Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ten waves the sheer white fabric as his body moves across the dance studio with the grace of a feather. His limbs extend skillfully with each step, drawing gasps and smiles from his classmates and the dance instructor, who captures every movement with his digital camera.

He holds his breath, channeling all his strength into the upper part of his chest, causing his abdomen—slightly visible beneath his lifted shirt—to pull in. He closes his eyes, becoming one with the delicate piece playing in the background, his arms carried by a current of air that feels like his own creation, while his blond hair sways gently.

The soft squeak of his bare feet on the polished floor is barely audible, and though his jumps are full of power, they never feel heavy. His contemporary dance style is delicate, almost angelic for someone like him, which visually captivates everyone around—and will no doubt take him far in his career as a dancer.

"Splendid as always. Flawless," praises the teacher, clapping as the choreography reaches its climax—Ten standing tall, arms lifted, eyes fixed on the imaginary sky he had been visualizing, his neck tilted back, as if elongating his body might also free his soul.

Johnny's words from the night before still echo in his head:

"I never asked you to worry."

What a shitty thing to say.

Ten lowers his arms and exhales, exhausted, though a soft smile lingers on his lips as his classmates applaud, shouting encouragement and compliments.

"You’re going to crush it at this year’s competition! Those medals are yours," says a cheerful Sicheng as he puts on his coat, ready to leave the studio.

That’s when Ten feels a tingle run through his body and realizes he had completely zoned out, lost in his thoughts, forgetting that class had already ended. He grabs his things and drops to the floor to put on his shoes.

"I’ll try. Though I have to admit I’m really nervous, and… that jump still comes out kind of messy," he says quickly, getting up from the floor and zipping up his padded winter coat that makes him look like a little beige snowball.

Sicheng clicks his tongue and throws an arm around his shoulders, smiling with confidence.

"You’ll do great, dummy. Don’t let your mood drop—you’re even better than the teacher."

"Oh please, don’t exaggerate."

"You are, and you know it," Sicheng squints at him, and Ten lets out a soft giggle.

"Okay, maybe I am better than the teacher," he says in a low voice, nodding, afraid the teacher might overhear them.

"That’s more like it. Bring that confidence back into your body." The Chinese boy sighs, clearly hesitant, but his nosy soul gives in. "How are things going with…?"

"The same as always," Ten cuts in, knowing exactly where the conversation is heading. "We fought over something stupid…" he sighs, remembering the events of the night before. "I just told him I hate that he uses his motorcycle for illegal street races. It’s dangerous, he could get hurt, and his medical insurance already expired. He’s a complete idiot. I worry so much, every time he has a race I can’t even sleep, terrified something might happen and I won’t answer the phone in time. It’s just… exhausting," he confesses, nervously nibbling on his bottom lip.

"I still don’t understand why you’re even with him. You’ve had so many chances to end it, and yet, here you are," Sicheng sighs.

"It’s not that easy. It’s complicated. I can’t break up with him—I love him, even if he is an idiot," he says, rolling his eyes with almost theatrical exasperation.

"You’re in love with someone who hasn’t even labeled you as his boyfriend."

"But he’s loyal to me. Even if we’re not officially boyfriends, he’s not with anyone else. And neither am I."

The words taste bitter coming out, even though they’re supposed to be a good reason to stay in the relationship.

"Does that sound okay to you? I mean, it’s weird. You’re not a couple, fine—but why? Did you ever ask him?"

"No."

"Why not?" Sicheng presses, and Ten starts to get irritated—because he’s right. This whole thing is weird.

"I don’t know. I’m afraid I won’t like the answer. Can we just not talk about this, please? I’m already too on edge. I don’t need another distraction. I have to perfect that number," he says, pulling away from Sicheng’s arm, and the other boy knows he crossed a line. Because no matter how close they are, he knows Ten hates feeling insecure.

They step out the front door, welcomed by the crisp winter breeze marking the start of the season. Sicheng watches as Ten scrunches his already red nose and lets out a soft laugh.

"Alright, how about I treat you to some coffee?" he says, nudging him lightly, but knows his plans are about to change when his eyes land on the dark-haired guy sitting on a black Suzuki Hayabusa. "...Or maybe let’s leave it for another day…"

Ten follows his gaze, and his eyes widen when he sees him. He swallows hard and nods, turning toward his friend.

"Yeah… I’ll go with him. See you later," he says, nodding, and Sicheng can’t tell whether the red on his cheeks is from the cold or a natural flush spreading over his expressive dancer’s face.

Ten turns around after saying goodbye and walks with his hands in his coat pockets toward him. He picks up his pace with little half-jogs, and when their eyes meet, he feels lost all over again.

"What are you doing here? Didn’t you say you had to take your motorcycle in for maintenance and couldn’t pick me up?" he says, his tone slightly annoyed but unable to hide the excitement underneath.

But Johnny doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches to the side of his motorcycle and pulls out a bouquet of fresh white daisies wrapped in brown paper. A small gasp escapes Ten’s lips, fogging the cold air.

"Johnny, this isn’t fair," he says, refusing to fall again—even if it’s the first time he’s ever been given flowers, and the last person he’d expected them from was him. His not-boyfriend boyfriend.

"What’s not fair?" the taller one asks, glancing down at the flowers in his hand. "You don’t like them?"

"I do, idiot," he says, snatching them a bit too quickly, and guilt sinks in as a few petals fall onto the parking lot pavement. "It’s not fair… It’s not fair that every time we fight you do stuff like this…" he mumbles.

"Like what?"

"Being an idiot." He looks up at him. "You hurt me, and then expect me to forget just because you suddenly… become sweet? It’s stupid."

"I know I was an idiot. You were just worried about me and I overreacted and told you to fuck off—I know that, and I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again," Johnny says, reaching out to grab the front of his fuzzy coat and pull him gently closer. "I just… I don’t know how to do this."

"How to do what?" Ten asks, confused.

"This," he says, signaling toward the flowers. "Loving you right. Taking care of you without making you feel like I’m distant or a total asshole." Johnny scratches the back of his neck and exhales. "I know you’re mad. I didn’t come to argue. I came because I owed you this."

Ten lowers his gaze to the daisies again, holding his breath.

"You once said you liked them because they were simple. _As if they don’t make a fuss about existing,’ you said. I remembered."

Ten blinks, looking up, his dark eyes now framed by a faint red tint.

"I said that two years ago."

"I remember everything you say. Even if it doesn’t seem like it," Johnny nods, eyes dropping again.

Ten sighs, gently brushing his nose against the petals. They smell like something clean. Something innocent.
Something they definitely weren’t anymore.

"Do you think this fixes it?" he whispers, and Johnny shakes his head.

"No. But it’s what I can give you today."

Ten looks at him. He wants to say he needs more. He wants to hug him and also push him away. But instead, he just stands there—daisies pressed to his chest, words stuck in his throat.

Johnny doesn’t say anything, he just stands there, he doesn’t leave, he hasn’t left.

He stays, standing right in front of him, with his hand still clutching Ten’s coat, fingers almost trembling—not from the cold, no, but from nerves. Something so unlike him.
But Ten doesn’t notice this. He’s still holding the daisies against his chest, like they’re both a shield and a wound.

"Do you want me to go?" Johnny asks, barely above a whisper.

Ten looks at him and doesn’t know how to answer.

Part of him wants to yell yes, leave with your silences, with your races, with your fear of naming what this is. But another part—the part that can’t sleep when Johnny doesn’t answer his phone, the part that choreographs with his scent stuck in his ribs—needed him close.

"No," he says finally, his voice barely audible. "I don’t want you to go. But I don’t know how to ask you to stay, either."

"I don’t know how to stay right, Ten," Johnny swallows.

The air between them grows heavy, as if the world itself pauses. Ten drops his gaze back to the flowers.

"I’ll come to your place later…" he says, not coldly, but with obvious distance.

Johnny nods. He doesn’t push.

"Do you still have the keys?" he asks, and Ten nods faintly without taking his eyes off the daisies.

And then he leaves. He slips out of Johnny’s now-weak grip and walks down the street with the bouquet still in his hand, never looking back.
Not because he didn’t want to—but because he knew if he did… he’d stay. And he still didn’t know if that was the right thing to do.

"Just make sure to turn everything off when you leave," says the dance teacher over the phone, and Ten hums a short affirmative in response.

The instructor had trusted Ten with a spare key to the studio for his late-night practices, since he had constantly complained about his not-so-considerate neighbors who went nuts every time he rehearsed in his apartment—and honestly, he didn’t blame them. He often practiced late at night, and hearing footsteps and jumps paired with moderately loud music wasn’t exactly ideal in a thin-walled building.

The studio is silent now. Only the soft lighting remains, and the music is off.

Ten walks back in, still wearing his shoes.
He had left the daisies in water, sitting on the nightstand by his bed, and returned to the studio.

The mirror reflects him fully—vulnerable, exhausted.

He stands in the center of the room and plays that soft instrumental track. He closes his eyes and lets his body move.
He completely forgets his main choreography; he just follows the rhythm of the music, replaying every word, every gesture, every silent cry for help in their relationship, not to rehearse… but to release what he couldn’t say.

Every movement speaks of Johnny—of the nights he doesn’t sleep, of the “I love you”s that were never said, of the races that fear always wins.

And he dances—he dances until it becomes hard to breathe, until his throat burns from all the repressed emotions, from the cries that ache to come out, from the desperate screams. He lets every feeling pour out through his movements, through his outstretched arms and sweeping leaps, through his hands sliding over his body, tearing at his soul. And when the tears finally fall, his sobs burst through his lips. His chest contracts and expands with each broken breath.
And there, beneath the dim light, the first sequence of his choreography is born.

He calls it “Butterfly,” like the sigh Johnny never finishes.
Like himself: weightless, sensitive, and doomed to shatter.

Ten arrives at Johnny’s apartment after eleven.
His backpack hangs off one shoulder, his shoes are dirty, and his head is full of movement. He pulls the keys from his pocket, the little cat keychain jingling—a gift Johnny once gave him for his birthday, though he can’t remember exactly when… or maybe he remembers it too well, and it hurts, because it reminds him just how much their relationship has changed.

He opens the door slowly, as if stepping into that space means crossing some invisible line between what he feels and what he can’t bring himself to name.

And as he enters, he slips off his shoes by the door, noticing the apartment bathed in shadows, lit only by the warm glow of a lamp in the living room.

He walks a few steps down the short hallway—and then he sees him. Johnny, sitting on the couch, shirtless, with a blanket loosely covering his legs and an ice pack pressed to his collarbone.

Ten lets out a quiet sigh, catching the attention of the older boy, who lifts his gaze in shame.

“Did you race tonight?” Johnny nods.

“Had a scrape,” he says, lowering his gaze. "Nothing serious. I fell on a curve. Scraped my shoulder, but I’m okay.”

“You’re not exactly okay. Look at you.”
Ten walks over slowly, each step deliberate, and lets his backpack drop to the floor. “Even after everything we talked about, you still went.”

“I couldn’t skip it,” Johnny mumbles. “It’s… the only thing that makes me feel free, Ten.”

“What about me?” He tries not to sound hurt, but he fails.

“You make me feel real. But that… That’s something else.”

There’s a silence. Thick. Heavy.
Ten moves closer, kneels in front of Johnny, and carefully removes the ice pack. His skin is red, with a few deep scrapes that hurt Ten more than they should.

“One day you’re going to kill yourself,” he says quietly, brushing his cold fingertips against the wounds. “Don’t you get that?”

“I do…” Johnny whispers. “But it’s like having a fire inside… Racing… Racing is the only thing that puts it out. Even if it burns me.”

Ten doesn’t know what to say—because he understands, and he hates that he does. Because he has a fire too, and his fire is Johnny.

He sits beside him on the couch and tends to his wounds with cotton, not saying a word. He doesn’t have the strength to reopen that conversation. Every touch is an apology, every silence a confession.
When he finishes and Johnny feels his hands pull away, he holds them gently, almost afraid Ten will stand up and leave.

“I’m trying… I swear I’m trying…” he says softly, voice cracking. “I’m trying to be what you need.”

“And I’m trying to stop needing what you can’t give me… But it’s not fair for me to settle for this when the indifference hurts so much,” Ten replies, staring down at their hands resting together—his, soft and delicate; Johnny’s, rough and scarred.

The oldest sighs and gently pulls him closer, expecting to be pushed away, expecting a protest or a cold reminder that this isn’t how things get fixed. But Ten doesn’t. He stays quiet, lets himself be pulled in. They hold each other, wounded, and for a moment it feels like maybe—maybe—things could get better. As if maybe the love Ten feels could be enough to endure the missing words, the same old routine, the worry, the pain.

Because neither of them says, “It’s going to be okay,” because deep down they both know it won’t be. They know that sometimes love arrives too late, or arrives broken, or stays where it can’t grow.
And still… there they were. Holding onto each other through the wreckage.

The morning light filters softly through the half-open window.
Ten wakes up before Johnny, like he always does. He watches him sleep for a few seconds—lying on his stomach, one leg hanging off the edge of the bed, his shoulder still bandaged.

It feels strange to have a day without rehearsals, without races, a day without noise.

His eyes settle on the oldest's relaxed face, the faint shadow of stubble, the slight furrow between his brows caused by some lingering bad dream.
His hand hesitates near Johnny’s face, unsure whether he should, unsure whether what he will feel is sadness, anxiety… or love.

He exhales quietly and gets out of bed, things don’t change overnight. He walks softly to the kitchen, makes himself some tea, and starts toasting bread—like that small act could ground him in something real.
He spreads jam over the toast when he hears footsteps dragging softly down the hallway.

“Smells amazing…” Johnny mumbles, voice still hoarse.

“Toast,” Ten replies without turning around. “The only luxury of the day.”

Johnny steps behind him and wraps his arms around him, savoring the way Ten’s slim frame fits between his own broader one.
He rests his forehead against the curve of Ten’s neck—it’s a gentle gesture, unexpected, almost clumsy… but sincere.

Ten stays still for a few seconds, barely believing it’s happening. If not for the way his fingers are gripping the toast, he’d have dropped it by now, leaving the counter smeared with jam and crumbs.

“Can we spend the day together?” Johnny asks, barely above a whisper.

Ten tilts his head to glance at him over his shoulder as Johnny straightens up.

“Don’t you have something to do today?” Johnny shakes his head.

“Not today. I want to be with you… no fights, no races, no new bruises.”

Ten says nothing, but that small opening feels like fresh air after a storm—and he likes it.

They end up having breakfast on the couch, plates balanced on their laps and a chessboard between them.
Johnny tries to teach Ten how to play, but it ends with them laughing on the floor, chess pieces scattered all over the carpet.

It was the first time Ten had ever seen Johnny so focused on something that had nothing to do with motorcycles, and it was certainly… interesting. Ten smiled softly as Johnny caressed him on the couch, letting go of the game and just staying there, doing so little, yet feeling so much.

He closed his eyes, letting the soft rhythm of Johnny’s heartbeat lull him to a place of quiet, surrounded by those strong arms that always made him feel so small—and somehow, safe.

“I’ve known you for a little over two years… and I think this is the first time I feel truly at peace,” Ten whispered, and Johnny felt a knot tighten in his stomach.

“I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I like being like this…”

Johnny shut his eyes, wrapping his arms tighter around Ten’s slender frame.

“I wish I could freeze time like this. Just like this…” Ten went quiet, his eyes opening only to stare at the wall, unmoving.

“Me too…” he replied, unable to say the rest. That deep down he knew this was running out.

When night came, both wrapped in a silence that now belonged to them, they lay down together like they hadn’t in a long time. Ten curled up next to him, kissing his lips softly, and Johnny rested a hand flat against Ten’s chest, as if trying to memorize the shape of his breath.

“Thank you for staying…”

Ten’s hands gently held Johnny’s face, absorbing every inch of his expression, the vulnerability in his eyes etched into his memory. He swallowed hard, afraid to speak.

“It’s not that easy to walk away from where you love.”

And Johnny smiled, eyes glistening, because those words hurt more than they comforted.
They fell asleep holding each other, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Ten slept without fear, no phone in his hand, no leftover argument screaming in his head, robbing him of rest, feeding his anxiety. He slept peacefully, with the man he loved beside him—arms around him, drawing quiet circles on his back, making him feel safe.

A few days have passed since that chaos-free day. Johnny keeps trying to get closer, and Ten lets himself be loved, cautiously, but he does. They sleep together, share meals more often, and Johnny shows up at the studio from time to time, sitting quietly in a corner watching him rehearse without interrupting. Sometimes he brings him coffee. Sometimes, just silence.

And even though everything seems calmer, Ten feels there’s something behind Johnny’s eyes that still won’t let go.

That afternoon, it rains. A fine, steady rain that doesn’t seem like it wants to stop.

Ten arrives at Johnny’s apartment soaking wet, his hood pulled low and his shoes making that annoying squelching sound from trapped water. He knows he’s lucky if he doesn’t catch a cold.
Johnny is in the living room, working on a chain that Ten can guess belongs to his motorcycle. His hands are greasy, and his brows are furrowed.

“Hi,” Ten says as he takes off his jacket and hangs it over a chair. The simple movement sends a shiver through his already chilled body.

Johnny doesn’t even turn around, doesn’t respond. The silence stretches between them for what feels like hours until Johnny finally reacts.

“Hey,” he says, still not looking up, too focused on the chain in his hands.

Silence again…

“Is everything okay?” Ten asks, trying to sound casual.

“The fucking chain’s shot,” Johnny growls. “I’ve got a fucking race in two days and if I don’t fix this, I’m out.”

Ten can’t help but feel that usual knot forming in his stomach again.

“You’re racing? I thought… we agreed you’d ease off at least a little…”

Johnny lets out a dry laugh.

“You said I should stop. I never promised anything.”

Ten presses his lips together, clearly hurt, and walks to the bathroom without saying another word.
He closes the door behind him and lets out a shaky sigh. He feels stupid, he's an idiot for letting Johnny’s decisions affect him this much. And the truth is, he doesn’t even know why it bothers him so deeply that Johnny keeps racing. Is it his sense of justice reminding him of how illegal those street races are? Is it the deep-seated hatred for motorcycles, born from the way his father used to ignore him in favor of televised races? Is it his fear of speed?

Or maybe… maybe there’s a simpler answer, truer reason, beyond the anger and resentment. Is it because he sees something precious in Johnny? A kind of love he never thought he’d have? Someone important—so important, it terrifies him to even imagine losing him?

He swallows hard and tightens his grip on the cold porcelain sink. His eyes are red, glossy, aching. He had come home from the studio without that weight pressing on his shoulders, but now he can feel it slowly crushing him again.

Fear.

Ten lies on the couch with his phone in his hands, eyes glazed over the screen, fingers scrolling with no real purpose.
Disconnected.
Johnny sits beside him, he had taken a shower—his hands and face were stained with motorcycle grease, but now he’s clean, hair damp, wearing an old Nirvana shirt, he stares at the rug, silent, for a few minutes, neither of them speaks.
The TV hums quietly in the background, some random documentary that had been playing for a while, but Ten’s mind is so far away he hasn’t even noticed.

“Does it really bother you that much that I race?” Johnny asks suddenly, still not looking at him.

“It hurts. That’s not the same.” Ten locks his phone and sets it aside.

“It’s my life, Ten. I can’t give it up.”

“Then what am I?” he asks softly, voice cracking. “A break between races?”

Johnny frowns, clearly pained.

“Don’t say that. You know it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it? Because I still don’t know. We’re something, but not really. We sleep together, but we’re not anything. You take care of me, you hold me, you look at me like you love me… but if I ask you to say it, you run. And that damn motorcycle… Every time you get on it, I feel like you only choose me… only if you make it back alive.”

Johnny swallows hard.

“I don’t know how to be anything else. I only know how to exist my way.”

“And I’m trying to make your way enough for me. I tell you this all the time, every single time we have this same fucking fight.” Ten looks at him with wet eyes, his heart pounding wildly.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Ten.” Johnny moves closer, gently taking his hand.

“Then tell me you love me… Tell me I matter to you…” Ten whispers.

“... You matter to me…”

“Tell me you love me, Johnny!”

The silence that follows is a verdict.

Johnny holds his gaze, he doesn’t look away, but he doesn’t say it either, and that’s enough to break Ten’s heart and shatter everything around him.
That moment hurts more than any motorcycle crash ever could. Ten stands up without a word, walks to the bedroom, and closes the door quietly.
Not out of anger—out of self-preservation.

Johnny stays on the couch, staring at the empty spot where Ten had just been.

They didn't fight anymore that night.

The next day, Johnny doesn’t show up at the studio. Ten waits for him—every time the door opens, he thinks it’s him, but it never is.

The music sounds different, his body aches more, the weight of their relationship makes him stiff, he can’t take it anymore, the mere thought of going back to his own apartment and sleeping alone terrifies him.
The daisies Johnny gave him are already starting to wilt in a glass vase. And Ten, watching them in the dim light, wonders if love also comes with an expiration date.
Only the heart doesn’t always know how to read the label in time.

The pain starts as a mild sting behind his knee during some jumps and movements. Ten ignores it, even as it grows into an uncomfortable pressure and then a constant tension.
He keeps dancing, rehearsing, stretching. Overworking himself.

Until finally, mid-spin, something cracks inside his leg and the world turns white.
He collapses, unable to put weight on his foot. The instructor rushes to him, but Ten can only clutch his knee with both hands, panting through the pain.

“Tell me where it hurts, Ten,” the instructor says, looking at his leg, trying to figure out the source of his gasps and painful curses.

“M-My knee…” he manages to say through gritted teeth. Sicheng rushes over too, but he hesitates—he doesn’t want to touch him. He knows it’s the last thing Ten needs. The last thing he needed in those days spent lost in his dancing, trying to escape everything building up inside him.

Ten doesn’t cry in that moment. He cries the next day, alone, in his room, when morning comes and the nightmare is still real. The pain in his injured leg is a cruel reminder of everything. And he lets himself cry as he posts a picture to his socials, showing him lying down with his swollen, bandaged knee.

“Little forced break. Nothing serious, just need to pause for a moment (first time in years). I’ll be back soon.”

He doesn’t mention the injury, doesn’t ask for help, but he knows Johnny sees it.
And even though they haven’t spoken much since that argument, he waits for him.
Because Johnny always shows up when the damage is obvious. And even if he doesn’t say it—he needs him more than he wants to admit.

The doorbell rings close to midnight.
Ten is in bed, his leg bandaged, his body swollen from frustration, a blanket pulled over him.
He drags himself toward the door, limping.

He takes a deep breath and opens it, Johnny stands on the other side, helmet in hand, soaked from the rain, wearing an expression caught somewhere between guilt and tenderness.

His eyes fall on Ten’s bent leg, his foot barely grazing the floor, the tight wrap around his knee, and that vulnerable gaze.

“What happened? I saw your post,” he says.

“I pushed myself too far. My body gave out.” Ten looks at him. He doesn’t have the energy to scold him anymore.

Johnny walks in without asking, sets the helmet down, and helps him back to the couch. He brings ice, a towel, and—to Ten’s surprise—pulls a painkiller from inside his leather jacket.
He tends to him in silence, almost tenderly, with genuine care, as if making up for all the things he can’t say through quiet gestures is the only way he knows how to love.

“How long do you need to rest?” he asks, touching his leg carefully.

“A few weeks… If I don’t take care of it, it could be longer,” Ten mutters, his voice low.

“The competition is in two months…” Johnny presses his lips together, and Ten nods.

“I don’t even know if I’ll make it…” A long silence.

"You need to rest," Johnny says. "You shouldn’t keep pushing your body like this."

Ten stares at him, serious. He can’t believe the hypocrisy in those words.

"And you? You get to risk yours every week?"

Johnny looks down, he wants to answer, to say something—anything—that might ease Ten’s worries, bring him some peace after that injury, that setback in his dream. But his phone vibrates, and the words die in his throat. As always.
He pulls it from his pocket and reads the screen. A name Ten knows all too well: the leader of the racing crew.

"You’ve got a race tonight…" he says in a near whisper, remembering that event. Johnny hesitates for a second.

"Yeah. It’s important. I can’t skip it."

Ten doesn’t speak for a while. He just watches him. He feels tired. Tired of waiting, of enduring, of feeling like he loves more than he should. And yet…

"Take me with you,” he says suddenly.

“What?” Johnny looks at him, confused.

“I don’t want to stay waiting… I don’t want to stare at my phone, or picture you dead in a ditch… Not tonight.” He lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Take me. I want to be there and see you with my own eyes, the way you sometimes come to watch me at the studio.”

Johnny shakes his head, serious. “No. You’re injured. You need to rest.”

“I’m not asking,” Ten says. “I need this.”

Johnny sighs. He knows he won’t win this argument—he never does when Ten is this determined. He watches the youngest’s hand tighten on his lap, as if trying to hold himself back, trying to endure until Johnny gives in. But Johnny won’t make it easy—he never does. He runs a hand through his wet black hair and looks at him.

“It’s dangerous. It’s not a place for you.”

“And this kind of everyday life is?” Ten shoots back. “The desperation, the anxiety, the sleepless nights worrying about you, until you finally come back and I realize nothing fatal happened to you… Is that the place meant for me?”

And that’s enough to break Johnny.
He crouches down and looks him straight in the eyes. He hesitates before speaking, his gaze dropping to Ten’s leg, then to his chest, and finally back to those eyes. Those determined eyes he’s grown used to facing every time they fight.

“I don’t want you to look at me with fear.”

“Then stop making me imagine you dead…”

The bike growls beneath them like a wild animal. Johnny’s the one riding, no helmet—he made Ten wear it instead, and just that makes Ten furious. Watching him ride so carelessly, so fast, without protection… It’s infuriating.
Ten clings to his back, fists curled tight around his jacket, one leg stretched cautiously, the helmet fogged up from the moisture in the air.

When they arrive, the atmosphere shifts.
Far from the city, on a dimly lit, dirt-filled open field, car headlights form a wide semicircle, people shouting, smoking, betting.
Ten hated it the moment his foot hit the ground.
But he stayed.

Johnny notices him shivering slightly from the biting wind so common in places like this, and he takes off his jacket to wrap it around Ten—partly to keep him warm, partly to mark him as his. He catches the stares thrown their way, and something primal stirs in him, a possessiveness that tightens in his chest.
His fingers tuck a few loose strands of hair behind Ten’s ear before guiding him to sit on the edge of a car, one that apparently belongs to someone named Yuta.

“Don’t move,” he says gently, his palms brushing over Ten’s denim-covered thighs. “I’ll be fine, okay?”

Ten stares at him, clutching the jacket tightly around himself.

“Come back.”

Johnny nods. And that’s the last word they exchange before the race.
Ten exhales for what feels like the hundredth time as Johnny leans in for a soft kiss and walks away to make the final preparations.
That familiar guy, the one who owns the car, approaches and leans against it right beside Ten.

“So… are you two dating?” he asks, running a hand through his red hair. And Ten can’t help but think he’s just another nosy asshole—like everything else about this place that irritates him.

“Something like that,” he replies, because that question still lingers in every thought where he tries to label what they are. Yuta hums and nods, crossing his arms.

“Well… must be serious if he brought you. It’s the first time he’s shown up with someone.” Yuta says, glancing toward Johnny as he wipes down his helmet.

“I asked him to bring me. He didn’t bring me because he wanted to.”

“That guy’s tough as nails. Trust me, if he didn’t want to bring you, he wouldn’t have,” Yuta replies, and Ten doesn’t know how to respond. He turns his face toward Johnny, watching him smile and shake hands with other racers. Something flutters inside his chest, and for a moment, it feels close to nausea.

Ten can’t watch the start. When he sees Johnny sit on his black motorcycle and fix his hair before putting on the helmet, he knows exactly what’s about to happen.
He only hears the roar of the engines, the crowd screaming, the screeching brakes.
It’s nothing like the calm of the dance studio, the yelling is so loud it makes him feel like a frightened little kid. He squeezes his eyes shut and lowers his head, clinging to the jacket, to his scent.

But when he opens his eyes, he sees him. The dust stings his eyes with every lap, and Johnny flies over the track as if he had no body. As if he’d never fall.

Ten feels a mixture of admiration and terror.
And… for a moment, he almost understands why Johnny can’t stop racing. But he also understands that loving him is always going to hurt.

Because Johnny is that: speed, fire, danger.
And he is butterfly. Everything opposite.

The engine roars one last time, and Ten’s eyes follow every meter Johnny’s motorcycle covers until it finally stops and the motor shuts off. The crowd erupts in cheers, horns, bills flying through the air.

Johnny won.

Ten watches him climb off the bike: shirt open, hair messy, face soaked in sweat and euphoria.
He doesn’t look hurt. He doesn’t look tired. He looks... free.

Johnny walks straight toward him, wearing a disarmed smile and eyes still gleaming with adrenaline.
His grin is almost childlike, excited, and Ten has never seen him like this when they’re together. It makes him feel... anxious. Happy.

“Did you see that?” Johnny says, almost laughing. “I did it.”

Ten doesn’t smile, but he nods.

“You’re okay…”

Johnny leans in, gently cups the back of his neck with a rush of euphoric emotion, and kisses him, pulling a soft gasp from Ten, who closes his eyes and melts into it.
And Johnny doesn’t notice the subtle shift in him, too caught up in the feel of his lips, slow and trembling, like he still can’t believe Ten is there.

He breaks the kiss with a smile and brushes his thumb across Ten’s bottom lip.

“I won a good amount. A lot,” he says. “I wanted to take you out somewhere nice. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like cigarettes or wet dirt.”

Ten lowers his gaze.
His leg aches, adrenaline had kept him upright, but now his whole body reminds him that it’s broken inside.

“I don’t think I can move much more tonight,” he whispers. Johnny strokes his face with his knuckles.

“Then let’s go home. We’ll order food, you can lie down, and tell me again what the choreography would be like if you could fly.”

Ten nods, too drained to argue against the sudden tenderness.

That afternoon, the rain is still falling when they get to the apartment. Johnny helps him out of his wet clothes with care. Ten lets him, leaning against the edge of the bed with a serene expression.

They order Chinese takeout and eat straight from the containers sitting on the mattress. Ten with his leg stretched out, Johnny sitting cross-legged, watching him with an unusual calm.

They don’t talk much.

When they finish eating, Johnny clears the leftovers, turns off the lights, and returns with a warm towel. He kneels beside the bed.

“Let me see your leg.”

Ten looks at him in the dark, barely lit by the bathroom light. Johnny unwraps the bandage with extreme gentleness, places the warm towel over the swollen area, then kisses the skin just beside the bandage.

The youngest gasps softly, not realizing how needy he feels until his hands reach out to stroke Johnny’s hair, fingers trembling, aching to pull him closer. He bites his lower lip and licks it, trying to hold himself back, until he’s nearly begging for closeness.

“Come here…”

“I don’t want you to fall apart because of me…” Johnny says.

“I already am,” Ten answers. “I’m just trying to hide it.”

Johnny looks up, Ten’s fingers still threading through his dark hair, he sighs, lowering his gaze to Ten’s knee, then back up to those eyes that, even in the shadows, still shine for him.

He slowly climbs onto the bed, embracing him with both hands on his back. There’s no rush, no hunger, just the desperate need to be close, to repair, to hold.

Ten pulls off Johnny’s shirt while Johnny carefully slips off his pants, treating his leg like fragile glass.
He kisses his stomach, his shoulders, his neck, while Ten loses himself in the contours of his face, brushing his lips with his fingertips as if trying to memorize everything.

And that night, they make love like it’s the last time, without knowing it might be.

Slowly, with soft words, with Ten’s leg cushioned between pillows, with Johnny moving with a tenderness he’d never allowed himself before, when their nights were filled with lust and hunger, when the moans were so loud they ended with neighbors pounding on the walls.
This time, everything is quieter. Ten moans only for him, soft and low, nearly a whisper, and Johnny kisses his neck gently as he moves against him.

Ten looks into his eyes as he reaches his limit, and for a moment, he believes everything might heal.

“I love you…” Johnny whispers, without thinking.

And Ten breaks inside, because he had waited so long to hear those words, and now that he does, he no longer knows whether to believe them, or if they’re just fear disguised as love.
He doesn’t answer. He just holds him tighter, as if he could seal the moment with his body, as if he could live inside that night.

As they fall asleep, Johnny strokes his hair. His touch is so gentle, so delicate, like he’s afraid to disturb the peace finally settled over the boy lying beside him.

“Don’t race anymore…” Ten murmurs, half-asleep.

Johnny doesn’t reply, but he holds him tighter. And in that gesture, even lulled by sleep and the warmth of Johnny’s arms, Ten understands that the love is there, but it’s not going to save them.

The morning sun slips through the window without asking for permission.
Ten opens his eyes before Johnny, as always. He feels the tension in his muscles and the lingering sensation of Johnny’s touch on his body, as if they had just have sex.
His leg still hurts, but not as much. What really aches is the recent calm, fragile, fleeting, as if the world had paused just for them… but was ready to spin again without warning.

Johnny sleeps on his back, one arm under his head, his torso barely covered by the sheets. Ten allows himself to look at him for a moment. He remembers the night before: the careful touches, the way Johnny held his leg with such tenderness, the broken whispers, the half-spoken confession.

“I love you,” Johnny had said.

And he hadn’t answered, not because he didn’t feel it, but because he was afraid that saying it would mean this time it had to last.

The following weeks became a sort of shared rehabilitation.

Ten resumed his exercises patiently, moving between pain and frustration. Johnny, in a strange effort, stayed.
He accompanied him to physical therapy, waited at the studio door, made him lunch. Sometimes, when no one was watching, he kissed his forehead before he stepped inside to rehearse.

They didn’t talk much about the future, nor the past, but they shared the present. And that alone was a miracle.

One afternoon, while Johnny adjusts an ice pack on his knee, Ten says:

“I never imagined you taking care of me like this.”

Johnny looks up from where he’s crouched in front of him, a faint smile forming on his full lips.

“Me neither… but I like it. It makes me feel more real.”

“And the races?”

“I took a break,” he answers, without much conviction. “For you.”

Ten narrows his eyes at him. He doesn’t reply, because he knows Johnny hasn’t really taken a break, he’s just delaying the moment he’ll go flying again… even if it means flying away from him.

They're watching an old movie, Johnny resting his head on Ten's lap, the bandaged leg propped up on a pillow.
Johnny absentmindedly traces circles on his waist with his fingers.

“Do you think a lot about the day of the competition?” he asks without looking at the screen.

Ten nods without hesitation. “It's all I have.”

“You have more than that,” Johnny says, sitting up a little.

“No. You're something borrowed. The only thing that's mine… is the stage.”

Johnny doesn't know how to answer. He sits up fully, touches Ten's cheek, and kisses him slowly, breaking the kiss gently and pulling back just enough for their breaths to meet in the space between them.

“I don’t want to be borrowed…” he murmurs, his lips barely grazing Ten’s.

Ten hugs him tightly, eyes closed, hiding his face in the curve of Johnny’s neck. And for a moment, he wants to believe him.

He wants to believe he means it.

There’s something different about that afternoon when Ten’s feet touch the almost magical surface that brings him back to life every time he steps on it.

It’s been weeks of strict recovery, strangely, they’ve gone by fast, and he guesses it’s because of Johnny’s constant company and care, who didn’t let him leave the apartment until he was better.

The dance studio is quiet, barely touched by the gray light filtering through the tall windows. Outside, a drizzle falls, as if the sky knows today is going to hurt a little more, or maybe heal something, even just a little.

Ten had spent entire weeks working on his choreography, the one born out of heartbreak, of anticipated loss, of restrained longing. Every step spoke of what he couldn’t name, every turn was an attempt to stay grounded in the world. And even though Johnny wouldn’t even let him get up to go to the bathroom alone, Ten had used those long, quiet days to mentally rehearse every detail of his movements.

He’s recovered almost all of his mobility, though the sensation remains: that phantom weight reminding him he can’t afford to break again.

He’s alone, or so he thinks. He didn’t tell anyone he’d be dancing the full piece today, not his teacher, not Sicheng, not his classmates. Just one person.

Johnny.

He doesn’t know if he’ll show up. He didn’t ask him directly. He just left a note on the kitchen table before heading out:

“I’m going to try flying again. If you want to watch, you know where to find me.”

And there he is, standing in the center of the studio, barefoot, breathing deep, his hands trembling and his heart racing.

He takes one big breath and presses the speaker’s button. The music starts—soft strings, air, a heartbreaking piano, and a barely-there beat.

He focuses, and then, he begins to dance.

At first, his body moves with hesitation, not because he doesn’t know how, but because fear snakes through every muscle. But when he reaches the first full turn and his injured foot lands firmly on the floor… something breaks loose.

The pain, the fear, it all transforms into momentum. His body’s memory takes over. His arms draw scars, his torso speaks of absence, and his legs build bridges between what was and what still hopes to be.

Ten dances like he’s the only soul in the universe, like the music is the only skin he has. Like movement is the only way he can finally stop hurting.

And when the choreography reaches its climax—the final leap he’s postponed for weeks, that once was just a “maybe”—he closes his eyes for a second… and jumps.

Not high. Not perfect. But enough.

When he lands, he feels the world hold steady beneath his feet. He doesn’t fall apart.
And there, in the center of the studio, he drops to his knees and breaks into tears.
Not from physical pain, not from fear, but because he did it.

Because after everything… he’s still here.
He’s still a dancer.

“Ten.”

The voice reaches him gently from the doorway. Ten turns his head slowly to see Johnny standing there in a drenched black hoodie, eyes locked on him. Ten didn’t hear him come in.

Johnny walks to the edge of the room without a word. He watches him like he’s witnessing a miracle.

“You did it…” he says, voice low and trembling. “You were… flying…”

Ten can’t respond. He just looks at him with tear-soaked cheeks and an exhausted body.
Johnny steps closer, kneels beside him, and wraps him gently in an embrace, overwhelmed. He presses his forehead to Ten’s chest and exhales all the air he’d held since the moment Ten began to dance.

“I’m sorry for everything I couldn’t hold up…” he whispers. “I’m sorry I made you feel like you were alone in this…”

Ten runs his fingers gently through Johnny’s hair, eyes drifting down to where his head rests against his chest. He feels almost embarrassed by how loud his heart is when Johnny’s this close. But he hugs him back, not because everything is okay, but because this moment is.

And there, in the middle of the dance studio, with the faint echo of the music still lingering in the air, they exist in a perfect instant.

One where the races, the silences, the fears, not even the future, matter. Just the two of them. And the quiet certainty that, for once, the broken wings of that butterfly have made it to the other side of the sky.

The rain hasn’t stopped when they return to the apartment.
Johnny drives with one hand, the other never letting go of Ten’s, which clutches at his abdomen throughout the ride. The rain pours down his body, soaking his hair and clothes, and Ten watches him from behind the safety of his helmet.

“You’re going to get sick,” he says, a bit louder than usual to be heard over the rain and the muffled shell of the helmet. Johnny glances over his shoulder and offers a quiet smile, face dripping with rain.

“Maybe I should get you your own helmet,” he says, turning his eyes back to the road. “So you’ll stop stealing mine.”

“You should,” Ten replies with a trace of irritation, completely ignoring the fact that Johnny gave him the helmet, he didn’t steal it. Because to Ten, his safety mattered more than playful lies.

They don’t speak for the rest of the ride. Words are exhausted. Everything they felt, they had already said with their bodies.

Ten moves slowly, but not because of pain. It’s something else, a quiet electricity under his skin.
Something urgent and alive, something that makes his hands and chest tremble.

When they step inside the apartment, Johnny closes the door with his foot and immediately presses Ten against it, without thinking. Then—no warning, no asking—he kisses him hard.
Ten kisses him back like his mouth isn’t enough, like he needs to crawl inside him to breathe.
The bags fall to the floor. Wet jackets are discarded in the hallway. Johnny lifts him without thinking about the injured leg, hands gripping his thighs, pinning him between his body and the wall. Ten lets out a muffled moan and wraps his legs around him, heart pounding in his throat.

“I saw you fly…” Johnny murmurs against his neck. “Swear to God I felt like I was losing you in the air…”

“Then hold me tight…” Ten whispers, “Like you’ll never let me go…”

The room is dark, lit only by the glow from the building across the street.
Johnny throws him onto the bed and just stares for a second, only a second, before undressing him with clumsy, trembling hands.
Not from desire, but from urgency. From fear.

Ten lets it happen. He tugs Johnny’s shirt off with a kind of desperation, as if he’s trying to strip him of every burden he carries. He claws at his chest, bites his shoulder, looks at him with that undeniable need that burns from the inside out, crashing through his defenses like waves of fire.

“Don’t be gentle,” he says suddenly. “Not this time.”

Johnny meets his gaze, eyes burning. “I don’t know how not to take care of you.”

“Then do it while you break me,” Ten whispers. “But don’t stop…”

And he doesn’t. He doesn’t stop.

They make love like the clock’s about to detonate. With ragged breaths, sheets tossed to the floor, Ten’s leg hooked over Johnny’s back, held tight, and yet with a brutal kind of care.
Johnny kisses him like he’s trying to memorize every inch, and Ten clings to him like letting go might mean vanishing.

“You’re mine,” Johnny pants against his neck.

“Don’t say that if you’re not going to stay…” Ten replies, eyes wet, nose burning.

Johnny doesn’t answer, he just holds him tighter.

The rhythm is fast. Raw. Deep.
They lose each other, find each other again, break apart and rebuild.
And, in the end, when Ten comes with his mouth open and a muffled cry, and Johnny follows seconds later, whispering how beautiful he is into his neck, it’s like time fractures around them.
Everything goes silent except for the sound of their breaths tangled together.

They stay like that for a long time. Naked, pressed close, bodies still shaking.
Johnny strokes Ten’s chest, as if he needs to make sure he’s really still there.
And Ten… touches his neck, eyes on his face, though his gaze drifts, he’s looking at him, and also through him, like he already knows that peace always comes before the storm. He closes his eyes when it becomes too much to bear, when his chest tightens and his throat burns with words he can’t say.

“I love you…” Johnny murmurs, like he can’t stop himself now, like it’s finally too easy to admit.

And once again, Ten doesn’t reply, he just holds him close, heart racing, that quiet ache swelling in his throat.

Because even though their bodies feel like they’re being stitched back together, he knows the ending is already being written.

Sunday wakes slowly, the sun slipping through the curtains like a timid sigh, and the city feels far away, as if someone turned down the volume on the world.

Ten wakes up first. He’s lying on his side with his arm draped across Johnny’s chest. Johnny is still asleep, brow furrowed like even in dreams, he struggles to fully relax. And it hurts Ten, it hurts that he isn’t enough to quiet the worry, to be the place Johnny finds refuge, to take the place of the races in his life. To be sure that, at least in his arms, Johnny is safe. But he knows he’s not. And he never will be.

He watches him for a few minutes. He likes this part of the day, the part where no one expects anything.
Just looking, breathing, and remembering that, for some reason, they’re still here.

He gets up slowly, tugging down Johnny’s oversized shirt that drowns his frame, and limps slightly as he walks to the kitchen, a lingering reminder of their night of passion and recklessness, and just how much he neglected his healing injury.
His leg hardly hurts now, but it still reminds him in small gestures.

He puts on water for coffee and leans against the counter, staring off into nothing. Reflecting. Thinking, maybe about everything, or maybe about nothing in particular, it’s hard to tell. His thoughts drift aimlessly.

Johnny appears minutes later, Ten hears him approach, barefoot, and knows that if it weren’t for the heater, he’d already be sick by now.
He sees him crossing the hallway, hair messy, just in boxers, silent. He walks up behind him and wraps his arms around Ten’s waist, resting his face between Ten’s neck and shoulder.

“You smell like Sunday…” he murmurs, and Ten smiles softly at the tenderness of it.

“Is that a good thing?”

“It’s the best.”

They're making breakfast together. Johnny slices bread and toasts it in the pan, while Ten beats eggs with onions and spices.
The air is warm, filled with quiet sounds: the bubbling of coffee, the crunch of toasting bread, the soft tap of the spatula against the bowl.

“If you weren’t a dancer…” Johnny starts, breaking the silence, “What would you be?”

“Why are you asking me that?” Ten looks over, a little surprised.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think you put on wings so early, you never gave yourself time to imagine anything else.”

Ten stays silent for a moment. A moment that stretches like minutes as his thoughts drift to his first time stepping barefoot into a dance studio, to all the years he’s lived for dance.

“Maybe a chef,” he finally answers, eyes unfocused.

“Why?” Johnny raises an eyebrow, teasing.

“Because I like what transforms with time and fire.”

Johnny grins.

“You’re so poetic sometimes it makes me want to bite you…”

“Sometimes you do anyway,” Ten laughs, watching Johnny come closer. Johnny brushes his fingers against Ten’s hands, smiles crookedly, and kisses his jaw.

“And you?” Ten asks, pouring the coffee. “What would you do if you left the bikes behind?”

Johnny’s face goes serious for a moment. He sets the bread down on a plate and sits at the table, watching Ten fill their mugs.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I know who I am without the speed.”

“And with me?” Ten asks softly. “Wouldn’t that be enough?”

Johnny looks at him but doesn’t answer right away.

“It’s enough when I’m here. In this kitchen, watching you smile, cook, love me. Watching you,” he says. “But when I’m on the bike… everything else fades. The worries, the weight of everything. It’s like I forget what hurts.”

Ten swallows hard.

“Am I something that hurts you?”

Johnny shakes his head.

“You’re what reminds me I’m not invincible.”

After breakfast, they spend the afternoon with books, soft music, and an impromptu pillow fight that nearly ends with Ten collapsed on the floor, breathless from laughter.

Later, they shower together. Johnny still hovers, worried about Ten’s injury. He washes his hair carefully, and Ten returns the gesture by resting his forehead against Johnny’s chest, letting himself lean into him. They don’t say much.
But every touch feels like it’s trying to last forever.

When night falls, they lie side by side in silence. Ten’s head rests on Johnny’s chest, his fingers playing with the silver chain around his neck, the metal glinting faintly under the warm lamp light.
And the city is still, and, for a few hours, the universe is too.

“You know what I want?” Johnny whispers.

“What?”

“To have lots of Sundays like this…”

Ten looks up at him, smiling sadly.

“Me too… even if I don’t know how many we have left.”

Johnny presses his lips together, kisses his forehead, and says nothing more.

And that night, they fall asleep in each other’s arms—not making love, just holding on.
As if, just this once, that was enough.

It’s just another night like so many others. Ten had showered not long ago, wearing one of Johnny’s t-shirts, his hair damp and half-brushed. On the table, remnants of some strawberries they had eaten together. Johnny had gone out to get dinner, and had told Ten to stay and rest since the competition was coming up soon.

His body didn’t hurt as much anymore, but his soul was starting to weigh heavier than ever.
He had spent more time dancing than talking. And Johnny… was disappearing again.

At first, Ten didn’t notice. Or didn’t want to.

On the TV, a jazz instrumental playlist plays softly, the kind that sometimes helps him ease his anxiety, though tonight, it doesn’t work.

Johnny’s phone vibrates on the coffee table. Ten doesn’t reach for it, doesn’t want to read it. He’s not being invasive, it’s not on purpose, but the screen lights up, and with it, so does the wound.

Jaehyun: “Prize confirmed: 15K. One-time race. High visibility. Can we count on you?”

A sharp pain hits him in the chest. It’s not the first time, not the worst either but it’s the kind that hits when you think things are finally starting to take shape.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t cry, doesn’t scream. He just… lets himself fall onto the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His stomach hurts. The thought hurts. Johnny had said he’d take a break—for him… for them.

And yet here it is again, another race, another secret.

When the lock turns and Johnny walks into the apartment with a bag of food in hand and a smile on his lips, he doesn’t realize right away what’s waiting for him.

“I brought ramyeon from that place you like,” he says lightly.

But when he sees Ten on the couch, motionless, holding his phone in his hands, the smile freezes.
The silence that fills the room is brutal.

“What is this?” Ten asks, without raising his voice. He holds up the screen.

Johnny slowly sets the bag down on the coffee table. He already knows what it is, no need to look. A part of him had been waiting for this conversation, had expected the message to come at the right time, for Ten to find out… But it was completely different from what he’d imagined, the pain in Ten’s eyes was unbearable.

“Ten…”

“What. Is. This?”

“It’s just an offer,” Johnny tries to explain. “I haven’t said yes.”

“But you didn’t say no either.”

Johnny takes a step closer, trying to shorten the distance between them, but Ten stands up, he doesn’t want contact. Not yet.

“Again, Johnny?”

“It’s an important race… the prize is big… it could help us.”

“Help us what? Keep holding on to this idea of a future that only I’m sustaining?” Ten spits, growing more and more agitated. “Keep living in this story where I dance to save myself and you race to escape?”

Johnny stays silent. Ten looks at him, his chest rising and falling rapidly. It’s not just anger, it’s exhaustion, accumulated pain.
And he feels like he can’t hold it in any longer, can’t keep turning a blind eye, a deaf ear, while their relationship crumbles more and more, every day felt like it could be the last, and he, naive, or maybe painfully aware, kept choosing to ignore the problems, to give it one more chance, like he always did when it came to Johnny.

And then… the anger, the desperation, the words he’s been holding in, they become too much. And he says it.

“If I win the competition, I’ll take the scholarship and transfer to Chicago…” he says almost in a whisper, staring at Johnny. His lips twist slowly into a confused grimace, he doesn’t know if it’s disgust or just disbelief. “I’m leaving.” Johnny furrows his brow.

“No.”

“Yes, Johnny.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” Ten sighs, turning to grab his jacket. Johnny knows he’s about to walk out, and for the first time in his life, he’s terrified. He had never felt fear, not on the dangerous curves of any race, but now… now he was trembling with it.

“You don't love me anymore?”

“That’s not it.” Ten is exhausted, irritated, done. His words come out drained.

“Then what is it? Tell me.” The oldest clutches his wrist, spinning him around so he can look him in the eyes, so he can hear him, and it’s so painfully clear that it hurts.

“You drag me down!” Ten shouts, eyes wet, body tense. “You don’t bring me with you, Johnny, you push me away whenever you want to run, because you can’t handle the consequences of how badly you treat me when my presence becomes inconvenient! You’re a coward! You can’t love me because you’re afraid of being responsible for hurting me, or worse, for loving me!” Ten yells, through tears, staring into Johnny’s eyes. Johnny, shaken by the sudden outburst, takes a small step back. Until Ten’s tears break him, and he has to say something, needs to say it.

“I love you, Ten.”

“Stop saying that! It’s too late to say it! You’re not here, you were never here!”
Ten cries, his voice cracking, gaze falling to the floor as his tears drop like stones. “And you don’t even love me… And I hate that I don’t care… No, I hate that I care so much that some part of me still understands your shitty behavior…”

“Ten… I’m scared…”

“Of what, exactly?”

“Of losing you…”

“Johnny…” Ten lets out a bitter, resigned laugh. He lifts his gaze, and immediately regrets it, because saltwater is cascading from his eyes. “You already did.”

“No… Don’t go…” he stammers, and it’s the first time Ten has seen him like this: so pathetic and undone, so exposed and vulnerable. He knows he loves him because his body begs him for compassion, begs him to hug him and just say he’ll stay. But he refuses to fall into the same loop again.

“Ten… Without you, I’m nothing… I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, really, I am. I know I’ve been an idiot, more than once. I know I don’t deserve you. I’ve been selfish. I didn’t see you when I should have, I didn’t hear you, I didn’t understand you… And I’m so sorry. I know I’ve said this a hundred times but… I’ll make it different. I promise. I’ll be better. I’ll be what I never was, what you think I’ll never be… I’ll be what I should’ve been from the start…” His knees feel weak and he knows he could kneel in front of him if he had to, because he can’t lose him. He doesn’t want to. He loves him too much to let him go.

“Don’t you dare… Don’t make promises you won’t keep, Johnny. I’m tired of feeling miserable because of your half-assed attempts to make me feel loved… I’m tired of feeling anxious at night waiting for you to come back from your stupid races! I’m done!” He cries, trying to pull away from his grip but Johnny refuses to let go.

“No, no… I… I’ll quit racing! I swear. I’ll stop! I will!” He says it desperately, his voice cracking as he struggles to breathe.
“I’ll get a job… We’ll go to Chicago together! Please… Let’s go to Chicago together…” His voice, breathless, bursts with emotion, with pain, with agony, and Ten can see it clearly as it pours down Johnny’s face in the form of tears, his eyes clenched shut, clinging to the fear of opening them and seeing Ten disappear. He stands still. His lips tremble. So does his heart.

“You’re not going to…”

“I’ll keep my word… I’ll do it for you. Nothing matters to me more than you…”
Johnny’s voice is practically a plea, and each word cuts into Ten’s chest, because he can’t reject the person he loves. He can’t escape what he feels. The thread is too thick, and no one can break it.

“But your race…” Ten murmurs, remembering that infuriating message on Johnny’s phone. And he can’t help but feel guilty.

“It doesn’t matter… Not anymore…”
His hands cradle Ten’s face as he looks at him through tear-filled eyes. “Forget about that…”

“It’s like you’re asking me to forget about my competition…” Ten lifts his eyes to Johnny’s dark ones.

“It’s not important to me.”

“Yes, it is. I know exactly how it feels to do something you love, something that makes all those years of effort feel worth it…” he says softly. And he knows he’ll regret what he’s about to say when his heart starts racing again, waiting for Johnny to come back. But for once, he doesn’t want to be selfish. He wants to believe in him. “You’ll go to that race… But it’ll be the last.
If I really matter to you, you’ll understand.
If you really love me the way you say you do, you’ll do this for me…” he says, like an ultimatum.
Johnny doesn’t hesitate. Not even a shadow of doubt crosses his mind, because he’s ready to do anything for him.

“You matter.”

Ten lets out a shaky sigh and leans into the warmth of those big, rough, hot hands, closing his eyes.

“Do you promise?”

“It’s a promise…” the oldest whispers, taking in every detail of Ten’s face, the softness of his skin, his naturally pink lips, and the few scattered freckles across his cheeks.

“I’ll win. I’ll take the money from the race and go with you to Chicago. We’ll get a little apartment that’s just ours. I’ll take you to every dance class, pick you up, and you’ll come with me to job interviews, you’re my lucky charm, after all.” He says, trying to lighten the mood, and between so much emotion, a sparkling little laugh escapes Ten’s lips. He opens his eyes and looks at him with playful suspicion.

“It better be a good job. Rent in Chicago isn’t cheap.” Ten says, and Johnny smiles.

“Don’t expect too much from someone who barely knows how to fix bikes.”

“For an amateur, that’s pretty useless,” he teases.

“Oh come on, don’t be mean… I’ll try to be more than just the pretty face in this relationship. I’ll become your hard-working Chicago boyfriend.” He says it while watching every change in Ten’s expression, trying to hold back a grin. Ten glances at him sideways, barely pursing his lips.

“Boyfriend…?”

Johnny nods.
And this time, he does it without fear.

The air between them changes.

Not suddenly, not magically, not perfectly, but it changes.

After that night, fear is replaced by a clumsy kind of hope, painful, but alive.
They talk more, touch more, love more, even if Ten still hasn’t taken that final step. That “I love you.”

Johnny shows up at the studio with coffee and sandwiches in the afternoon, even when Ten tells him he’s not hungry.
Ten waits for him outside the garage, holding extra sweaters and offering surprise kisses.

They are on pause, but it’s a conscious pause. The kind that comes right before the leap.

Johnny has three days left until his race. Ten has a little over a week until the competition.

One night, lying on the mattress in their apartment, legs tangled, lights off, Johnny runs his hand slowly across Ten’s back in a hypnotic motion that has become routine.

“Are you nervous?” he asks with a raspy voice.

“Not about the competition,” Ten answers honestly.

“About me?”

Ten doesn’t reply. He turns to face him and places a hand on his cheek.

“I don’t want to worry about whether or not you’ll come back.”

Johnny knows. And even in silence, it hurts him too.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, swallowing hard.

“Always.”

“I think this race it's going to change everything.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to win. Because it’s the last one. And because with that money, I’m starting over… with you.”

Ten feels his chest tighten. He kisses him slowly, one of those kisses with no passion or urgency, just quiet surrender. As if they both know they’re fragile and don’t want to break.

“I’ll be waiting for you when I get off stage,” Ten murmurs against his lips. “With my suitcase ready.”

Johnny smiles.

“And I’ll be waiting for you at the finish line. Helmet in one hand and my heart in the other.”

The night before the race, Johnny can’t sleep. He paces the apartment, checks his suit, helmet, keys, the track.
Ten watches him from the bed, tired, but present.
Eventually, Johnny stops. He stares at the floor in silence and chews on his lower lip. Ten almost smiles at how nervous he is.

“Can you come with me?” Johnny asks softly.

Ten looks at him, and for the first time, he doesn’t say no.

“Yes. I’ll be there.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Johnny crosses the room, kneels beside the bed, and rests his forehead on Ten’s thigh.

“I love you so much it scares me.”

“Then race for yourself,” Ten whispers, closing his eyes and gently stroking his hair. “But come back for me.”

That night, Johnny races.

Ten waits in the safest part of the illegal circuit, sitting on a blanket on the dirt sidewalk, arms crossed and heart clenched.
The roar of the motorcycles, the smell of fuel, the vibration of the asphalt, all of it triggers an instinctive fear, an anxiety that twists his stomach.

But he doesn’t leave. He watches him speed up, he watches him fly, he watches him win.

And when it’s all over, Johnny runs straight to him, eyes shining, helmet in hand, laughter caught in his throat from the thrill.

“I did it! I won!”

Ten greets him standing next to a proud, laughing Yuta. He welcomes him with an embrace that’s more relief than joy.
A hug that says: you're alive, you're here, you kept your word.

Yuta gives him a hug and some praise-filled words that Ten can’t quite catch, still overwhelmed by the emotion, by the calm, by the joy in someone else he cherishes so much. His eyes shimmer with tears as he watches him shine even without the bike under him, as he sees him thrilled, euphoric, and proud of himself.

“How much did you win?” Ten asks when they’re finally alone, back at home.

“Enough to move to Chicago, buy a mattress, live for six months, and pay for cooking classes if you want to learn how to make pasta.”

Ten laughs, unable to help it.

“Or enough to survive two weeks if you don’t get a job,” he adds with irony.

“Then you’re going to have to win that scholarship, dancer.”

“And you’ll have to start waking up early, mechanic.”

They both laugh, but beneath the laughter lies a shared truth: they are imagining a future.
One where love doesn’t hide behind fear, or engines, or scars.

During the following days, Johnny devotes himself entirely to Ten.

He picks him up and drops him off at the studio, becoming a topic of conversation among his dance classmates, even Sicheng, who used to be wary of the idea of his friend dating someone like him.
Johnny makes him breakfast, rubs his legs with warm ointment when the pain flares up, and they fall asleep late, just looking at each other.
They talk about Chicago, about maybe adopting a cat, about a quiet neighborhood, about a dance studio with tall windows.

Neither of them says it, but both are thinking it: Maybe this time, yes, maybe this time it’s real.

The afternoon before the competition is simple and perfect.

For the first time, Johnny wakes up before Ten and, without making a sound, prepares him breakfast. Toast with raspberry jam, oat milk coffee, and a flower stolen from the neighbor’s balcony placed in a glass.

Ten appears in the kitchen doorway, eyes half-closed, rubbing his knuckles against them, wearing one of Johnny’s shirts and mismatched socks.

“Since when do you do this…?”

“Since today,” Johnny smiles. “Because tomorrow you’ll win, and today you need to believe the universe is on your side.”

Ten looks at him, tired but happy. He walks over and hugs him from behind.

“You know… good sex could give me that without all this fuss,” he murmurs against his back. Johnny laughs softly and turns around, looking down at him, lingering on how adorable he looks, taking advantage of their height difference to kiss the crown of his head.

“That would wear you out, and tomorrow you’d look like a sore zombie.”

“Oh, only because you’re rough when you do it,” Ten says, squinting up at him.

“Lies. I’ve been gentle, soft, even lately,” he says, kissing the tip of his wrinkled nose.

“Will you come see me?” Ten asks, sticking out his lower lip in a slight pout.

“I’ll be in the front row. With my best lovestruck fan face and a flag with your name on it.”

“No motorcycle?”

“No motorcycle.”

Ten laughs, resting his forehead against his chest.

“I don’t want to see you distracted… This is important to me.”

“I know…” Johnny grows more serious and cups his face in his hands. “Ten… I know what this means to you, and it makes me so happy that you want me there. No one’s ever asked me to watch them shine before.”

“And I could never shine if I didn’t know you’d be watching.”

They spend the whole day together, go for a walk, buy ice cream even though it’s freezing.
Ten tries on jackets for Chicago, and Johnny makes fun of the beanies that look bad on him. They laugh. They talk about the future as if it already belongs to them.

That night, in bed, they stay wrapped around each other for a long time, saying nothing.

Before falling asleep, Johnny whispers in his ear:

“I promise I’ll be there.”

The theater where the competition is held is packed.
Ten paces back and forth in the dressing room, hands cold and stomach tight.
Pretending to hear Sicheng and the instructor's words, even though his mind is only focused on one thing: Johnny.

He checks his phone more times than necessary. Nothing.

He sends a message.

“You're coming, right? I'm waiting for you.”

Silence.

Ten sighs and forces himself to focus.
He peeks out from behind the curtain to look at the seats, the front row is filled with strangers. The seat Johnny promised to occupy is empty.

Ten goes back to the dressing room, swallowing the tremble.
He wraps his knee, stretches, and looks at his phone again.

Last seen: 2 hours ago.

“Doesn’t matter… He’ll get here,” he murmurs to himself.

He’s pulled from his thoughts when he’s called to the stage, and his limbs tremble as he walks toward the light shining just for him.

The music starts, an instrumental piece, just a piano and a gut-wrenching beat. Ten begins softly, floating.
Every step speaks of loneliness, of struggle, of hope. Every spin hides Johnny’s name within its motion.

Every fall is a wound, every extension a plea.
And when he glances toward the seats, searching for his face… the seat is still empty.

It hurts, but he doesn’t stop.

He dances like it hurts to breathe. As if it’s the last time his body will ever speak. As if every moment they lived together is woven into this choreography.
And in the end, with the final movement, he lands on his knees, head bowed, chest heaving, tears clinging to his lashes.

The audience erupts in applause, rising to their feet. The judges look at each other with obvious admiration.

He won.

He knew it even before they said his name.

But he doesn’t smile, because he’s not there.

In the theater’s dressing room, everyone congratulates him: classmates, organizers, other dancers, his teacher, and Sicheng, who hugs him and offers sweet words of pride and praise. But he doesn’t hear them, there’s a ringing in his ears that deafens everything around him. He feels submerged underwater, the words drowned out by a field that blocks him from the outside world.

Ten looks for one face. Just one.

He scans the room in desperation.

He dials his number again. Nothing.

And then, finally, his phone vibrates. An unknown number. He answers immediately, he knows something is wrong. He can feel it in every part of his soul.

“J-Johnny…?”

“Ten, it’s Yuta…”

Something is definitely wrong. Yuta never even spoke to him enough to have his number. His heart freezes.

“Yuta? What’s going on…?”

“Johnny… got into an accident on the way to the theater. It happened a few hours ago. He’s in the hospital. He's… really bad.”

The noise, the applause, the hugs, the voices, the laughter, the congratulations… everything in the dressing room goes silent. The ringing intensifies.

“Where…?”

Ten doesn’t hang up. He just runs.
Sicheng watches him go, shocked and worried.

He runs with his costume still on, his dance shoes, his makeup smeared by sweat and tears.

And as he runs, one sentence plays over and over in his mind:

“You promised you’d be there.”

The hospital smells like disinfectant and poorly disguised death.

Ten bursts through the entrance like a disoriented ghost, his breath ragged, eyes wide and unfocused. The white lights blind him, and the world spins around him like time itself is mocking him.

And then he sees him.

Yuta is there, in the hallway, his face flushed, hands in his pockets, wearing an expression that says everything before he even speaks.

Ten stops in his tracks, barely able to stay upright.

“No…” he whispers, shaking his head. “No… Don’t tell me…”

Yuta lowers his gaze, and Ten feels his heart collapse. He feels like he might die right there.

“Ten, I’m sorry… He was in really bad shape… They operated, but… he didn’t make it…”

Ten feels the world fall out from under his feet. He takes a step back, then another.
His chest tightens. The tears come without permission.

“No… No, no… it can’t be… He promised me he’d come! He promised me, Yuta! He said he’d be there…”

Yuta catches him before he hits the ground.
Ten collapses against his chest in a raw, broken, animalistic cry.

“He promised he’d come see me dance… He told me he’d be in the front row… I swear it!”

“I know…” Yuta whispers, holding him tightly. “I know, Ten… He was on his way to you…”

Ten screams into his shoulder. He doesn’t care about the people around them, the doctors walking by, the stares.
The pain tears his soul open, like something inside him is being ripped apart.

“I loved him, Yuta… I fucking loved him! Why did he have to die now…? Why now, when we were finally going to be okay…? I didn’t even… I didn’t even get to tell him that I loved him too… I was scared… I… I’m a coward… I never told him I loved him… Why…?”

“Because life is a fucking unfair mess,” Yuta says through gritted teeth, holding back his own tears. “But I swear to you, he… he knew you loved him. He was full of you, Ten. Until the very end.”

They let him into the room hours later, after the crying has stopped, after all the stares have drained him, after he no longer has the energy to shed even one more tear.

Johnny’s body lies on a white stretcher, covered up to his chest.
His lips are slightly parted, eyelashes still, pale, silent, untouched.

Ten approaches, trembling. He lowers the blanket carefully, as if afraid to wake him from a deep sleep. And that’s when he sees it:

Daisy petals stuck to his shirt, bloodstained.
Some on the floor, others crushed against his arm.
Ten covers his mouth with both hands, takes a step back, his heart lurching violently.

“You were bringing them to me…” he whispers through tears. “You were going to bring me flowers, Johnny… You were coming!”

He falls to his knees beside the stretcher, crying over his unmoving abdomen.

“I did it… I danced for you, I won, I did it, Johnny… I did it… and you weren’t there… You left me, you left me alone…”

He stays there for what feels like an eternity, clinging to the body that no longer answers him, with the petals scattered around like small, withered goodbyes.

That night, when he returns to the apartment, everything feels empty. He shivers, feels like he’s wandering aimlessly with every step he takes.

It’s dark when he opens the door, but the moment he does, he notices something strange.

Garlands hanging from thread, with crooked, handmade letters:
“Congrats, dancer.”

And on the table, an improvised cake, covered in cream, slightly melted, with a candle that never got lit.

Ten approaches, trembling, and on the couch… an envelope with his name. He shivers when he sees those three letters written in Johnny’s handwriting.

He’s afraid, feels like he might throw up, but he needs it… He needs to hear him, to feel him. So he opens it with hands dirty from dancing, tears, and dried blood.

“I’m writing this because I know you’ll win.
Because you’re the best, because you’re fire, and art, and devotion.
Because when you dance, the world stops, and I forget to race.

I was never good at expressing myself—you know that.
But if I did one thing right, it was choosing to love you, maybe in the clumsiest, most desperate, most human way I could.

I’m proud of you, and I want to see you shine even when I can no longer watch you.
With all that I am, and all I was.
From one lucky charm to another.
Johnny.”

Ten clutches the letter to his chest and then… he cries.
He cries like never before, like every tear is tearing out a piece of life from within.
He collapses onto the couch and, without realizing it, falls asleep holding that piece of paper, eyes swollen and lips dry.

That night he dreams of butterflies, of daisies, and of Johnny standing in the crowd, watching him dance with eyes full of love.

Because he really did love him until the very end.