that night. He had finished drinking his water, padded back to his room, and lay awake staring at the ceiling. But the next night, when exhaustion dragged at his bones and instinct told him to seek Sunoo’s warmth, he stayed where he was.
One night became two. Two became a week. The first few days, Sunoo had waited for him. Ni-ki could tell—how his phone light stayed on longer than usual, how the blanket on Sunoo’s bed was still open like a silent invitation. But Ni-ki didn’t come, and Sunoo stopped waiting.
The distance started small. Barely noticeable. A skipped inside joke. A missed glance. A second of hesitation before linking arms. Nothing worth addressing, nothing worth fighting over. Yet, somewhere between their world tours and sold-out concerts, between shared hotel rooms and fleeting moments behind stage curtains, an emptiness settled between them like dust, thick and suffocating.
The fans noticed. Of course they did. The way Ni-ki stopped clinging, how he laughed a little less around Sunoo, how he turned his head at the last second when Sunoo reached for him.
“They’re not as close as before,” one fan had commented on a video.
“I miss Sunoo and Ni-ki’s dynamic,” another had written.
The other members noticed too. Heeseung, in his quiet way, had once asked, "You and Sunoo good?" Jake, ever blunt, had tried, "Did something happen between you guys?" But Ni-ki had brushed it off, gravitating toward them instead. Sports were a welcome distraction. With Heeseung and Jake, he could be someone else—just a teammate, just a friend, not someone with an ache he couldn't name.
It didn’t matter. The world moved on, and so did Ni-ki.
Or at least, that’s what he told himself.
One evening, before a performance, Ni-ki lingered backstage, stretching. Sunoo was at the mirror, fixing his hair, then reaching for a small bottle of perfume. Ni-ki watched as Sunoo spritzed it onto his wrists, rubbing them together before pressing them against his neck. The scent drifted toward Ni-ki—light, sweet, familiar.
He swallowed hard. Later that night, he searched for the same perfume online and bought it without a second thought.
At eighteen, Ni-ki found himself in the arms of someone who wasn’t Sunoo. A girl, soft-voiced and stunning, whose name he barely had time to remember between the rehearsals and interviews. He kissed her because he wanted to—because he should want to. Because this was what people did when they grew up and moved on.
But something was missing.
It didn’t make sense at first. Her lips were warm, her body pliant against his, her voice sweet when she murmured his name. But there was a hollowness in the way he touched her, an absence that turned every moment into an act, every sigh into a lie.
It happened again. And again. Different women, different settings. Always the same outcome. He closed his eyes, desperate to drown in someone else, and every time, Sunoo’s face burned behind his eyelids. His voice, his scent, the ghost of his touch.
And so, Ni-ki tried something else.
It started at an award show, backstage, when a male idol—his age, equally reckless—caught his gaze and smirked.
“You always this serious?” the idol teased, leaning against the wall beside him.
Ni-ki raised a brow. “You always this nosy?”
The idol laughed, tilting his head. “Only when I see someone worth talking to.”
The flirtation was easy, natural. A lingering touch as they passed each other, a playful smirk before their groups went on stage. When the idol asked him out, Ni-ki said yes.
Their first date was rushed, stolen between schedules and the eyes of the public. Their first kiss was practiced, calculated, but Ni-ki let himself enjoy it. He let himself believe, just for a moment, that this was normal, that this was what he wanted. When they finally had sex, it should have felt different. It should have been something new, something exciting.
But it wasn’t. Because in his mind, it was always Sunoo.
It didn’t matter whose neck he kissed, whose waist he gripped, whose body he entered. Ni-ki would close his eyes, pretend—pretend that the skin beneath his lips was Sunoo’s, that the quiet gasps were Sunoo’s, that the body moving beneath him was Sunoo’s. It took everything in him to remain silent, biting his lip until it was bruised and bloodied. His partners thought it added to his appeal, the endlessly-giving lover that tirelessly worshipped for hours, barely uttering a word.
They didn’t know how wrong they were. How truly broken and selfish he was. Because he made love to Sunoo in his mind, even as he fucked someone else’s body. The only decent thing he could do was not say the wrong name.
Ni-ki started avoiding mirrors.
It wasn’t intentional at first—just small things, like keeping his head down when he washed his hands or turning the bathroom light off before undressing. But then, it became deliberate. He no longer met his own eyes when fixing his hair. No longer glanced at his reflection when passing by glass doors. He knew what he would see.
The first time, after a night spent in someone else’s bed, he had looked. Really looked. And the person staring back at him was a stranger. His lips were swollen, his skin marked by fingers that weren’t Sunoo’s. He looked sated, but he felt hollow. The bruises on his skin were proof that he had been wanted, but all he could think about was how it wasn’t Sunoo who had put them there.
A bitter laugh had slipped from his mouth that night.
“You’re pathetic,” he had whispered to himself, fingers curling into fists at his sides.
Since then, it was easier not to look at all.
He had also started avoiding Sunoo the mornings after. At first, it was unintentional—waking up late, staying out a little longer than needed, taking the long way back to the dorm. But soon, he found himself making excuses. Claiming exhaustion when Sunoo asked him to eat breakfast together. Pretending to be on a call when they passed in the hallway. He always came back by noon, though. By then, Sunoo would be too occupied to notice anything off.
Or so he thought.
One morning, his plan failed. He had barely stepped through the door when Sunoo turned from the kitchen, brow furrowing slightly.
“You’re out early these days,” Sunoo noted, stirring his coffee. “Or, should I say, you’re coming home late?”
Ni-ki forced a shrug, pushing past him to grab a water bottle from the fridge. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Sunoo hummed, watching him. Ni-ki didn’t meet his gaze.
“You’re avoiding me.”
The words were soft, not accusatory. But they still sent something sharp through Ni-ki’s ribs. His grip tightened around the bottle.
“No, I’m not,” he lied.
Sunoo didn’t push, didn’t press, only let out a small, unreadable hum before turning back to his coffee. That somehow made it worse.
Later that night, when Ni-ki passed by Sunoo’s room, he paused. The door was slightly open, just enough for him to see inside. Sunoo was curled up in bed, blanket pulled to his chin, his breathing steady.
Something cracked inside Ni-ki.
He stepped forward before he could stop himself. The words sat on the tip of his tongue, a confession clawing its way up his throat. Sunoo, I—
His fingers twitched at his sides. Slowly, he reached forward, hand hovering just above the strands of Sunoo’s hair, so close he could feel the warmth of his skin.
Then, Sunoo shifted in his sleep, turning onto his side. Ni-ki jerked his hand back.
Coward.
Biting his lip, he took a shaky step back, then another. And then, like always, he walked away.
It became a cycle. A way to cope. He would date, he would kiss, he would have climax - and for 10 glorious minutes, Ni-ki is at peace. His post-orgasm mind finally quiets down, euphoria singing in his veins as his heart begins to slow down to its regular rhythm.
Like every addict will tell you, the high never lasts.
A voice calling him back to reality, an unfamiliar touch against his side, a scent that doesn't quite comfort - something always brings him back to reality. Something always reminds Ni-ki that it's not Sunoo, that it never was him. So Ni-ki adapted, to survive.
The first time, it was an accident. Or at least, that’s what Ni-ki told himself. He had bought the bottle of Sunoo's perfume on impulse, let it sit untouched for months on his shelf, hidden between colognes he actually used. But one night, before another date, his fingers closed around it.
He hesitated. Then, slowly, he uncapped it, pressed down once. The scent bloomed in the air, wrapping around him, suffocating and sweet.
He inhaled. His chest ached.
And when he pressed the nozzle again—this time against his own wrists, his own neck—Ni-ki knew. When he was pressed against a body that wasn’t Sunoo’s, lips tracing his jaw, he understood.
The scent made the fantasy stronger.
It blurred the lines between reality and his desperate illusion. It dulled the ache of knowing the person beneath him wasn’t the one he wanted. With every inhale, Sunoo was closer. With every touch, every thrust, Ni-ki could trick himself into believing, just for a little while, that he wasn’t completely alone.
This wasn’t a mistake. This was surrender.
If he was doomed to love Sunoo, he would descend into insanity willingly. If it took Sunoo’s scent clinging to his skin to make the fantasy real, then so be it. If it took drowning in him—piece by piece, memory by memory—to find release, then Ni-ki would embrace the delusion.
Maybe that was all he had left.
Eventually, something had to give.
Maybe it was the futility of searching. Maybe it was the gnawing acid in Ni-ki’s stomach the next day, when he returned to the dorms and was greeted by the sight of Sunoo having breakfast.
“How was your night?” Sunoo asked from the dining table, a tentative smile on his face. “Did you have a good time?”
Ni-ki wanted to hurl his guts out, despite not having eaten anything since dinner the night before. He wanted to flee, to wash the scent of someone else on his skin. He wanted to crumble onto the floor and cry. He wanted to show the marks of another on his skin and say “See how others want me. See how I’m not a child anymore. I'll be so good to you if you just let me. Am I enough now - can I be what you want now?”
Instead, Ni-ki accepted the steaming cup of coffee that Sunoo slid across the table. Instead, he stayed.
Maybe it was the quiet way Sunoo welcomed him back, like nothing had changed.
It started subtly, so much so that Ni-ki wasn’t sure if Sunoo even noticed. He kept his distance, but his eyes always found Sunoo in a crowded room. He memorized the curve of his smile when he laughed at Jay’s jokes, the way his fingers tapped absently against his thigh when he was deep in thought. He wasn’t reaching out—not really—but he was watching, craving, wanting.
And then, Sunoo touched him.
It was nothing. A casual press of their shoulders during practice, a moment of balance during a complicated routine. But Ni-ki felt it everywhere. A supernova that that burst from his shoulder, fire igniting down his arms and across his chest. His skin burned at the contact, his breath hitched before he forced himself to exhale normally. Sunoo barely seemed to notice, moving on like it was nothing, like Ni-ki hadn’t spent years yearning for something so simple.
There were more moments. A nudge when Sunoo passed him in the hallway. A playful tug on his sleeve when Sunoo wanted his attention. Ni-ki told himself it was normal. That Sunoo had always been like this—touchy, affectionate, unbothered by physical closeness. That it only meant something to him.
One evening, they were in the practice room later than usual, just the two of them. Sunoo was lying on the floor, arms spread out, catching his breath. Ni-ki sat nearby, staring at the mirror but not really seeing his reflection.
Sunoo hummed. “You’re quiet today.”
Ni-ki hesitated, searching for something safe to say. “Tired.”
Sunoo turned his head, watching him. “You always say that.”
It was meant to be teasing, but Ni-ki could hear the thread of something else beneath it—curiosity, concern. He glanced at Sunoo and immediately regretted it. The glow of sweat on his skin, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair stuck to his forehead—it was too much. He looked away.
He felt Sunoo’s gaze linger before the other boy sighed and stretched. “You wanna get food?”
It was so easy. Too easy. Sunoo was offering, just like before, like Ni-ki hadn’t spent years pushing him away.
And Ni-ki, weak as he was, said, “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Ni-ki started small, in a meager attempt to meet Sunoo halfway. A text, a question about practice—just enough to feel like he still had a place beside him. An invitation to eat with the others, where Sunoo could say no without it meaning anything. He tried not to think about how his heart clenched the first time Sunoo accepted.
A lingering second of eye contact before looking away. The way Sunoo’s voice still softened when he spoke to him, the way Ni-ki still noticed. Slowly, he let himself stand closer. Let himself answer Sunoo’s jokes instead of pretending he hadn’t heard. Let himself be pulled in when Sunoo tentatively touched his arm when he asked a question, even though the weight of it felt like something pressing down on his chest.
It was terrifying, how easily he could fall back into Sunoo’s orbit. How, despite everything, despite years of silence and space and calculated distance, Sunoo never turned him away.
And that made it worse.
Ni-ki didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve Sunoo’s quiet smiles in the hallway, the way his touch lingered for just a moment too long during practice. He didn’t deserve the soft “Good night” before bed, the same way Sunoo had said it back then, when Ni-ki still curled into him without thinking.
But Sunoo gave anyway, like he always did. And Ni-ki, selfish as ever, let himself take.
The cycle continued. Ni-ki punished himself with long evenings of passion, losing his soul to worshipping bodies that were pale stand-ins for the real thing. And the next day, he would seek out Sunoo in some way – a joke, a teasing nudge, a quiet compliment – anything to absolve him of his sins and desires.
Maybe, just maybe, this could be enough.