Work Text:
Riku folds a paper star every time he almost tells Daeyoung he loves him.
It began without ceremony. No dramatic inspiration or Pinterest trend—just a quiet impulse on a night when the weight of unspoken words was too much to hold in his chest alone. He hadn’t even meant to keep it going. It was just one moment, one star. But that one turned into five, then fifteen, and eventually the clear glass jar on his nightstand started filling with color—soft pastels, floral prints, old lined notebook scraps turned into secrets.
The jar itself is simple. Rounded glass with a cork top, the kind you might find at a thrift store and think would be nice for candy or tea. But Riku uses it for folded paper—each star small and precise, each one marking a moment he nearly let the words slip out. A language only he understands.
They’ve known each other since they were in high school, thrown together in their homeroom. Riku remembered how Daeyoung had walked into the room with his hoodie pulled up over his ears and earbuds still in, one strap of his backpack hanging loose like he didn’t plan on staying long. And yet he was the smartest in their class and Riku thought he was incredibly kind.
They became inseparable in that slow, inevitable way some friendships do. They never had a dramatic heart-to-heart or a defining moment that cemented their bond. It was more like gravity, a pull they didn’t question. They started sharing snacks, walking home together, watching movies on Daeyoung’s couch. Over time, their conversations went deeper—family, fears, futures. Riku learned how Daeyoung’s voice softened when he was tired, how he tapped his fingers against surfaces when he was anxious, how he looked away when something meant too much.
And somewhere along the way, Riku fell in love with him.
He’s never said it. Never dared.
So instead, he folds stars.
The first one was for a night in their first year of university, when they’d stayed up until three a.m. on the roof of Daeyoung’s apartment building. It had been cold, too cold for the thin blanket they’d shared, but Daeyoung hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d looked at Riku with this raw openness and said, “Sometimes I think you’re the only person who really sees me.”
Riku’s throat had gone tight. He’d looked away, heart stuttering like it didn’t know how to beat properly, and said something stupid like, “Well, I wear glasses.”
He’d gone home that night and made the first star from a lavender candy wrapper he’d flattened and folded until the creases were perfect.
Every star after that was a moment like that. A glance that lingered too long. A compliment that sounded too honest. A brush of fingers when they reached for the same notebook. His fingers ached from folding sometimes, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
The jar sits in plain sight, but Daeyoung’s never asked about it. Sometimes, when he comes over—which is often—he glances at it, eyes lingering for a second too long. But he doesn’t say anything. Just flops onto the bed like it’s his own, grabs the remote, and makes himself comfortable.
They don’t talk about crushes much anymore. Not since that one conversation months ago.
It had been after midterms. They were both dead tired, sprawled on the floor of Riku’s dorm, heads barely cushioned by the edge of a blanket and a pile of textbooks. They’d been quiet for a while, the only sounds coming from the hum of the heater and their shallow breathing. Then, out of nowhere, Daeyoung had said, “There’s someone I like.”
Riku had blinked up at the ceiling. “Yeah?”
Daeyoung didn’t look at him when he replied. “Yeah. For a while now.”
Something cold and sharp curled in Riku’s stomach, but he smiled anyway, biting the inside of his cheek. “What’s he like?”
Daeyoung was silent for a beat. Then: “He makes me feel… calm. Like the world isn’t so loud when I’m with him. He’s kind. A little awkward. Smarter than he thinks he is.”
Riku’s heart fluttered in a way that made him dizzy. His mind immediately jumped to a hundred things Daeyoung had said to him over the years. But he shook the thought away. Hope was dangerous. Hope was foolish.
He made another star that night. Pale yellow. A sliver of lined paper, the kind they’d both used to pass notes in high school. He wrote I think you’re talking about me on the inside before sealing it into a star.
That Thursday night, they’re curled up on Riku’s bed watching an old animated movie from their childhood. It’s the kind of thing they’ve done a hundred times. Daeyoung is stretched out diagonally, claiming more than his fair share of the blanket, and Riku is pretending not to notice the way their knees keep brushing.
Halfway through the movie, Daeyoung blinks slowly and mumbles, “Can I crash here?”
Riku nods without looking away from the screen. “Yeah. Of course.”
He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but when he wakes up, the room is quiet and the screen has gone dark. The desk lamp is still on, casting a soft golden glow across the space. Riku shifts slightly and realizes he’s alone in bed.
Then he sees Daeyoung standing by the nightstand.
He’s holding the jar.
Riku’s stomach drops. His pulse picks up. He opens his mouth—but no sound comes out.
Daeyoung doesn’t say a word. His fingers trace the glass, slow and careful. He tilts it slightly, watching the stars shift inside like a private galaxy, eyes scanning each one like he's trying to see through the paper. And then, with a slow inhale, he uncaps the lid and pulls something from the front pocket of his hoodie.
It’s a small piece of notebook paper, folded into a crisp, familiar star.
He drops it into the jar.
Riku doesn’t sleep after that.
In the morning, Daeyoung is gone. His side of the bed is still warm, and the blanket is crumpled where he had been. Riku sits up slowly, heart still pounding. The jar catches the sunlight now, the newest star near the top—white with a faint blue grid.
Hands trembling, Riku pulls it out.
The fold is neater than he expected. Daeyoung must’ve been practicing. Carefully, he unravels it.
“I was always talking about you.”
The words punch the air from his lungs.
He doesn’t think. Doesn’t bother brushing his hair or changing his hoodie. He just grabs the note and sprints across campus, ignoring the cold biting at his hands and the way his chest tightens with every step. Daeyoung’s apartment isn’t far, but the walk feels like an eternity. He barely feels the stairs under his feet when he reaches the building. He doesn’t even knock. Just calls his name once, then again, voice cracking on the second attempt.
When the door finally opens, Daeyoung is standing there in sweatpants and bare feet, hair messy, eyes wide.
“Riku—”
“You can’t just leave that note and disappear,” Riku blurts, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. “You can’t just say that and not be here when I—when I read it.”
Daeyoung stares at him, as if he was trying to process everything.
“I was scared,” Daeyoung says, his voice quiet and raw. “But I had to try.”
Riku’s breath catches. He takes a step forward, barely aware of the crumpled note still clenched in his fist. He’s too busy looking at Daeyoung—his sleep-ruffled hair, the pink flush creeping into his cheeks, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out but isn’t sure if he’s allowed.
“Try again,” Riku whispers, his voice tight with everything he’s never been able to say. “Please.”
Daeyoung inhales sharply. And then, slowly, like he’s afraid to break whatever fragile thing is blooming between them, he reaches up and cups Riku’s jaw with one hand, fingers feather-light against his skin. His thumb brushes just beneath Riku’s cheekbone, and Riku instinctively leans into the touch, his heart pounding so hard it drowns out the rest of the world.
“I love you,” Daeyoung says, and it doesn’t sound like a confession. It sounds like a truth he's known for a long, long time.
Riku swallows hard. “I’ve loved you for so long,” he says, and his voice cracks under the weight of it. “I made so many stars. I didn’t know how else to say it.”
Daeyoung laughs softly, like he’s overwhelmed, like he might cry. “I think I knew,” he says. “I think I knew before you did.”
Then there’s a breath—a pause, full of everything unsaid. The space between them is electric, charged and trembling.
And then Daeyoung leans in.
The kiss is soft. So soft it almost doesn’t feel real at first, just the warm press of his mouth against Riku’s, tentative and reverent. Riku’s eyes flutter closed, and the world narrows to the sensation of Daeyoung’s lips—gentle, unsure, but lingering like he doesn’t want to let go. There’s a tremble in the way Daeyoung exhales through his nose, like he’s holding back emotion, like the act of kissing Riku is both a release and a surrender.
Riku kisses him back slowly, carefully, like he’s tracing the shape of a dream he’s had a thousand times but never thought he’d get to touch. His fingers find the fabric of Daeyoung’s hoodie and curl into it, grounding himself, needing to feel something solid beneath his hands because nothing else feels real.
Daeyoung tilts his head, just slightly, deepening the kiss by a fraction. It’s still delicate, but there’s more certainty now—more want. His fingers slide from Riku’s jaw to the back of his neck, curling in his hair, anchoring them together. The feeling sends shivers down Riku’s spine, and he breathes in sharply through his nose, overwhelmed by the closeness, the warmth, the soft scent of laundry detergent and rain and Daeyoung.
When they finally pull apart, it’s not because they want to. It’s because they have to breathe. But neither of them moves far. Their foreheads rest together, breaths mingling in the tiny space between them.
“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Daeyoung murmurs, eyes still closed.
Riku lets out a shaky laugh, his fingers still knotted in Daeyoung’s hoodie. “You could’ve just folded me into a star and dropped me in the jar.”
Daeyoung grins against his lips. “Next time,” he says softly. “But only if I get to keep it on my side of the bed.”
They both laugh, and it breaks something open—relief, joy, the slow flood of everything they’ve kept bottled up for too long.
Later, when they’re curled together beneath Riku’s blanket, limbs tangled and hearts still fluttering, Daeyoung props himself up and reaches for the jar. He adds his paper star—the one he’d dropped in the night before—and nestles it near the top.
“This one’s for now,” he says, fingers brushing the glass. “For the first time we didn’t almost say it.”
Riku smiles and nudges his shoulder. “Let’s keep folding them. Together.”
The jar stays on the nightstand. Still half full. But now, every new star is folded by both of them.
And every single one says:
You. Always you.