Chapter Text
Jeonghan had always believed that people entered your life with a purpose — some to stay, most to leave, and a rare few to ruin you beautifully.
Seungcheol felt like all three.
-----
It began in the library.
A quiet Tuesday, sunlight slipping in through dusty windows, casting sleepy gold across worn-out tables and cracked linoleum.
Jeonghan had been looking for peace, or maybe an escape.
Instead, he found him.
Headphones in. Hoodie up. Eyes blankly on a textbook he clearly wasn’t reading.
There was an air about Seungcheol that made people keep their distance. He looked like he liked it that way.
And yet… Jeonghan moved closer.
"Is this seat taken?" he asked, already pulling out the chair.
Seungcheol looked up, dark eyes unreadable. “It’s all yours.”
Jeonghan smiled. “Thanks.”
That was it. That was the beginning.
-----
Weeks passed. Jeonghan kept finding reasons to be where Seungcheol was. Coincidentally bumping into him in the cafeteria line.
Showing up to org meetings he wasn’t even part of. Joining group study sessions with mutual friends like Soonyoung and Dino just to see if Seungcheol would come.
He’d sit close, crack jokes, bring extra snacks, listen when no one else did.
Seungcheol never gave him much.
Just half-smiles. Quiet glances. A shared umbrella during one unexpected downpour.
But for Jeonghan, it was enough to keep hoping.
Enough to fall.
He didn’t know when it happened, exactly.
Maybe it was the third time they “accidentally” shared a table.
Or when Seungcheol lent him his pen without looking up.
Or the night Jeonghan caught him humming quietly under his breath — a soft tune, almost mournful — and something inside him whispered, remember this moment.
“Napapaisip, nananaginip...”
“Baka sakaling tayo sa huli...”
Those words didn’t belong to a song yet.
They were just thoughts then. Hopes he didn’t know how to name.
Maybe it was the time when Jeonghan forgot his umbrella and Seungcheol silently appeared beside him, holding his own out.
"You’ll get sick," Cheol said.
No smile. Just a soft concern Jeonghan wanted to believe meant something more.
Or the time during class when Jeonghan arrived late, heart sinking at the sight of no empty seats—until he saw Seungcheol, who had placed his bag on the chair beside him, saving it.
"Didn’t think you’d ditch," Jeonghan said, teasing.
Seungcheol didn't laugh, but he replied quietly, "I hoped you wouldn’t."
And the texts. Infrequent, barely-there, but enough to plant something dangerous in Jeonghan's heart:
Cheol [10:58 PM]: Did you eat?
Cheol [1:11 AM]: Send me that playlist you mentioned.
Cheol [6:42 PM]: You okay? You were quiet earlier.
Just enough to make Jeonghan feel seen. Never enough to be sure.
"Ayaw silipin na alanganin...Nagpapaniwalang 'di natin masabi"
-----
Or maybe it was when one time they were walking side by side — just the two of them, leaving a late-night group study at Hao’s apartment.
The streets were quiet, cold. Jeonghan was shivering.
He didn’t say anything, but Seungcheol noticed. He always did.
Without a word, Cheol reached out and gently wrapped his fingers around Jeonghan’s hand.
No warning. Just skin to skin.
Jeonghan’s heart caught in his throat.
He looked over, searching Seungcheol’s face for meaning.
But Cheol was looking straight ahead, expression unreadable.
They walked like that for two blocks. No words. Just silence and shared warmth.
Then, right as they reached Jeonghan’s building, Seungcheol let go.
No explanation. No goodbye.
Like it never happened.
"Ang plano sa 'tin ng tadhana
Ba't ba parang may pag-asa
Klarong wala kaso baka"
-----
Jeonghan started to memorize him.
The slope of his nose, the creases by his eyes, the way his fingers drummed against his jeans when anxious.
The soft huff of breath he let out when he was frustrated but trying not to show it.
He caught Seungcheol being kind when no one else was looking—tying a perfect ribbon on Hao’s gift.
Helping Vernon look for his cat’s lost tag, paying for Dino’s coffee just because.
And each time, Jeonghan felt himself fall a little deeper.
" Malay mo tayo sa dulo hindi natin masabi
Kung ano nga ba ang kahahantungan"
Jeonghan was falling. Slowly. Stupidly.
Every little gesture from Seungcheol felt like a revelation.
A breadcrumb of maybe. A fragile offering of almost.
He didn’t tell anyone — not even Seungkwan, who was sharp-eyed and loud-mouthed and always right.
But he didn’t need to.
One night, while they washed dishes, Seungkwan raised an eyebrow and said:
“You’ve got it bad.”
Jeonghan dropped a spoon. “What?”
“You keep sighing. And you’ve been wearing cologne for three days straight. Also, I saw your ‘library crush’ save you a seat yesterday.”
Jeonghan grinned, sheepish. “It’s not like that.”
Seungkwan squinted at him. “Then tell your heart to stop glowing.”
-----
Seungcheol, for all his silence, noticed too.
He noticed how Jeonghan always laughed a little too loudly at his dry jokes.
How his eyes lingered.
How he remembered the smallest things — like how Seungcheol liked his coffee black with two sugars.
Or that he hated the sound of squeaky whiteboard markers.
He noticed how Jeonghan waited for him after meetings.
How Jeonghan texted, “Have you eaten?” more than “What are you doing?”
How Jeonghan touched his arm gently when he laughed, and pulled away quickly — like he didn’t want to push too far, too fast.
And Seungcheol… liked it. He liked him.
But he couldn’t admit that.
-----
He lived with his older brother, a quiet man who worked long hours and didn’t ask too many questions.
Their apartment was clean, impersonal — like no one really lived there.
It was the kind of place where emotions didn’t echo.
Seungcheol liked it that way. Until Jeonghan showed up.
Rainy night. Broken umbrella. Two bowls of instant ramyeon. A silence between them that felt electric.
Jeonghan stood by the small window, watching the city blur under the storm.
“Do you ever think about...” he began, then stopped. “Never mind.”
Seungcheol didn’t ask him to continue. He never did.
-----
Jeonghan tried not to overthink it.
The way Seungcheol would text back late, but always.
The way he never started conversations, but never ended them, either.
The way he sometimes looked at Jeonghan like he meant something, and then the next day acted like nothing had happened.
Bare minimum, Seungkwan called it.
“Cheol’s giving you crumbs, babe,” he warned. “You deserve the damn cake.”
But Jeonghan wasn’t sure.
Because sometimes, crumbs felt like a feast — when they came from the person you wanted most.
"Sugal ng pag-ibig handa 'kong isuko ang sarili
Sa daang walang kasiguraduhan"
-----
Seungkwan had thrown a surprise for Jeonghan.
Their whole circle was there — Joshua brought cake, Jihoon made a playlist, and Hao practically wrestled him into a party hat.
Everyone but Seungcheol.
Jeonghan tried not to show it, but the empty space in the room where Cheol should’ve been felt like a wound.
By 10 p.m., he'd given up hope. He stepped outside for air.
That’s when a car pulled up. Seungcheol stepped out, hoodie up, eyes tired.
“I couldn’t make it,” he said softly, handing over a small, clumsily wrapped box.
“I had to stay with my brother. He wasn’t feeling well.”
Jeonghan took the gift with trembling hands.
“You still came,” he whispered, more to himself than to Cheol.
Seungcheol didn’t answer.
He just nodded once, shoved his hands into his pockets, and left.
Inside the box was a charm bracelet. One charm: a tiny silver feather.
No card. No note.
Just enough to make Jeonghan cry alone on the stairs.
-----
“Pa’no kung 'nung una'y maling panahon…”
“Malay mo tayo…”
-----
It was a stormy night.
Jeonghan had just fought with his parents over the phone — the kind of words that leave bruises on the inside.
He hadn’t told anyone.
But Seungcheol knew. Somehow, he knew.
No questions. No lecture.
Just a knock on his door at 2:13 a.m.
Jeonghan opened it and saw Cheol standing there, hoodie drenched, eyes soft.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Cheol said, voice low. “Thought I’d check on you.”
Jeonghan stepped aside.
They sat on the edge of his bed in silence. Rain pattering against the window.
Then Seungcheol pulled him in.
Not a half-hearted hug.
A full, desperate, aching kind of hold — like he needed it just as much.
Jeonghan pressed his face into Cheol’s shoulder and whispered, “If you asked, I’d fall for you.”
Seungcheol didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t let go either.
They fell asleep like that.
And in the morning, Seungcheol was gone.
-----
“Kundi kahapon, baka ngayon…”
“Sugal ng pag-ibig, handa akong isuko ang sarili…”
-----
One night, they found themselves alone on Soonyoung’s rooftop.
A party buzzed below them — music, laughter, the scent of barbecue and cheap gin.
Up there, it was quieter. Colder. More honest.
“I think about you a lot,” Jeonghan said, voice low, afraid of its own weight.
Seungcheol blinked, not facing him. “Why?”
Jeonghan smiled bitterly. “Why not?”
Seungcheol ran a hand through his hair. “Jeonghan…”
“It’s okay,” he interrupted, heart tightening.
“You don’t have to say anything. I just— I wanted to say it. For once.”
There was a long silence between them. One where the whole world held its breath.
Then, softly:
“What if I want to say something?” Seungcheol asked.
Jeonghan turned. “Then say it.”
But Seungcheol didn’t. He just shook his head, eyes glassy. “People talk.”
“I don’t care,” Jeonghan whispered.
“I do,” Seungcheol confessed.
“Not about you. Never about you. Just… what they’ll think. What they’ll say about us.”
Jeonghan closed his eyes. And when he opened them, his voice was already breaking.
“Then maybe we were never ‘us’ to begin with.”
He didn’t sleep that night.
He stared at the ceiling while Seungkwan knocked once, then came in anyway, curling up beside him like he used to when they were younger.
“You okay?” he whispered.
“No,” Jeonghan replied.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
Seungkwan didn’t push. He just stayed. He always did.
And Seungcheol? He sat alone in his room, staring at his phone. At the unsent message:
“If I said I wanted you too, would that be enough?”
He deleted it.
Somewhere between closeness and confession, they had lost their way.
Jeonghan gave everything. And Seungcheol… held it carefully, but never claimed it.
Because he was scared. Of people. Of judgment.
Of loving someone like Jeonghan — so bright, so sure, so out loud.
But even fear couldn’t hide the way Seungcheol looked at him sometimes.
Like he was the beginning and the end of every sentence.
Like he was home.
And maybe, just maybe…
“Malay mo tayo.”
-----
Jeonghan's final blow was Jihoon’s gig night. Everyone was there — even Cheol, which surprised Jeonghan.
They’d barely talked all week.
But when Jihoon sang something sad and quiet, Jeonghan felt eyes on him.
He turned, and there was Seungcheol, already looking away.
Later, Jeonghan found him by the vending machine. Just the two of them. The hallway humming with silence.
“I feel like I’m always reaching for you,” Jeonghan said quietly, “and you only ever meet me halfway.”
Seungcheol didn’t deny it. He didn’t fight.
He just said, “I’m sorry.”
Not I’ll change. Not I feel the same.
Just… sorry.
And it was that moment — not the absence, but the almost — that broke Jeonghan more than anything else ever could.
“Kasi… malay mo tayo.”
“Pa’no kung tayo?”