Work Text:
They said debut would be the start of their dreams.
And in many ways, it was.
The roar of the crowd, the blinding stage lights, the glittering confetti falling like stardust over their exhausted but smiling faces. It was everything they had once only dared to imagine. Months and years of relentless training, sleepless nights, and aching limbs had finally led them here. To a name. To a group. To ENHYPEN.
Heeseung, the ace, finally stood center stage not just as a trainee, but as an artist.
Sunoo, with his captivating presence and infectious smile, was finally seen. Not just noticed, but adored.
They had made it.
And yet, behind the screaming fans, behind the perfectly curated photos and bright variety show laughter, there was something else brewing. Something quieter, more fragile.
For Heeseung and Sunoo, debut didn’t just mark the beginning of a career. It marked the beginning of their silence.
Because what had once been easy, quiet conversations under the covers, secret smiles during practice, fingers brushing beneath the table? Suddenly became dangerous.
They were no longer just trainees passing time in the shadows. They were idols now. Public property. Everything they did was watched, replayed, analyzed.
A lingering glance could spark rumors. A too-long hug could make headlines. A whisper could ruin them.
And so, what once brought them comfort like late-night warmth, stolen touches, breathless kisses exchanged behind closed doors — became something they could no longer speak about.
Something they could no longer be.
Their dream had come true. But it demanded a price. And that price, painfully and unavoidably,
was them.
---
It started long before the world knew their names.
Before the fans, before the cameras, before they became the faces of a dream they had once only whispered about behind closed doors.
Back then, they were just two boys trying to outrun uncertainty. Trainees, living on borrowed time and borrowed hope, surrounded by white walls and pressure thick enough to crush the air out of their lungs. They were nobody yet, not ENHYPEN, not idols. Just names on a clipboard, just voices trying to stay afloat in a sea of talent.
The days were brutal, but the nights were lonelier.
After practice, after the mirrors stopped reflecting their tired bodies and the music faded into the hum of silence, the aches settled in. Their knees throbbed from hours of choreography. Their throats burned from vocal runs that never felt perfect enough. Their minds carried the weight of every criticism, every unspoken fear that tomorrow they might not be good enough.
And when the lights went out in the dorm, when the world grew quiet, Sunoo found himself moving toward the one place that always felt a little warmer than the rest.
Heeseung’s bed.
He never asked for permission. He just showed up. Some nights with an excuse about the air conditioning, other nights with none at all.
Heeseung never questioned it. He just lifted the blanket and scooted to the side.
At first, they didn’t touch. They would lie still, their backs inches apart, the distance safe and unspoken. But with every passing night, that space between them grew smaller.
A brush of shoulders. The accidental press of a knee. The faint sound of Heeseung breathing, slow and steady, grounding Sunoo when the world felt too big.
Sunoo told himself it didn’t mean anything. He told himself it was just friendship, just comfort, just survival.
But that wasn’t the truth.
Because comfort turned into quiet conversations in the dark. They would whisper to each other with the kind of softness reserved for dreams. About the auditions that almost broke them, about family, about fear, or about what they wanted more than anything. Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they didn’t say anything at all.
Those nights, Sunoo would memorize the shape of Heeseung’s voice, the way it dropped when he was tired, the way it curled around his name like it meant something more.
Whispers became touches. A hand brushing against an arm. Fingers ghosting over knuckles, then lingering. A quiet familiarity that grew deeper with each night. Sunoo would find himself leaning in without realizing it, breathing in Heeseung’s warmth, heart racing in a rhythm he didn’t understand.
And then, one night, it happened.
Heeseung turned toward him. His face was half in shadow, but his eyes were clear. There was something in them Sunoo hadn’t seen before. Not yearning, exactly. Something fragile.
Heeseung leaned in slowly. Not like he was claiming anything, but like he was asking permission.
When their lips met, it wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t some dramatic moment with fireworks or music. It was hesitant. Soft. Barely there. But it was real.
Heeseung kissed him like he was afraid to be wrong. Like he was afraid Sunoo would push him away and pretend it never happened.
But Sunoo didn’t. He kissed him back.
And in that moment, something inside him cracked open. He didn’t realize how badly he needed it until it happened. Until Heeseung’s hand brushed the side of his face, trembling just slightly, and Sunoo pulled him closer, afraid the moment would slip away.
There were no words. Just the silence of two boys wrapped in the kind of truth they couldn’t speak in daylight.
It was terrifying. It was wrong. But it was also the first thing that had ever felt right.
---
"Touch my body tender, 'cause the feeling makes me weak..."
That line would echo in Sunoo's head on nights like those.
They were always careful. More careful than most boys their age should ever have to be. Their lives weren’t just theirs anymore. Every move they made could affect everyone, touching the group, the fans, the image that so many people had worked hard to build.
No one could know.
Not Jay, who had a sixth sense for tension and would never hesitate to call it out. Not Jungwon, who carried the weight of leadership on his young shoulders and already worried about too much. Not even Ni-ki, who often drifted off mid-sentence but somehow never missed the small, telling details.
They kept their secret folded tight between them, hidden behind quiet glances and split-second smiles. But the walls of the dorm, thin as they were, became the only witnesses to what they really were. Because nights had a way of softening their fears.
When the world outside was asleep and the buzz of performance faded into a quiet hum, the silence between their beds would stretch too long, too charged, too loud. And Heeseung would always be the one to break it first. A whisper barely audible across the room. A quiet murmur of Sunoo’s name, not just as a call but like a vow. Heeseung would speak it with reverence, like the name itself gave him peace, like the sound of it kept him grounded.
Sunoo would hear it and feel his heart stutter, his body already moving before he could think.
He would slip from his bed like it was instinct, every footstep careful, every breath held. He would crawl beneath Heeseung’s blanket, feeling the warmth already gathered there, and press close until his fingers found the hem of Heeseung’s shirt in the dark.
He would curl his hand into the fabric, gently tugging until Heeseung responded by pulling him even closer. Their legs would tangle beneath the sheets. Their foreheads would press together, warm skin to warm skin. In those quiet hours, there was no fear, no expectations, no rules. Only them.
There were no declarations, no labels. Just the way Heeseung’s fingers would trace lazy circles on Sunoo’s back. Just the way Sunoo would bury his face in Heeseung’s shoulder, breathing him in like it was the only way to survive the chaos of the days ahead.
Sometimes they kissed, soft and unhurried. Other times, they didn’t need to. The silence between them said enough.
When it was over, when their breathing slowed and the adrenaline gave way to something gentler, Sunoo would lie awake with his eyes on the ceiling. The room would be dark except for the faint glow of city lights slipping through the window. Heeseung’s breath would ghost across his collarbone, slow and even. His arm would still be wrapped around Sunoo’s waist, heavy and comforting.
And yet, Sunoo could never quite fall asleep right away. His heart would be pounding too loudly. Not from fear, but from the terrifying honesty of it all.
He would stare up at the shadows on the ceiling and think of everything they had to hide. Everything they had to lose.
And he would wonder, not for the first time, how something that felt so deeply right could possibly be so wrong.
---
They never said what it was.
Not once.
There were no conversations about what they were becoming, no attempts to define the space they had carved out in the quiet corners of the night. No promises made beneath the sheets, no questions asked in the morning light.
Heeseung, always more open with his feelings, called it them. He would say the word like it was enough, like it held everything that mattered. Us. We. This, he’d say with a half-smile, one arm lazily draped around Sunoo’s shoulders. Sometimes, he would whisper it against Sunoo’s skin when the room was dark and silent, as if naming it aloud made it real.
Heeseung had a way of making everything feel easy, natural, and safe. He would say we like it was obvious, like of course this was what they were. Of course Sunoo belonged there, in his arms, in that space where only they existed.
He would laugh softly into Sunoo’s hair, tug him close by the wrist, press their foreheads together like it was the most ordinary thing in the world. But Sunoo never said it back.
He was careful in a way Heeseung wasn’t. He held back in places where Heeseung leaned in. His love, if he could even call it that, sat quietly in his chest, unspoken and pressed tightly behind his ribs. He never called it anything. Not love. Not a relationship. Not even something as vague as more than friends.
Because naming it meant acknowledging it. And acknowledging it meant asking what came next. Sunoo never dared to go that far.
Even in the stillness of the night, even when Heeseung’s fingers were tangled in his own, even when their bodies were drawn so close that it felt like their hearts were moving in the same rhythm, Sunoo kept the words tucked tightly inside his mouth.
Because something in him always knew this wouldn’t last.
He didn’t know how or when, but the fear never left. It pulsed quietly beneath every touch, humming beneath every kiss. It whispered in the back of his mind every time he caught Heeseung looking at him like he was something more.
Even then, even when everything felt warm and safe, Sunoo knew the clock was ticking.
And one day, time would run out.
---
It was last December.
Sunoo remembers it too vividly, like the memory has been etched into his skin. Not faded, not blurred by time, but painfully intact. Every detail still clings to him, as if it happened just last night.
They had just finished a performance. Their first major one since debut. It was the kind of stage they had only dreamed of during their trainee days — lights flashing, fans screaming their names, cameras tracking their every move. It should have been the happiest moment of their lives.
And maybe it was. In some ways.
But once the lights faded and the adrenaline wore off, reality returned like a slow ache. Their bodies were heavy with exhaustion, weighed down not just by fatigue but by the invisible pressure they carried every day. The pressure to smile, to get it right, to prove they deserved the spotlight they had fought so hard to earn.
When they arrived back at the dorm, the air was still. The kind of quiet that only comes late at night, when even the city outside seems to pause for breath. Their members had already scattered. Some had fallen asleep on the couch with the television still playing softly in the background, others had disappeared into their rooms without a word.
Sunoo stood in the hallway, heart still racing from the high of the stage, hair still damp from sweat. He was about to retreat to his room when he felt it.
A hand. It was light and brief. Fingertips brushing against his wrist.
He turned. Heeseung stood beside him, eyes low and unreadable. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
There was something about the way Heeseung looked at him in that moment. His gaze was quiet but pleading. Soft, but certain. A silent request that echoed louder than words ever could.
Please. Just for tonight. Let me have this.
There was no resistance. There never was, not when it came to Heeseung.
Sunoo’s feet moved before he could think, following the gentle tug of that glance. He trailed behind as Heeseung led him down the hallway, past the closed doors, past the quiet breathing of the others.
Heeseung’s hand hovered near the small of his back, not touching, but close enough that Sunoo could feel the heat of it. It made his chest tighten, made his steps slower, more careful.
When they slipped into Heeseung’s room and the door clicked shut behind them, the world outside vanished.
And for one more night, Sunoo let himself pretend that it was still theirs.
---
Heeseung was warm in the way only something deeply familiar could be. He felt like comfort. Like safety. Like home, if home was a pair of arms wrapped gently around Sunoo’s waist, steady and grounding in the quiet dark.
They lay facing each other, bodies tucked close under the blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and the cologne Heeseung always wore after stage performances. Their legs were entangled without thought, like they had done this too many times before to notice where one began and the other ended. Chests rose and fell in near-perfect rhythm, breath syncing naturally as though their bodies had always known how to move in harmony.
Heeseung’s hand rested lightly against the small of Sunoo’s back, not gripping, not holding. Just there. A quiet weight that said everything neither of them could bring themselves to say aloud. His forehead was pressed against Sunoo’s collarbone, and his breath came soft and warm, each exhale brushing over Sunoo’s skin and sending shivers down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
Sunoo lay there, still and quiet, eyes wide open in the dark. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He didn’t even dare to breathe too deeply.
"I still remember," he would think later, long after this night had become a memory he could no longer touch. "I was scared to take a breath. Didn’t want him to move his head."
Because if Heeseung moved, if he shifted even slightly, then the moment might change. It might slip through their fingers like so many things already had. If Heeseung pulled away, if he turned over, if he let go, then maybe it would all fall apart.
Maybe they would fall apart.
And eventually, they did.
Not in one loud, obvious moment. Not with a fight. Not even with words. But in silence. In the quiet distance that slowly stretched between them over time. In the way moments like this became rarer, then stopped altogether. In the way Sunoo started waking up alone.
And in the way Heeseung, once warm and constant, became just another part of the dream they could no longer afford to keep.
---
They weren’t careful that night.
Or maybe they had simply grown tired of pretending. Maybe the weight of schedules and secrecy had worn them down until the fear felt quieter than the need to feel something real. Maybe in the safety of each other’s arms, the rest of the world had blurred just enough for them to forget how fragile their reality was.
The blanket was tangled loosely around them, their limbs drawn together in the familiar language of closeness they had never learned to speak aloud.
The room was dim and quiet, the only sound their breathing, soft and slow as the hours slipped by unnoticed.
It was still dark outside when it happened.
The creak of the door came first. It was sharp and sudden.
Then footsteps. Just a few. Enough to cross the threshold.
Then silence.
Sunoo’s eyes snapped open.
For a single, frozen second, the world held its breath.
Then came the sound of a sharp inhale, not from either of them, but from whoever stood in the doorway. It was the kind of breath you take when you’ve seen something you were never meant to see.
The door clicked shut again. Not with force, not like someone caught in anger or shock. But with intention.
Sunoo sat up instantly, heart pounding so violently in his chest he could feel it against his ribs. Panic shot through him like a spark, lighting up every nerve in his body. He fumbled to pull the blanket over himself, over them, as if it could erase what had just happened. As if it could hide the truth that was already out.
Beside him, Heeseung stirred. His arms were still around Sunoo, even as he blinked blearily into the dark, not yet fully awake.
“Don’t,” he whispered, voice low and rough with sleep. “It’s okay.”
His grip on Sunoo’s waist tightened, as though holding on could stop everything from unraveling.
But it wasn’t okay. It was never going to be okay again.
Because someone had seen.
And now, what they were—whatever they had allowed themselves to become in the quiet—was no longer theirs alone.
---
The meeting came the next day.
It happened quietly. No raised voices, no dramatic confrontation. Just a call into the office, just two chairs set across from a familiar desk, just the heavy sound of a door clicking shut behind them.
There was something colder about it because of how calm it was.
Their manager sat across from them, fingers laced together, posture controlled but eyes sharp with something that looked more like disappointment than anger. The silence hung between them for a moment, thick and impossible to ignore. It was the kind of silence that already knew the truth and didn’t need to be told.
"You know the rules," the manager said finally. The words were low, firm, spoken with the finality of someone who had said this before and expected no argument. "You’re idols now. People watch you. Every second, every move. Everything you do matters, and it matters more now than ever. We cannot afford even the whisper of a scandal. Not when you’ve just debuted. Not when the entire industry is watching."
Heeseung sat forward slightly. His jaw was tight, hands clenched on his knees, but his voice was calm when he spoke. "We’re not—"
The manager held up a hand.
Heeseung fell silent.
"Then don’t make us say it," the manager continued, voice quieter now but no less sharp. "End it. Whatever it is. I don’t care what you call it. I don’t care how far it’s gone. Just stop. Before someone else finds out. Before it ruins the group."
There was no threat in the words, but the implication hung in the air like smoke. If it continued, there would be consequences. Not for just the two of them. For all seven. The group. The dream. Everything they had sacrificed for.
Sunoo sat frozen in his chair. He couldn’t speak.
Not because he disagreed. Not because he didn’t want to fight. But because his heart was beating so loudly in his chest he was afraid his voice would break the moment he opened his mouth. So he said nothing.
All he could think about were the fans who had trusted them with their love. The ones who screamed their names and called them family and said they were proud to watch them grow.
All he could think about were the other boys. Jungwon and Ni-ki and Jake. Jay, who had trained for so long. Sunghoon, who carried years of discipline in every movement.
Heeseung, sitting right beside him, still trying to hold onto something they both knew was already slipping away.
All he could think about was the dream.
The one they had fought for.
The one they had cried over, stayed up for, bled for.
The one that mattered too much to risk.
So Sunoo looked down at his hands and said nothing.
Because he already knew what he had to do.
---
Outside the office, the hallway stretched out in cold silence. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, the sound barely noticeable under the weight of everything that had just happened. The door clicked shut behind them, final and suffocating, like it had sealed more than just a room. It felt like it had sealed something between them too.
Sunoo had only taken a single step before Heeseung reached out and grabbed his wrist.
It was not hard, not angry. But it stopped him with the force of everything unspoken between them.
"Sunoo," Heeseung said, breath catching slightly as he stepped closer. His hand trembled against Sunoo’s skin. "Don’t let them do this to us. Please." He was close now, eyes wide and searching, voice low and pleading. "We’re not just something you throw away. This… us… it’s real. You know it is. This isn’t nothing."
Sunoo’s lips parted as if to speak, but the words refused to come.
His heart felt like it had caved in on itself. Heeseung’s touch burned, not because it hurt, but because it reminded him of every moment that had led to this. Every night spent wrapped in the warmth of each other. Every glance stolen across crowded rooms. Every whisper, every touch, every quiet breath they had shared under blankets and between shadows.
But this was different now.
Sunoo forced himself to speak, even though his voice came out so soft it barely felt like it belonged to him. "You know what’s at stake."
Heeseung blinked, as if the words had stunned him.
"You know what could happen to the group if this gets out," Sunoo continued, though his throat tightened with each syllable. "To everyone. Not just us."
He looked away then. He could not bear to see the way Heeseung was looking at him.
Because in Heeseung’s eyes there was a kind of betrayal, a hurt that cut deeper than any fight ever could. It was the look of someone being let go when they had promised they never would be.
Heeseung shook his head, barely, as though trying to understand something that made no sense. He stepped back just slightly, the space between them suddenly sharp and unfamiliar.
"So we give up," he whispered. "Just like that?" His voice cracked.
Sunoo’s breath hitched in his chest. He felt like he was drowning in his own silence.
He wanted to scream that it wasn’t fair. That they deserved better than secret meetings and cold warnings. That he wanted to choose Heeseung, he really did. But he could not risk the others. He could not be the reason the dream they had all built began to fall apart.
His fingers curled slightly at his sides. He didn’t pull away from Heeseung’s grasp, but he didn’t move closer either.
He just stood there.
Frozen.
Breaking.
And when he did not answer, when he could not find the courage to say what his heart was screaming,
Heeseung let go.
The hallway was still. Quiet again.
But now it felt different.
It felt hollow.
Because silence, heavy and unrelenting, was the only answer Sunoo had left to give.
---
"How can we go back to being friends when we just shared a bed?"
That question echoed in Sunoo’s mind like a song stuck on repeat. It stayed with him during rehearsals, during interviews, during the stillness between moments. It lived in the silence between them, louder than any conversation they were still forced to have.
The days that followed were unbearable.
They moved through them like ghosts wearing smiles. They were still bandmates. Still members of the same group, the same carefully curated dream. They still shared backstage rooms. Still stood next to each other on stage. Still sat side by side during livestreams, smiling into cameras, laughing at inside jokes with the others, answering scripted questions like everything was perfectly fine.
But nothing was fine.
Everything had changed, and they both felt it, even if no one else noticed.
Heeseung stopped meeting his eyes. Not completely, not obviously, but in small ways that cut the deepest. During meals, during meetings, during moments when their eyes would have once met instinctively, Heeseung would look just past him instead. A fraction of a second too long on the floor. A slightly delayed reaction to his voice. A carefully chosen distance when they stood in line. And Sunoo, he stopped trying to catch them.
Because he was afraid of what he would see. Because every time he reached, even silently, he felt the space between them grow wider. Like the more he tried to hold onto it, the faster it slipped away.
They laughed with the others. They smiled when cameras flashed. They danced in perfect synchronization, bodies moving like they had been built to perform. They sang with eyes closed, voices soaring into microphones that would carry their sound to millions.
But the weight behind their words had changed.
Sunoo felt it every time he sang about love, about longing, about something just out of reach. It pressed into his chest and stayed there, aching like a bruise that would not fade.
And at night, when the noise died down and the lights in the dorm went dark, that was when the silence truly screamed.
Sunoo would lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling that had once watched over whispered conversations and quiet laughter. His hands would clutch at the edge of the blanket like it could offer warmth to replace what he had lost.
The bed beside him, once a place of comfort, was now empty. There was no more shared breath in the dark. No arm pulling him closer. No body curled next to his own like they belonged there. Only cold air where Heeseung used to be. Only silence where once there had been a heartbeat pressed against his skin.
And so Sunoo stayed awake, night after night, pretending the ceiling could give him answers.
But all it gave him was space. And questions. And the memory of everything that had once felt like home.
---
"How can you look at me and pretend I'm someone you've never met?"
That question lived in Sunoo’s chest like a bruise that never healed. It throbbed quietly whenever Heeseung passed by without looking. It pulsed behind his ribs whenever their shoulders brushed by accident and Heeseung shifted away, as if even proximity had become something dangerous.
Heeseung started pulling away. Not all at once. Not in an obvious, dramatic exit.
It happened in pieces. In gestures that became less frequent. In conversations that grew shorter. In expressions that lost their warmth.
He stopped lingering after practice. Stopped asking if Sunoo had eaten. Stopped greeting him "Happy birthday". Stopped humming under his breath when they walked back to the dorm together. He used to sing without realizing it, little melodies that filled the silence and made everything feel a little more alive.
Now there was only silence.
Heeseung stopped looking at him the same way. His gaze, once so soft, once full of something unspoken and tender, had become guarded. Focused. Sharp around the edges, like he was always thinking about something else. Like he was always trying to be somewhere else.
He became quieter too. Less like the boy who used to whisper nonsense into Sunoo’s hair just to make him laugh. Less like the boy who pulled him close during storms, who held him until the thunder passed, even when neither of them said a word.
He became more like the idol everyone else wanted him to be.
Perfect. Composed. Controlled.
He became the image the world loved. And Sunoo watched it happen, helpless.
He watched Heeseung fold himself into a version of someone who no longer looked back at him with love in his eyes. He watched him turn into someone polished and untouchable. Someone beautiful and unreachable.
And he said nothing. Because what could he say?
He was the one who let go first. He was the one who made the choice to walk away, to protect what they had built, to preserve the dream even if it meant destroying the small piece of happiness they had carved out for themselves.
Sunoo told himself it had been the right thing. That the group came first. That their dream was too precious to risk.
But every time he looked at Heeseung now and saw only distance, only the mask of someone performing a life, he wondered if the price had been too high.
Because Heeseung had not just pulled away from him. He had pulled away from the softness too.
And in the quiet space that grew between them, Sunoo finally understood what it meant to miss someone who was still standing right in front of you.
---
The worst part was that no one knew.
No one saw the truth behind the careful smiles or the quiet glances that no longer lingered.
Not the fans, who watched them through bright screens with wide eyes and hopeful hearts. They posted edits, made fanart, and whispered about their closeness in comment sections. They believed in a story that felt sweet and harmless, convinced themselves that the way Sunoo looked at Heeseung was just friendship. They saw moments on camera and turned them into something soft and light, never knowing how much it hurt to pretend.
They shipped them like it was innocent. Like it was pure. And maybe once it was.
But it was never just a fantasy to Sunoo.
Not the other members either. They noticed the distance, but not the reason. If they thought anything of it, they probably assumed it was the usual strain. The kind that came from endless schedules and sleep deprivation and growing up too quickly under the spotlight. Just two boys, once close, now drifting slightly apart like so many others had before them.
No one asked questions. No one looked too closely. Because it was easier that way.
Only Sunoo knew the truth.
Only he remembered the way Heeseung used to kiss him when no one was watching. Slow. Careful. Like the world would fall apart if they moved too fast. Like Sunoo was something fragile and irreplaceable.
Only he knew how Heeseung once held him in the dark, arms tight around his waist, head tucked against his shoulder like he never wanted to let go. There were nights when Heeseung would fall asleep like that, fingers curled in the fabric of Sunoo’s shirt as though he was afraid that if he loosened his grip, Sunoo might disappear.
Only Sunoo knew how it felt to be looked at with wonder, with softness, with a kind of quiet love that neither of them ever dared to name.
And now, only Sunoo knew the pain of being seen as a stranger.
Heeseung’s gaze, once so full of warmth and familiarity, now slid past him without stopping. Like he had never traced the lines of Sunoo’s spine with his fingertips. Like he had never memorized the sound of his laugh in the middle of the night. Like he had never whispered his name into the stillness, over and over, just to remind himself that Sunoo was real.
That was the part no one saw. Not the fans. Not the members. Not even Heeseung anymore.
Only Sunoo carried the memory of what they were.
And the weight of what they could no longer be.
---
"The devil in your eyes, won't deny the lies you've sold..."
Heeseung never said the words aloud.
There was never an argument. Never a confession. Never a moment where anger exploded into the open. But Sunoo could feel it. It clung to the silence between them, settled in the air like dust that refused to clear. It was there in the way Heeseung looked at him now—too brief, too distant, eyes no longer soft but guarded, like he was bracing for something that might hurt.
There were no more shared smiles when the cameras stopped rolling. No more subtle touches when no one was watching. Instead, there was a cold professionalism to their every interaction, as if they were coworkers and nothing more. As if the nights spent tangled in each other’s arms had never existed at all.
And Sunoo could feel it growing. With every comeback, with every interview where they sat beside each other but never leaned in. With every photoshoot where they posed like brothers while ignoring the ghost of something that used to be more. With every carefully staged interaction meant to entertain fans who still believed in the illusion of closeness.
The space between them widened like a wound that would not close.
And in that space, Sunoo could feel it.
Heeseung hated him. Not with cruelty. But with the quiet bitterness of someone who had been left behind.
He hated him for letting go. For giving up. For choosing the group over what they had. For valuing their future as idols more than their future as something more than friends. For walking away without a fight.
But even in that resentment, there was something else.
Understanding.
Because Heeseung was not blind to the world they lived in. He knew what was expected of them. Knew the rules, the pressure, the unspoken boundaries that were carved into the life they had chosen. He knew that love—especially their kind of love—had no place in the world that demanded perfection.
Somewhere deep down, Heeseung understood why Sunoo did what he did.
And that was the cruelest part.
Because even as he hated him, he could not truly blame him. Because part of Heeseung knew it too.
They never stood a chance. Not in this world.
Not with cameras always watching. Not with contracts signed in blood and silence. Not with a dream that demanded everything in return, even the pieces of themselves they wanted to keep hidden.
They had chosen this life. Together.
And in doing so, they had also chosen the end of whatever they once were.
Even if neither of them had the courage to say it out loud.
---
"While you let go, this is casual..."
They were never casual.
Not in the way Heeseung used to hold him like he was something precious. Not in the way Sunoo used to trace the lines of Heeseung’s jaw while he slept, memorizing the shape of him in the dark. Not in the way their fingers would tangle beneath shared blankets, breathing the same air like it meant something.
But now, Sunoo plays along.
He has learned how to wear the mask with grace. How to speak without letting his voice tremble. How to smile even when it aches.
During interviews, he laughs at the right times. He calls Heeseung hyung with the same warmth he uses for the others, like that word has never once carried something heavier behind closed doors. He claps when Heeseung makes a joke, not too eagerly, just enough to make it seem real. He sings beside him with perfect harmony, voices blending like they were made to match, and no one hears the silence buried beneath the sound.
They stand beside each other as if nothing ever happened.
As if they were never anything more than groupmates.
As if the nights they once shared had been nothing but dreams that vanished with the sunrise.
Sunoo wonders sometimes if Heeseung forgets on purpose. If pretending is easier for him too. If this new version of them, distant but functional, hurts him just as much.
He never asks. Because pretending means surviving. And surviving means keeping the dream alive.
But late at night, when the lights are off and the dorm is quiet, when the others are asleep and he is left alone with his thoughts, Sunoo lies on his back and stares at the ceiling like he used to.
And the words from that last song refuse to leave his mind.
How can we go back to being friends when we just shared a bed?
He replays the question again and again.
As if repetition might lead to clarity.
As if the answer might finally arrive.
But it never does.
And so Sunoo turns on his side, pulls the blanket higher over his shoulders, and closes his eyes.
Because some questions are meant to stay unanswered.
And some endings never come with closure.
Only quiet.
Only distance.
Only the memory of something that was never meant to last.