Chapter Text
matthew didn't notice gunwook at first. he noticed the noise, mostly—the chaotic swarm of trainees crowding into practice rooms, the nervous laughter echoing off the walls, the way hope and desperation clung to all of them like static electricity.
he noticed the cameras, the way they loomed from every corner, catching every stutter, every mistake. he noticed his own heart pounding too fast, his hands sweating against his jeans when he bowed and introduced himself. he didn't really notice gunwook. not at first.
maybe that was because gunwook wasn't loud like some of the others. he wasn't trying to stand out, at least not in a way that made matthew look twice. he was just there—tall, serious, polite—another name, another face in the endless crowd.
it wasn't until the second or third day, when they were running the same vocal evaluations over and over, that matthew caught sight of him. gunwook was standing off to the side of the room, practicing by himself between takes.
his brows were furrowed in concentration, shoulders tense, mouth moving silently as he ran over lyrics. he kept messing up the same line, over and over—matthew could see the way his jaw clenched in frustration—but he didn't stop.
he just squared his shoulders, shook it off, and started again. and again. and again. something about it—the stubbornness, the way he kept his head down and pushed through it—stuck with matthew longer than it should have.
later that night, lying on a bunk in the too-cold dorm room, matthew caught himself thinking about it again. he brushed it off, pulling the blanket up over his face. "everyone's working hard," he told himself firmly. "it's not a big deal."
but still. out of the hundreds of faces around him, for some reason, it was gunwook's he remembered the clearest.
-
the next few days blurred together. there were rankings to worry about, evaluations to prepare for, endless runs of choreography and vocal lines until matthew's brain felt like static. he didn't have time to think about much beyond breathing and surviving. but still—somehow—he kept noticing gunwook. not in a big way. not in a weird way, he told himself firmly. just... little things.
like how gunwook always held the door open if someone's hands were full, even when he looked half-asleep. or how he scribbled notes in the margins of his lyrics sheets, tiny cramped writing that matthew caught glimpses of during practice. or how he laughed—not loudly (yet), but the kind of quiet laugh that made you want to hear it again, like a secret shared between friends.
they still hadn't really talked. not beyond polite hellos, polite smiles. matthew wasn't sure why that bothered him. he didn't have time to get close to anyone right now—that wasn't the point. but when they got shuffled into different corners of the practice room, assigned to new teams for the next mission, matthew found himself scanning the crowd automatically.
his gaze landed on gunwook — standing a few feet away, adjusting the strap of his bag over one shoulder. gunwook must've felt the stare, because he glanced up at the same moment. for half a second, their eyes met.
gunwook smiled—just a small, easy curve of his mouth—and gave a tiny nod, like a silent "hey." not flashy. not performative. just... genuine.
matthew blinked, thrown off by how warm it felt. he managed to smile back, a little awkwardly. then the moment broke, and they were moving again, trainers barking orders, staff rushing around. the noise swallowed everything whole.
but later that night, when the dorm lights were off and the world had gone still, matthew found himself staring at the dark ceiling. he could still see that smile in his mind. clear as anything. clearer, maybe, than it should've been.
breakfast was always the hardest part of the day. matthew wasn't a morning person at the best of times, and boys planet mornings were even worse — early, rushed, fluorescent lights buzzing too loudly overhead. he usually tried to get down to the cafeteria early enough to snag a seat with the people he was close to.
today, he was late. too many rounds of choreography the night before, too many hours lying awake afterward, mind spinning. by the time he shuffled into the cafeteria, hair sticking up in weird directions, most of the tables were already full. clusters of trainees crammed shoulder to shoulder, chatting over trays of watery rice porridge and scrambled eggs.
matthew scanned the room, stomach sinking. only one open seat left. at the far corner, tucked against the wall. gunwook. sitting alone, hunched over his tray, quietly eating. headphones hanging around his neck, half-distracted, half-there. for a second, matthew hesitated. he could grab his food to-go, maybe. eat standing up, like he'd done once or twice before.
but something about the way gunwook looked—a little tired, a little soft around the edges—made matthew's feet move before he could second-guess himself. he grabbed a tray, loaded it with whatever food was left, and crossed the room.
when he stopped by the table, gunwook glanced up. there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes—just for a second—before he smiled. small. easy. the same way he had that day in the practice room.
"can i sit?" matthew asked, voice a little hoarse from sleep. gunwook nodded immediately, pushing his bag off the bench to make room.
"of course, hyung."
matthew slid into the seat, dropping his tray onto the table with a quiet clatter. for a minute, they just ate in silence. the room buzzed around them—voices, footsteps, the scrape of chairs—but here, in this little pocket, it felt almost peaceful.
then, halfway through his rice, matthew glanced up and blurted—"you always come down this early?"
gunwook blinked at him, like he hadn't expected a conversation. then he shrugged, poking at his eggs with a fork. "yeah. easier to think when it's not crowded."
matthew smiled a little around his spoon. "smart."
gunwook ducked his head, like he wasn't sure what to say next. but when he looked up again, there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes. "you had extra practice last night?" he asked. "you looked tired yesterday too."
matthew laughed under his breath. "was it that obvious?"
gunwook nodded, mouth twitching like he was trying not to grin. "a little."
for some reason, instead of feeling embarrassed, matthew felt... lighter. like something had shifted between them—small, almost invisible, but real. they finished eating slower after that. talking a little—about practice, about which food was actually edible, about how the dorm beds creaked so loudly it was a miracle anyone slept. nothing big. nothing important. but when matthew stood up to leave, tray in hand, gunwook looked up at him and said—"see you later, hyung."
soft. certain. like a promise. and matthew smiled—real and wide this time—before he could even think about it. "yeah," he said. "see you."
-
practice that day felt endless. the star master's pushed them hard—sharper angles, cleaner lines, louder vocals—until matthew's brain felt like it was leaking out of his ears. he wasn't the only one struggling; the whole room sagged under the weight of exhaustion, sneakers dragging against scuffed floors.
during one of the rare breaks, matthew flopped onto the ground near the mirrors, stretching his legs out with a groan. he swiped at his forehead with the hem of his shirt, too tired to care about anything except breathing.
out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone approaching. he glanced up—and there was gunwook. not by accident. not just passing by. gunwook chose the empty patch of floor next to him, sitting down cross-legged and rummaging through his bag. he pulled out a crumpled packet of cookies, tore it open, and without a word, held it out to matthew.
matthew blinked. "you sure?" he asked, voice rough from practice.
gunwook just nudged the packet closer, expression calm like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "you looked hungry, hyung."
something stupidly warm bloomed in matthew's chest. he grabbed a cookie, mumbling a quick "thanks," and tried not to think too hard about it. they ate in silence for a minute. close enough that matthew could hear the soft crunch of gunwook biting into his own cookie, the faint scuff of his sneakers tapping against the floor.
close enough that matthew could smell his shampoo—clean, a little citrusy. matthew. get a grip. he was halfway through convincing himself he was normal, totally normal, when they got called back to rehearsal.
as matthew staggered upright, gunwook stood too—then hesitated, frowning a little. "hyung," he said, stepping closer. before matthew could react, gunwook reached out—gently adjusting matthew's arm position, nudging his elbow up and his wrist down.
"your angle's off a little," gunwook murmured, voice low and careful. "they'll probably yell at you if you don't fix it."
matthew's heart stuttered in his chest. he swallowed thickly, nodding like he wasn't about to spontaneously combust. "thanks," he managed, voice way too high in his own ears. gunwook smiled—quick and genuine—and moved back to his spot like nothing had happened.
practice started again. music thumping, voices shouting. the world kept spinning. but matthew could still feel the ghost of gunwook's hand on his arm. hours later, he still wasn't sure if he was sweating from dance or something else entirely.