Archive of Our Own ^beta

Euijoo often found himself staring at the uneven pavement beneath his moving feet during his late afternoon walks through the quiet Tokyo neighborhood surrounding their dorm.

It was a small, mundane habit that helped him unwind. A habit he tried hard to keep in his daily life, one he’d really grown attached to. And though Euijoo would never admit it out loud—not wanting to seem ungrateful or stir up unnecessary feelings in anyone’s heart—it was one of the reasons he secretly preferred living here, just a little more than staying at the dorm in Korea.

Well, not because of that pavement itself, exactly—but because of everything around it. The peace and the quiet, and the comfort of it all that allowed small habits like this one to exist.

His preference had nothing to do with room arrangements or the size of the flats. It wasn’t about the amenities either—though, admittedly, their Seoul dorm won by a landslide on that front. The company building there offered far more facilities, which his members gladly took advantage of, and it was undeniably more convenient.

The Korean dorm was planted right in the heart of a busy district. The location was practical—chosen for its accessibility, strategically placed so they could reach the office for meetings or practice without getting stuck in Seoul’s seemingly eternal, slow-moving traffic. And of course, Euijoo appreciated that more than anyone, especially in his role as the group’s leader. Even a few extra minutes in the morning felt like a gift from above, making it just a little easier to manage the chaos of nine people living under one roof.

He was grateful, too, for the chance to be back in his home country so frequently, even if he barely had the time to visit his family or meet up with his friends for more than a rushed meal. Speaking his native language freely, whether at work or out in the city, was a kind of comfort he didn’t take for granted.

Some of them didn’t have that. Some of them weren’t that lucky—one of them wasn’t, to be precise. 

And yet, despite all the pros of their Korean dorm—and despite all the undeniable disadvantages of the one in Tokyo—if you asked Euijoo, honestly, to choose between the two, he’d pick Japan without hesitation.

Some might wonder why, of course. Why would anyone choose a foreign city over the comfort of their home country? It seemed absurd, maybe even a little ungrateful. But perhaps Euijoo was just, simply put, peculiar like that.

Their Tokyo dorm was nearly a thirty-minute drive from the company building—longer, on bad traffic days. A far cry from the ten-minute commute in Seoul. But somehow, most of the time, Euijoo didn’t mind. In fact, he was even thankful for the distance.

The dorm sat nestled in a quiet, residential neighborhood—a peaceful place of two-story houses, lovingly tended gardens, and a small green park just a five-minute walk away. There was a Chinese restaurant they ordered from at least three times a week, and even the neighborhood cats—fed year-round by the elderly couple across the street—seemed to recognize them by now.

Euijoo loved going out for those late-night strolls through nearly empty streets that he’d already memorised like the back of his hand. Loved the stillness broken only by the distant laughter of a family from inside their house or the chatter of birds hidden in the trees, high above.

And as always on those walks, he loved studying the pavement beneath his feet.

Once smoothly leveled and orderly, the brickwork was now broken and uneven in places—torn apart by the underground roots of nearby trees that had slowly but surely forced their way through, leaving the pavement’s perfect surface cracked and fractured.

It looked like the Earth had grown veins or gotten scars, even.

Streaks mimicked the faint green lines on wrists, the backs of palms, the sides of necks. Imitated wounds that had never quite healed. Or maybe they’d healed fully but chose to keep themselves as a forever memory, now almost exposed to the air, protected only by the thin layer of the man-made walkway.

Oh, right.

That was where his train of thoughts had started in the first place. With the uneven pavement that he liked to watch on his walks. The pavement that, in his slightly twisted mind, resembled the arms of someone. Someone who mattered to him more than he cared to admit.

Euijoo had known about the scar on Nicholas’ right arm since ages—ever since their first survival show, in fact.

It had taken only a second for him to notice it, just a fleeting glimpse during their initial, awkward introductions, when Nicholas had pushed up the sleeves of his hoodie, his face slightly flushed in the stuffy, overcrowded room where all the trainees had gathered for the first time.

But that one second was enough. The scar was wide and pale, and it curved around his forearm just below the elbow—Euijoo hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

He thought about it during that program, lying awake in the dark, long after lights-out, the silence of the dorm too loud for him to fall asleep. He thought about it during practice and during rehearsals, counting beats and steps while his mind wandered through the same looping choreography and that passing image of the scar. He thought about it after they were eliminated and made to visit the filming site again, trying not to look in Nicholas’ direction, afraid that the intensity of his gaze might give him away.

He thought about it later, too—alone in the empty practice rooms and dim vocal studios of the company building, where the silence made the future feel even more uncertain, and where that scar became a strange, persistent anchor in the mess of his thoughts.

And he thought about it even more when, against all odds, he was offered a spot on the new survival program—the one that might’ve finally been his way to debut. He tried not to think about it as he stepped into yet another freezing cold conference room, heart pounding as he faced a lineup of three familiar faces, all of them just as desperate and hopeful as he was.

He thought about it again that night, lying in bed with a mix of emotions buzzing too loud to name, and again—against his will—in the shower, where the freezing spray of water couldn’t wash the image of the scar from his mind.

By then, Euijoo was almost certain he was far beyond salvation.

The first time they made out in one of the company’s practice rooms, Euijoo didn’t dare bring it up.

Because what was he even supposed to say?

That he thought his peer’s completely ordinary-looking scar was hot? That he’d been fixated on it ever since catching a glimpse during their first day of filming, all those months ago? That he’d spent far too many sleepless nights wondering how it would feel—how it would taste—beneath his tongue?

Yeah, no. That kind of confession had failure written all over it. Surely, at best, Nicholas would’ve laughed at him. At worst, he’d be weirded out, or maybe even offended. Euijoo didn’t know the story behind the scar, didn’t know if bringing it up would dredge up something painful. Whatever the reaction, it wasn’t worth the risk—not when they’d only just started getting on better terms.

You see, making friends had never been Euijoo’s strong suit. He knew he was likeable—the people around him told him that often enough. But the whole process of becoming close to someone new was an entirely different story. He overthought every interaction, overanalyzed every silence and every smile. He was, simply put, awkward and, unfortunately, it showed. Multiple people throughout his life had pointed that out—never unkindly, but still.

So befriending Nicholas had been a huge step on its own. Nicholas, who used to rarely smile, who barely spoke, who almost never made eye contact without that unreadable, dark glint in his eyes? Euijoo thanked the beings above every chance he got—for whatever strange twist of fate had allowed him to form a bond with someone so guarded—even if, deep down, all he could think about was a scar the other boy had never once mentioned.

And that’s why, when it finally happened—when weeks of—seemingly mutual?—tension broke in one unspoken second—Euijoo didn’t say a thing.

They weren’t even fighting that day—not seriously, at least. Just snapping at each other, raw and worn out after another sixteen-hour day, both of them exhausted and pushing too hard, not even meaning half the things they were saying by that point. Nicholas had thrown something sharp about Euijoo’s missed steps. Euijoo had snapped back sharper about Nicholas’ too-stiff stance. The silence after that stretched heavy and it hung in the stale air like static—both of them still breathing hard from practice, neither moving to leave, nor to keep going.

Nicholas looked good like this—Euijoo’s mind always, inevitably, went there.

Sweat clinging to his temple, damp strands of too-long hair, he insisted on growing out, stuck to his forehead and the nape of his neck, the curve of his throat flushed bright and red under the collar of his shirt. The sleeves were long enough to brush his elbows, but short enough that Euijoo had an unobstructed view of the scar—stark and pink, flushed like it always got when Nicholas danced like he was already performing under stage lights, not just practicing in a room full of mirrors.

It was stupid how clearly he could see it at that moment. Stupid how easily he noticed it first, even with everything else about Nicholas demanding to be looked at.

Then, the next thing Euijoo could register was a hand grabbing his shirt forcefully at the waist—and suddenly, they were kissing.

It was a messy kiss, and it was reckless, and it was something clearly snapping between them. Euijoo instantly knew it was stupid—a thousand worried, alarmed thoughts flashing through his head all at once: they can’t do this here, they can’t be doing this at all, they can’t be in this situation with their last chance at debuting within reach, what if someone sees them?—but then Nicholas’ mouth crashed against his with so much force it made Euijoo stagger half a step back, catching himself on the wall with a hand that barely missed the soundboard—and just like that, his mind went completely empty.

He let himself unravel under the eagerness of Nicholas’ tongue inside his mouth, under those feverish hands moving over his body with a kind of desperation Euijoo wasn’t in the right state of mind to question. Everything was heat and friction, and too much, and not enough, and it made his thoughts dissolve, every last one of them, until all he could do was feel.

He felt slightly lightheaded, and the room swam in his vision for a second when he realized Nicholas’ right arm was caging him in, his hand buried in Euijoo’s hair, and the stretch of skin just beneath his elbow—right where the scar carved its prominent line across his body—was brushing against Euijoo’s bare shoulder.

Euijoo had to really, really will himself not to get overwhelmed by how smooth and warm it felt against him. By how utterly insane it was to finally know the texture of it—to no longer have to lie awake at night imagining, aching for something he felt guilty of wanting, never sure if he would ever be allowed to touch.

And then Nicholas laughed against his lips—hot and a bit wrecked—and dropped his head down, breathless, like he couldn’t quite help it. He mumbled a quiet sorry, you looked too hot right then into the crook of Euijoo’s neck, just beneath his jaw, mouthing lazily at the skin there—probably thinking about the absurdity of the moment and how it had finally caught up to him—and Euijoo felt like he was falling.

The crazy thing about kissing—and occasionally getting off with—the person who is also gradually becoming your best friend is that there’s never really a clear point where one thing ends and the other begins.

It just happens if you let it—both slowly and all at once—bleeding from practice rooms into late-night food runs, from frustration into laughter, from tension into comfort, and back again. One moment you’re pressing him up against a wall because you don’t know how else to handle how close he always stands and how intensely he always looks at you; the next, you’re half-asleep beside him on the first night after finally finding the other five pieces of your new family—on the floor of your new dorm’s living room, his knee brushing yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And you never talk about it, of course you don’t.

Because talking might ruin it, or might define it, or worse—make you realize you’re in way deeper than you’re supposed to be, tangled in something holding far more emotion than just sexual attraction. And that’s something you’d really, really rather not have to deal with.

You do spend a lot of time thinking about it, though.

About whether talking would change your dynamic, about how your best friend would react if you brought the unspoken secret up. Would they admit to feeling something more, just like you do? Would they confess that they feel feverish thinking about your smile and your laugh, just as you do about theirs? Would they reach for your hand, interlocking fingers without a single care in the world?

Or would they freeze in place, their eyes darting away from yours, mumbling something about how this is wrong, leaving you wounded and open, alone?

Euijoo spent countless days, weeks, even months pondering over this—lying awake during those late-night silent moments when the world around him faded and his mind raced through every possible scenario. Sometimes he imagined Nicholas reaching out, their fingers intertwining easily, and a shy smile breaking through the usual guarded expression. Other times, he saw the opposite: Nicholas pulling away, the light in his eyes dimming, leaving Euijoo stranded in a sea of doubt and vulnerability.

But the truth was as it was, neither of them had ever had the courage to speak up about it—outside of their kiss-drunk haze. The space between them remained filled with tension, lingering touches, and stolen glances that said everything without saying anything at all. It was a fragile balance—one neither wanted to disrupt, yet both, at least that’s what Euijoo thought, secretly hoped would shift.

And so, they carried on—kissing in the privacy of their shared dorm room, teasing and pushing boundaries in locked vocal rooms and stuffy, dark closets, just enough to feel the adrenaline without breaking the delicate thread holding their friendship together. Because sometimes, the most complicated things are the ones you don’t say out loud, even if, deep down, you’d really wish they could finally be out in the open.

But then the meeting comes, and you never get the chance to talk about it, even if it’s ripping you apart to do so.

The room feels too small, too cold, and too heavy with expectations, and suddenly everything around you shifts, making it hard for you to breathe. Your name is called, and with it comes the weight of leadership—a title you hadn’t dared imagine for yourself, not amidst all the chaos and worries swirling in your head at all times.

Your best friend is there, sitting across the table, their eyes briefly meeting yours before flickering away, unreadable as ever. There’s so much you want to say, so many questions to ask, but the words catch in your throat. Instead, you nod, giving your members a small tight smile, as they go around sharing their encouragement. You accept the responsibility and mask the uncertainty with a hard press of your fingertips against your skin under the table, where no one else can see your trembling hands.

And then, after the meeting breaks up, and the group disperses quickly, the air stays thick with your own nerves and anticipation. You linger for a moment longer, staring down at your palms as if they might offer some kind of answer. The scar on your best friend’s arm flashes in your mind uninvited—a silent reminder of everything left unsaid, and of the distance that you’ve just decided to put between you, now that the stakes are higher than ever.

And just like that, the fragile balance feels even more precarious. Because leading a group means making choices and taking control—and sometimes, you tell yourself, that means pushing away the people you care about most, even when it’s the last thing you want to do. Especially if you care about them a little too much, in a way that feels a little too twisted to name.

You tell yourself it’s for the best, even as that scar lingers in your mind longer than usual—impossible to forget.

It started small—so small Euijoo thought, maybe even hoped, that Nicholas wouldn’t notice.

He still acted like himself, to the best of his ability. Still showed up to every hangout on their days off, if Nicholas invited him at a respectable hour. Still laughed at his dumb jokes in the group chat. Still passed him water bottles during practice and smiled to himself whenever Nicholas mumbled something half-asleep backstage at music shows before the sun had the chance to rise.

He wasn’t avoiding him—or at least, he didn’t want it to look that way. And really, he didn’t want to be avoiding him at all. Nicholas hadn’t done anything wrong. He was still Euijoo’s best friend, still the person he trusted more than anyone. But something had to change and Euijoo figured changing himself was the easiest way through.

So he made a choice for both of them—quietly, without asking what Nicholas might’ve thought of it. He told himself he’d stop looking at him the way he used to. That he’d stay his friend, and only that. Even if it meant pretending nothing else had ever tried to take root.

He no longer held his gaze longer than necessary. No longer lingered beside him when the members collapsed onto benches after rehearsal. He kept his touches fleeting: a quick pat to the shoulder, a shove to the side during warmups—nothing that left room to breathe, to settle, or to feel. He avoided sitting next to him whenever he could help it. That space on the living room’s couch, the empty spot at the dinner table, the stretch of floor during cooldown—they became buffers he couldn’t risk giving up.

He told himself it was temporary—that it was just a phase, a transition period of sorts, one that would help him adjust better. That this new responsibility—this title, this weight of leadership—demanded discipline. That he had to pull himself back from the messy comfort he’d let himself fall into. That there were people depending on him now and he had to take care of them first and foremost. That he couldn’t risk jeopardizing their future—his future—over his own selfish, stupid desires.

Yet still, without fail, he felt it every time Nicholas looked at him a beat too long during silent car rides or through their reflections in the practice room’s mirror. Every time their hands brushed and Euijoo flinched like he’d touched a live wire.

No one else seemed to notice the shift, thankfully. Or if they did, they didn’t say anything. But, of course, Euijoo saw it in Nicholas—in the smallest of things. In the twitch of Nicholas’ jaw when he didn’t laugh at something he usually would have. When his answers grew shorter during their sacred nightly debriefs. When he eventually stopped reaching first.

Still, Euijoo held his ground—he had to.

Because he was sure that if he let Nicholas look at him like that again—like he knew him, like he saw the real him beneath the wall he put up in front of himself, like he wanted him just as badly—he’d fall right back into him, all over again. He’d forget the stakes—let himself desire too much—and eventually lose himself.

That fragile balance they’d always walked before? Yes, it had already cracked, whether Euijoo wanted to admit it or not—but he couldn’t let it shatter completely.

And then came that night—when it all slipped.

It was already late and half the dorm was asleep, or, at least, pretending to be. Euijoo was just getting back from doing a solo live at the company building, his brain still spinning as always—had he said too much? Or not enough? Had he done well?

He didn’t even make it to his room.

Right there in the dark hallway, Nicholas caught his wrist—quietly, but with a grip firm enough that Euijoo stopped mid-step. He’d expected Nicholas might still be up, but he hadn’t heard him approach, and the suddenness of it startled him.

His breath caught. For a few long seconds, Euijoo didn’t turn to face him—just stared down at the soft shadow of their hands, his skin burning beneath Nicholas’ touch. He knew what was coming.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Nicholas’ voice was low—rough with sleep or some heavier emotion. Still quiet enough not to wake the others, but laced with something sharp. Something meant to cut.

“I’m not,” Euijoo said too quickly. “It’s not that—”

“Right,” Nicholas scoffed, and the sound of it made Euijoo flinch more than he meant to. He didn’t sound annoyed or angry, but simply disappointed.

Euijoo couldn’t remember the last time that had been directed at him.

He finally turned to say something—to defend himself, or to apologize maybe—but seeing the expression on Nicholas’ face stopped him short.

He looked impossibly tired and frustrated, like he'd just spent too long beating himself up, trying to come up with an explanation for their situation. Like he was searching to find the right starting point in Euijoo’s mess of a head that even he himself couldn’t make sense of sometimes.

Eyebrows drawn, jaw tight, eyes shadowed in the dim hallway light. His sleep shirt was rumpled and slipping off one shoulder, but the fabric wasn’t low enough to cover the sharp line on his forearm—Euijoo hated himself for how fast his brain went somewhere it shouldn’t. Somewhere he hadn’t let it wander in what felt like ages.

“I don’t get it,” Nicholas said finally. “One day we’re fine, and the next it’s like I’m radioactive.”

“That’s not fair. This is—”

“It’s not?” Nicholas leaned in slightly. “You won’t look at me. You barely touch me. You act like I did something wrong and won’t even tell me what it is.”

His voice softened, but the ache in it was worse than any accusation.

“I just want to understand, Juju.”

Euijoo hated the way his throat tightened at the nickname—the softness of it, the way the familiarity was meant to disarm him. He swallowed around the guilt forming in his chest and took a breath like he was going to lie. But he didn’t really.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said, voice tired, more than anything. “It’s me.”

Nicholas blinked, jaw twitching involuntarily, his restless tongue pressed hard into the inside of his cheek. “I figured that much.”

Euijoo looked away again, to the side first, then to the floor, anywhere but at Nicholas’ face. “I’m trying to do this right,” he said, gesturing vaguely like that would somehow explain everything. “With the group. With—being the one who holds everything together now. I can’t—” He exhaled, shaky. “I can’t be selfish, Nicholas.”

“That’s not selfish,” Nicholas replied in Korean, for the first time since he caught him, and it hit Euijoo like oncoming traffic. 

“It is.” He snapped back in Japanese again, insistent, his voice coming out more forceful than he intended. He didn’t miss the way Nicholas winced at the deliberate distance he was trying to put into the conversation, not letting his mother tongue betray him and spill his thoughts raw as they were. “Wanting you like that… letting it get out of control. It’s reckless. And if anything goes wrong, I won’t be the only one who pays for it.”

“So what,” Nicholas said, stepping in closer, “you think pushing your best friend away makes you a better leader?”

“Don’t put it like that,” Euijoo’s voice threatened to break. “But, yes. I do think pretending whatever this is doesn’t exist is safer.”

“For who? You? Or me?”

Euijoo didn’t answer that. His silence only seemed to press Nicholas harder, his hand still wrapped around his wrist, the other lifting slowly to Euijoo’s shoulder. He wasn’t rough—he never was, not with Euijoo, not with the members—but there was tension in the way he held him now. Not only frustration but a bit of tenderness. Desperation too, maybe.

“You don’t stop being a person just because you have some title now,” Nicholas said firmly. “You still get to want things.”

“You don’t get it—”

“No,” Nicholas cut in. “I do. I get what it means to have something to lose. I get the pressure. I get the fear. But if you think pushing me away is the responsible thing to do, you’re not being careful—you’re just scared.”

That landed hard—Euijoo felt it deep in his gut. His lips parted like he was going to argue, but all that came out was a breath, trembling and hollow.

Nicholas’ hand slid up, cupping the side of Euijoo’s neck with aching gentleness. “I don’t want to be another thing you’re scared of.”

For a moment, Euijoo let it be quiet between them again—let the hallway buzz around them, let the heat of Nicholas’ palm sink into his skin. He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe.

And then he leaned in to kiss him.

It wasn’t anything close to graceful. It wasn’t careful in the least. It was messy, rushed, and far too full of something he’d been trying to bury under distance and duty. Nicholas made a noise against his mouth—something both frustrated and relieved—and stepped forward fully, crowding him against the wall.

His hands found Euijoo’s hips like magnets and his fingers dug in. Euijoo tugged Nicholas closer by the hem of his sleep shirt, all his logic gone, abandoned in the heat that was taking over him. He shouldn’t be doing this—not now, not like this—but Nicholas’ mouth was against his jaw, his neck, and the dip of his collarbone, and suddenly Euijoo didn’t care.

Without thinking much, they managed to find their way into the living room, fumbling through the dark like it was the only language they wanted to speak in—grinding, panting, and exploring old territory like they’d both been starving for it. It was fast and hot and a little frantic, their clothes pushed just far enough out of the way to feel everything they needed. Nicholas mouthed at his shoulder, bit down lightly, and whispered something that might’ve been his name or just a plea—and Euijoo broke with it, letting go with a choked-off gasp into Nicholas’ chest.

And then there was silence—heavy, sticky silence, like the air had collapsed on their shoulders after realisation kicked in.

Nicholas kept his arms around him, breath slow and warm against the side of Euijoo’s face as he drifted into sleep on the couch. Euijoo let the quiet linger, for just a few seconds longer than he should have, before slowly peeling himself away. He didn’t say a word as he fixed his clothes back into place. Didn’t look back as he tiptoed across the hall and into the dorm room they didn’t share anymore.

And when the couch creaked softly behind him—Nicholas shifting, maybe settling under the blanket Euijoo had half a mind to pull over him—he shut his eyes tight and pretended none of it had happened. Pretended his skin wasn’t still tingling. Pretended he hadn’t betrayed himself—betrayed them both—all over again.

Whenever you walk through the quiet neighborhoods of suburban Tokyo, you get reminded that the roots growing under the pavement could live there forever, if left alone—quiet and patient, pressing upward in slow defiance. They don’t ask for attention, but they take it anyway: tripping your step and cracking the concrete beneath your feet. It’s their soft rebellion of sorts, a constant insistence that they had always been there—probably long before you.

They remain there until someone decides they’ve overstayed their welcome—until the tree is cut down and the sidewalk is patched over, leaving behind hollow fractures. Leaving you looking at empty seams where something glorious used to grow.

Sometimes, you look at those cracks and wonder if there’s a way to save the roots before they die too. Before the thing that made them worth keeping—the towering, beautiful tree above—is torn out by the very things it once nourished. People always blame the roots. Say they ruin the foundation. Say they make the path impossible to walk on. But no one ever asks if it was the tree—its beauty and its reach—that made the roots stretch so far out in the first place.

Euijoo never thought of the roots as an obstacle.

Nicholas had always been the tree to him—alive and brilliant, radiant with love and light, full of things that grew just by being near him. Something worth circling your whole world around. And to Euijoo, he wasn’t just the leaves or the branches or the light that shone through them—he was the roots, too. The hidden parts and the difficult ones as well. The ones that broke through concrete just to stay close—the ones that helped define who he really was, in whole.

Euijoo had loved all of it before, and he still did now.

But it was also Euijoo who stood at the edge, hands deep in his pockets, pretending not to feel the roots curling around his ankles, threading painfully into his skin. Not because he thought they were ugly—but because he was terrified of what they meant. It was easier to act like the ground was still even. Like nothing had shifted beneath his feet. Easier to keep walking forward without ever looking down.

And yet, the roots kept growing. Quiet at first, then suddenly—completely. They worked their way into every fragile crack: his routines, his thoughts, the tender hours when he wasn’t careful enough to guard himself. And by now, the pavement beneath him had split wide open, and Euijoo didn’t know how to cover it back up without cutting something vital out of himself anymore.

He tried. God, he tried. Tried to forget the way Nicholas’ mouth felt against his throat. The tremble in his voice when he whispered his name like it was the only thing he still trusted. The way their bodies fit together like they’d been shaped by the same loving hand.

He tried to keep the roots at bay—but the more he pulled back and struggled, the more they clung on and the deeper they sank in, gripping him harder and growing wilder. Now, Euijoo could barely breathe around Nicholas, afraid of the way his own heart squeezed the control from his body and from his mind.

There was no pretending now. No way to shrink it down, or shove it into a safer shape. No use telling himself it was just about the scar—just about that one beautiful, intimate part of Nicholas that he would obsess over and still pretend he wasn’t too far gone.

He couldn’t do that any longer, because Euijoo loved Nicholas—with all of himself.

And there was no denying it anymore. The roots weren’t just under the pavement. They were everywhere around him now, and they weren’t letting go.

Months pass. 

Things with your best friend fall back into place—not entirely, of course, but enough that you both feel comfortable again. Enough that the silence isn't strained, and the laughter returns, soft and familiar.

There’s still tension sometimes—you still have to force your eyes away from their arms, still have to shift when your knees brush for too long on the couch, still pretend not to see the look in their eyes when they find yours from across the room. But you make do. You have to. Because being on awkward terms with your groupmate is too risky—too visible and too easy to read into. You need to stay focused and grounded. You have to stay professional.

You reach a kind of unspoken agreement. It’s never verbalized, but you both know it’s there. Your best friend starts trusting you again. You fall back into old rhythms—nights spent side by side in front of the TV, ramen shared from the same pot, quiet conversations that stretch into sleep. And sometimes, on the rarest of days when everything feels too heavy to carry, you let yourself fall asleep in their bed again, just like before.

It’s what you wanted, after all. To have them back and to stop hurting them with your confusion.

But the roots are still there—coiled tight around your ankles, your chest and your throat. They never leave—they only grow deeper and deeper, and every step you take around them stretches them tighter. Still, you keep trying to ignore them. It’s the right thing to do.

Or so you keep telling yourself.

Euijoo was out on one of his usual walks in the nighbourhood—late in the evening, after another long day of work. The streets were quiet and the sky hung low and heavy, like it was about to rain but couldn’t quite follow through. The air felt still, waiting for something.

He turned the corner, and stopped.

The trees lining his favorite alley—his quiet place, the one he always walked through when he needed to breathe—were being cut down.

Some were already gone, reduced to nothing but raw stumps. Others stood mid-fall, their branches snapped and tangled, limbs broken like bent joints. A few lay flat across the sidewalk, roots exposed and tangled in ripped soil—almost skeletal. The sharp scent of sap and torn bark hung thick in the air. The pavement around them was already being cleared and the cracks smoothed over like they’d never been there at all.

Euijoo stared at it all frozen, at the raw and gaping emptiness left behind.

It hit him all at once—that this was exactly what he’d been doing. To himself and to Nicholas, to what they were and what they could be. Trying to rip something beautiful out of his chest just because the roots had made the ground uneven—just because they made everything feel a little too dangerous and a little too vulnerable to walk across.

But when you tear something out like that, it doesn’t leave you clean. It leaves you hollow and cracked. And even if you patch the ground after, you’re still walking over a grave.

Euijoo walked home in a daze, hands deep in his pockets, with his head down. His chest felt empty, but full of noise. Loud with the truth he’d buried so carefully it was almost a relief to finally feel it breaking open.

When he stepped back into the dorm, the flat was dim and quiet. The flicker of the TV lit up the living room in pale flashes, and there—tucked into the corner of the couch, blanket around his shoulders, hair mussed from where he'd probably been lying for a while—was Nicholas.

He looked up toward the entrance, as the door clicked shut and his eyes met Euijoo’s.

Something passed between them—hesitation, maybe, or recognition. Perhaps a flicker of something like hope.

Euijoo’s throat closed. He didn’t stop walking until he was standing right in front of him.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said simply, the words coming out rough and unpolished.

Nicholas blinked up at him, confused. “Do what?”

“This.” Euijoo gestured vaguely between them, then let his hand drop. “Pretending I don’t feel what I feel. Ignoring it. I’ve been trying to push it down because I was scared. I thought it’d just… ruin everything. But it’s not going away. And I’m tired of pretending it’s not there.”

Nicholas stared at him, mouth slightly open like the air had caught in his lungs.

“You’re saying you—?”

“I can’t keep doing this, Nico,” Euijoo said, voice cracking slightly. “I’d rather pack up and move to another country again than spend one more day acting like I don’t love you.”

Nicholas stilled, and Euijoo hoped he’d never have to see that devastated look on his face again.

“You love me?”

Euijoo nodded once, eyes stinging. “I do. I—I don’t even know when it started. It just... happened. Like it was supposed to. And all this time, I was so scared to admit it because it didn’t feel like I was allowed to. But it’s there—it’s always been there.”

Nicholas let out a long breath, like he’d been holding it in for months. Then he whispered, “I can’t believe it took you this long,” and shook his head. “You’re so—You’re such a fucking idiot, you know that?”

But he was smiling. And he was already reaching for him.

Euijoo let himself be pulled down into his arms. The contact felt like gravity realigning itself—like standing still for the first time in months.

They didn’t speak much after that. There was nothing left to explain. Only the warmth of each other’s bodies, the familiar weight of limbs tangled together, and the press of their foreheads as they kissed—slow and careful, like something they’d both been carrying for a long time, finally blooming.

Later, in the quiet of Nicholas’ room, when their bodies were wrapped around each other and the world had gone hushed again, Euijoo traced the scar on Nicholas’ forearm with his fingers. Taking it in, not like something forbidden anymore—but like something treasured. Something understood.

He pressed his lips to it, gently. Reverently. And this time, he didn’t hold anything back.

He let himself love it. All of it—all the roots and all the branches.

All of Nicholas.