Archive of Our Own ^beta

A humid late August afternoon, college lecture hall—one of those mandatory general elective classes that packs students from all majors into one room. Hyuntak slouches into a seat at the back, ten minutes early, earbuds in, already tired of the day.

He notices him before his brain registers it.

I didn’t expect to see anyone familiar here, much less him .

Keum Seongje walks in like it’s nothing. Like we didn’t spend most of senior year avoiding eye contact in the same rooms. Like he didn’t fall asleep once on my shoulder after Baku and Baekjin’s breakup, and I didn’t let him.

He looks different. Still sharp around the eyes, but softer around the mouth now. Hair dyed a quieter brown. School ID clipped to his lanyard, a department logo I can’t read from here—nursing? Engineering? I don’t know.

I should look away. Pretend I didn’t see him. He didn’t see me either. That would be the adult thing to do.

But he does. His gaze drags over the room once and stops. On me.

And just like that, we're back in it.

Not the past, exactly. Just...that unnamed space we used to sit in. Together but not together . No one’s mess but ours.

He doesn’t smile. Just tilts his chin like a challenge.

I raise my brows, just a little. Fine.

Come sit, then. See what happens.

A week after, there were no text messages, not even a glance whenever they crossed paths at college hall. Until one night. 

The house party is loud—too loud for someone like Seongje, who doesn’t even know why he came. The beer’s flat. The lights are low. A girl’s laughing into his ear, her fingers curled lightly into his shirt. She smells like strawberries and trouble he doesn’t care about.

He smiles. It's convincing enough.

He's halfway to kissing her.

And then—

The front door opens.

He sees him .

Hyuntak. In a white tee that clings just a bit too well. A thrifted leather jacket slung careless over his shoulders. Black jeans torn at the knees. Sharp eyes. A mouth that knows too much.

Seongje freezes mid-laugh.

The girl says something, giggles again. He doesn’t hear it.

Because Hyuntak just tipped his head back in that bored, slow scan of the room—and their eyes met. One glance. That’s all.

And Seongje forgets the girl’s name.

Hyuntak sees it.
Of course he does.

Seongje looking at him like he’s a fucking ghost. Like he wasn't the one pressed up against Hyuntak’s bedroom wall two summers ago, saying this doesn’t mean anything before kissing him like it did.

Hyuntak smirks. It’s faint. Cruel in the way he knows Seongje will feel it.

He makes his way through the room, unfazed, stopping only when someone hands him a drink. He nods in thanks. Doesn’t look back.

Seongje excuses himself without even kissing the girl.

Later, in the parking lot, they don’t speak.

They just exist—Seongje leaning against the Rover, keys in hand. Hyuntak tosses his jacket in the backseat like he owns it.

“You didn’t look happy to see me,” Hyuntak says, almost teasing.

“I was surprised,” Seongje answers flatly. “You weren’t invited.”

“Didn’t know you cared.”

A pause.

“I don’t.”

They stare at each other. Tension stretched so thin it hurts to breathe.

And then Seongje says, quieter, like a fucking dare:

“You gonna get in or what?”

In the car , it’s quiet except for the song playing and the way memories hang between them like smoke.

Hyuntak studies the dashboard, then Seongje’s profile. Same sharp jaw. Same hands on the wheel—careless but controlled.

They didn’t talk about the party. Or the subject they’re both stuck in. Or high school. Or that one night Baekjin cried in Seongje’s lap while Hyuntak stood outside the room, waiting without asking why.

Then—
A turn that doesn’t lead to the dorms.

“You missed it,” Hyuntak says, voice low. Distant buildings roll past, unfamiliar.

“No,” Seongje says, eyes still on the road. “I didn’t.”

Hyuntak’s chest tightens. Maybe it’s the way Seongje says it—so calm, so sure. Like he planned this. Like he knew Hyuntak would follow. Like he’s always been a little too good at pulling Hyuntak apart without touching him at all.

Something inside him snaps.

No warning. No permission.

Just the sound of his seatbelt clicking loose, and then—

Hyuntak lunges, grabbing the front of Seongje’s hoodie and crashing their mouths together with all the restraint of a year and a half of silence.

The car isn’t even fully parked yet. The wheels jerk slightly as Seongje slams the brake, barely catching himself before his head hits the seat. But he doesn’t push Hyuntak away.

He grips his jacket instead, tight, fingers curling into the fabric like he’s trying to hold onto something he never got to name.

“Fucking—” Seongje breathes against his mouth, already pulling him closer. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think,” Hyuntak growls.

Their mouths collide again—this time slower. Messier. Familiar.

Seongje kisses like a dare. Hyuntak kisses like a threat. And somewhere in between, they forget they’re supposed to pretend none of this matters.

Hyuntak climbs over the console, nearly knocking the gear into neutral. Their knees hit, limbs fumbling, breath catching. The leather seats creak. One of them laughs—sharp, breathless, teeth against throat.

“Backseat,” Seongje mutters, voice wrecked.

“You move first,” Hyuntak shoots back, hands already pulling him down.

They never make it to the backseat.

Because right there—driver’s side reclined, Hyuntak straddling him, both of them too far gone to stop—they came undone.

No labels.
No history.
No future.

Just this.

The apartment is clean. Too clean. Cold white walls, dark laminate floors, not much decoration. Clinical—like it doesn’t belong to anyone. Like no one stays long enough to leave a mark.

Hyuntak stares at the ceiling.

The sheets smell like detergent. The AC hums too loud. His bare skin’s still hot in places Seongje touched him, kissed him, bit him—but he didn't move.

Behind him, Seongje’s already turned over. Back facing him. Breathing even.

Like this was just another Friday night. Like they didn’t just cross the line again , even after years of not talking about what the fuck they even were.

And it hits Hyuntak.

That this isn’t the first time they’ve done this.

Not even close.

two years ago. Baku’s room. 01:27AM.

The TV was still on, playing something loud and animated. The floor was scattered with empty chip bags, tangled charging cords, and Baekjin’s jacket thrown over the back of the swivel chair like always.

Hyuntak sat on the floor, leaned back against the bed frame, thumbing through his phone. Seongje sat on the edge of Baku’s bed, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the screen but clearly not watching.

They were alone.

Baku and Baekjin had gone out twenty minutes ago to buy drinks and fishcakes, half-arguing about whether the 24/7 store would still have grape soda.

It was a normal Friday night.

Or it was supposed to be.

“You think they’ll break up?” Seongje asked suddenly, voice low.

Hyuntak glanced at him. 

“Why would they? They’re fine.”

Seongje didn’t answer, just gave a tiny shrug. But the crease between his brows deepened. His fingers picked at the blanket beside him.

Hyuntak sat up straighter. 

“Did something happen?”

“No,” Seongje muttered. “Not really.”

Not really. Not exactly. Not yet.

The air felt…wrong. Heavily quiet. Like something coming apart in slow motion.

Hyuntak hated it.

“It’s not our business,” he said, not unkindly.

“I know.”

“Then why do you look like you're waiting for it?”

That made Seongje laugh. Just once. Quiet and tired.

“Because if they do break up…” he started—and then stopped himself. His eyes flicked up, met Hyuntak’s.

“Then there’s no reason for us to see each other anymore.”

And just like that—there it was.

The thing neither of them ever said out loud.

They only ever saw each other because of Baku and Baekjin. Every Friday night. Every hangout. Every accidental moment stretched into something intimate. The way they sat too close. The way silence between them never felt awkward.

There was no "them."

Just circumstance.
Just… proximity.

But here they were. Alone. For what could be the last time.

Hyuntak stood up.

So did Seongje.

They didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t ask for it.

But Hyuntak walked forward, and Seongje didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just watched him with that unreadable look, like he knew exactly what was about to happen but still couldn’t believe it.

Then Hyuntak kissed him.

Soft.
Almost careful.

Like he wanted to remember it.

Like he knew he’d never get another chance.

Seongje kissed back, hard. Hands in Hyuntak’s hoodie. Mouth open, breath shaking. Like this was punishment. Like he wanted to forget everything but this.

They didn’t hear the front door.

Didn’t hear the shattering silence when Baku and Baekjin walked back in, eyes red, hands no longer laced.

But by then, it was already over.

back to present

Seongje wakes to the sound of nothing .

The AC hums. A faint blue light slips through the blinds. But the other side of the bed is already cold.

His hand reaches out before he even opens his eyes—like muscle memory, like instinct.

All he finds is rumpled sheets.

He blinks slowly at the ceiling, blinking sleep away like it’ll erase the weight in his chest. But it’s still there, heavy and low, like it always is after he goes.

Hyuntak was here.
Now he’s not.
Again.

And Seongje—god, Seongje—didn’t say anything to stop him.

He sits up slowly, body aching in places that have nothing to do with sleep. The air still smells faintly like last night: sweat, skin, that citrus shampoo Hyuntak always uses even though he swears it’s whatever’s cheapest.

The memory plays back like a film reel on loop: Hyuntak’s breath had caught against his neck, warm and uneven, like he was trying not to feel too much. He had said Seongje’s name—low, almost broken, like it hurt to say it out loud. And then his eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling, but Seongje knew he never really slept.

Seongje had felt it, even then.

That quiet distance Hyuntak always left between their bodies, even when they were tangled up in each other. Even when their mouths were too busy to lie.

He was already halfway gone.

He dragged himself upright, rubbed at his face, and glanced toward the foot of the bed—where the hoodie Hyuntak had been wearing last night should’ve been.

Gone.

But next to it, crumpled carelessly over the back of the chair, was Hyuntak’s black pullover—the one he wore out the day before. Still warm from the dryer. Still smelling like his detergent.

“Are you serious,” 

He muttered under his breath, staring at it like it personally offended him.

That idiot. He must’ve grabbed it by mistake in the dark—slipped it over his white tee without looking, too busy disappearing like he always did.

Seongje let out a soft, tired laugh. Bitter.

Now Hyuntak was walking around campus in his clothes like this didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

Even if neither of them would say it.

Even if all Seongje had left was his hoodie on someone else’s back, and a memory that hadn’t finished burning out.

earlier

He left in a rush.

Didn’t even have time to check his reflection, let alone say goodbye. Seongje was still asleep—face buried half into the pillow, one arm draped loosely across the bed, skin warm in that way that made Hyuntak want to crawl back in for just five more minutes.

But he couldn’t.

“Shit,” 

He muttered, rubbing a hand down his face as he slipped his shoes on. 

“Halmeoni’s gonna kill me.”

Today was Suho’s birthday—nothing huge, just a casual cookout behind his cousin’s place. But Hyuntak promised to help his grandmother at the market before heading over. She had a list. A very specific list. And if he made her wait?

He’d never hear the end of it.

He grabbed his stuff blindly—phone, wallet, keys. Shrugged on the black hoodie from the chair by the bed without thinking.

Didn’t smell like his.

Didn’t matter.

The market was packed. He moved on muscle memory. Bananas, soda, pork belly, rice cakes. Halmeoni chatted up the vendors like she was running for office, and he let her. Kept his head down. Kept moving.

And then, later—

Behind Suho’s cousin’s house, sun already low in the sky, charcoal smoke rising from the grill and laughter spilling from old speakers, the rest of the boys arrived .

Sieun with bags of drinks. Suho trailing behind him, already laughing. And Baku—who came straight toward him with a plastic bag of ice in one hand and that low, unreadable gaze in his eyes.

Hyuntak tried to play it cool, like he wasn’t still wired from last night. Like his head didn’t ache from thinking too much.

“You good?” Baku asked.

“Yeah,” Hyuntak said quickly. “Just tired.”

And maybe that would’ve been the end of it.

Except Baku’s eyes dropped—just for a second.

To the black hoodie.

Not Hyuntak’s.

He said nothing. Just gave a tiny nod.

But in that brief glance—quiet, sharp, pointed—Hyuntak knew.

Baku saw everything.

Later that night, the sun already tucked behind the rooftops, the backyard glowed with dim string lights and leftover heat from the grill. A pile of cheap, half-wrapped gifts sat at the corner table—Suho's smile never fading even as the teasing got louder and the drinks got stronger.

They were taking turns handing over their presents. Something small, something funny, something heartfelt. It didn’t matter. The point was the gesture.

It was Baku’s turn next.

But he muttered a low “Wait—bathroom,” and slipped inside.

Suho laughed and waved it off. 

“Dude’s gonna stall on purpose.”

“I’ll do mine while he’s gone,” Hyuntak offered, already standing.

“Hero move,” Juntae deadpanned. “We love a man who kills awkward pauses.”

Hyuntak rolled his eyes, adjusted the hoodie sleeves out of habit—too long on him, familiar in a way that made his chest tight—and took a step forward.

And then Baku’s phone buzzed.

Left carelessly on the table. Screen lighting up in the dark.

A name.

Baekjin.

Hyuntak stopped walking.

The gift was still in his hand, something stupid and half-wrapped in glitter paper. His heart didn’t skip—it still. Like a held breath.

He stared at the name.

No message preview. Just the name. Bright against the dark.

And for some reason, he felt like he could breathe again.

Not because it didn’t hurt.
Not because last night wasn’t clawing up his throat every second Seongje wasn’t looking at him.
Not because he had answers.

But because it’s fair now.

Finally.

They both have someone they can’t stop orbiting.

Someone who still burns even after being left behind.

Seongje had Hyuntak.
Baku had Baekjin.

And maybe that made things a little more bearable.

Or maybe it just meant no one was free.

They were walking side by side, the gravel crunching under their shoes, the streetlamp casting long shadows that never touched.

Neither of them said anything for a while.

Not about Baekjin.
Not about the hoodie.
Not about last night.

The air between them was loaded—heavy with things that didn’t need to be spoken, but pressed against the chest anyway.

Hyuntak shoved his hands into the front pocket of the hoodie. Still too long on him. Still smelled like a stranger he knew too well.

Then—Baku stopped walking.

Hyuntak paused a few steps ahead, blinking. “You good?”

“I want to try again,” Baku said, not looking at him.

Hyuntak turned slowly. 

“With Baekjin?”

Baku nodded once, staring straight ahead. 

“I don’t know what the hell it’ll mean. Or if I’m setting myself up for more damage. But I want to try. I still—he’s still…”

He trailed off. He didn’t have to finish.

Hyuntak understood.

Baku glanced at him then. The look sharper. More deliberate.

“So,” he said, “what about you ? You finally gonna talk to Seongje?”

Hyuntak snorted softly. 

“The fuck do you mean, talk?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Hyuntak shook his head, almost smiling but not. 

“It’s not like that.”

Baku raised an eyebrow. 

“Then what is it?”

Hyuntak shrugged. Shoulders tight. Voice flat.

“As if Seongje sees me like that.”

And just like that, the words hung there.

Sharp. 

Raw. 

Final.

meanwhile, at baekjin’s apartment—

It was quiet.
Too quiet for a Friday night.

Baekjin had gone to grab more bubble wrap for the donation boxes they’d been sorting through all day, and Seongje was left sitting cross-legged on the floor, flipping through an old graphic novel with one hand and scrolling his phone with the other.

Then his screen lit up.
Incoming call: Baku.

He almost didn’t answer. He figured it was an accidental dial or one of Baku’s “guess who’s drunk now” updates.

But then he remembered:
Baku had messaged earlier about trying something risky tonight.
Trying again—with Baekjin.

Curious—and honestly, concerned—Seongje answered.

He didn’t say anything at first, just pressed the phone to his ear and listened. The line wasn’t entirely quiet; there was the distant hum of traffic, footsteps over gravel, wind. Voices.

Two of them.

One was Baku.

The other—
His spine went stiff.

“As if Seongje sees me like that.”

Hyuntak.

His name, in that voice. Flat. Hollow.
Like it had already been decided long ago.

The breath caught in Seongje’s lungs.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t hang up.

He just listened.

Some part of him had always wondered .
What they were. What they could’ve been.
Why did Hyuntak keep touching him like he mattered and leaving like he didn’t.

And now—now, he knew.

It wasn’t that Hyuntak didn’t care.
It was that Hyuntak believed Seongje didn’t.

The laugh that slipped from Seongje’s throat wasn’t really a laugh—it cracked halfway, broke apart in his mouth. He pressed the edge of his sleeve to his face. Not crying. Not yet.

Then, with fingers that only trembled slightly, he tapped the end call .

Baku’s phone had been on the whole time.

He probably wanted him to hear it.

But it didn’t matter.
Not when Hyuntak didn’t know.
Not when Seongje couldn’t unhear it.

He’d seen the empty rows upfront—rows that screamed: I’m early, I care, I took a bath. But Seongje was three-fourths dead inside, sleep-deprived, and one bad mood away from telling his professor that nursing students shouldn’t be expected to operate before caffeine and consciousness. So, no. Front row was a crime.

There were exactly two seats left in the back.

One of them, unfortunately, was to Hyuntak’s right.

Seongje didn’t think. He just sat.

Didn’t say hi. Didn’t nod. Didn’t even look.

He pulled his hoodie sleeves over his hands, slouched, and tried to drown in the playlist inside his head. Anything to not hear that voice. Anything to not feel .

Because ignoring Hyuntak had become a routine—like vitamins, or forgetting to eat. Second nature. Easier than letting the words rot in his throat.

But then—

"Hyuntak-ah"

Teddy Jin.

God, of course it was Teddy Jin. Who else had the balls and energy to exist like a walking noise complaint?

Hyuntak said nothing. Maybe nodded. Maybe blinked.

But it didn’t matter, because Teddy sat.

Not just sat—slid into the chair on Hyuntak’s other side like he’d been there a thousand times. Like it was his place.

Seongje didn't react. Not outwardly.

But he saw it. Every detail.

The way Teddy’s knee brushed Hyuntak’s.
The way their shoulders almost touched.
The way they talked, low and familiar.

Then came the fucking coffees.

Teddy placed them down with a thud that made Seongje blink.

One was obviously his—triple shot, no ice, because Teddy was a masochist.

But the other one—

Hyuntak reached for it without hesitation.

And that —
That made something in Seongje’s ribcage snap . Not loudly, but sharply, like a wire pulled too tight.

What the fuck is happening?

It wasn’t jealousy.
Not really.

(Okay, it was.)

But it was also the fact that he never brought Hyuntak coffee.
He never had to.
They didn’t do that.

They only fucked.
And even that—half the time—wasn’t about closeness. It was about relief . Desperation.

But this? This was... domestic. This was easy .

This was something Seongje never got to have.

And for a brief, stupid moment, he wanted to shove the cup off the table.
Watch the ice spill everywhere.
Let someone clean up the mess for once, instead of him.

But he didn’t.

He leaned back.
Closed his eyes.
Bit the inside of his cheek.

And stayed silent.

This was their only class together. 

Out of the hundreds offered on campus—just this one .
One measly shared course that didn’t even make sense. Some random interdisciplinary subject required for both MedTech and Nursing majors, shoved into the schedule like a joke.

And now, Seongje couldn’t hear a word of it.

The professor was already five minutes deep into an over-explained intro about the syllabus, but Seongje’s mind had checked out the moment Teddy Jin walked in and dropped that stupid coffee on the table like it was nothing. Like he was nothing.

He stared blankly at the screen, but the thoughts kept looping:

How many other classes do they have together?
Are they lab partners?
Do they hang out after?
Does Teddy know what Hyuntak sounds like when he’s half-asleep, or pissed, or—

He blinked.

Paused.

Swallowed.

Then what the hell was that phone call about?

Did he misunderstand it? Was it not Hyuntak’s voice he heard through Baku’s speaker?

(Except it was . He’d know it even in a nightmare.)

But still— what if it was a setup ?
What if Hyuntak didn’t mean any of it?
What if Baku said all that just to push Seongje into doing something—feeling something—he wasn’t ready for?

He shifted in his seat.

Then again.

Leg bouncing. Fingers twitching. Teeth digging into the inside of his cheek.

And then—

“You good?”

It wasn’t Hyuntak.

It was Teddy .

Teddy, peering past Hyuntak with the world’s most annoying half-smirk.

“Wanna switch seats or something?”

Seongje froze.

Hyuntak’s head turned—finally looking at him.

And that was worse.
That was so much worse.

Because Hyuntak didn’t look confused.
He looked... like he knew.

Like he knew exactly why Seongje was acting like he was about to throw up in his chair.

Like he wanted to say something. But didn’t.

Because they don’t say things . Not out loud.

He couldn’t do it.

Not with Hyuntak that close. Not with Teddy Jin that close.

Not when all Seongje could think about was how easily things slip away from him. Again and again. Like he’s cursed to orbit what he wants without ever touching it.

So halfway through the class, he stood up. Didn’t even look at the professor. Just grabbed his bag and walked out before the pressure in his chest turned into something messier, something humiliating.

He didn’t expect Hyuntak to follow.

But he did.

And now they were standing in front of the refrigerated drinks section of some random convenience store near the engineering building, surrounded by buzzing fluorescents and too much silence.

Hyuntak hadn’t said anything yet.

Neither had Seongje.

Because what was there to say?

“Class too boring for you?” 

Hyuntak asked, finally. Like it was nothing. Like Seongje’s hands weren’t shaking inside his pockets.

“I was tired,” Seongje muttered, reaching for a can of cold brew he didn’t even want.

Another beat.

Another silence.

Then Hyuntak’s phone buzzed.

He looked down, screen glowing briefly. Long enough for Seongje to catch the name:

Teddy.

(He didn’t mean to see it. But maybe he did.)

“Shit,” Hyuntak said under his breath. 

“I have to go. Lab’s starting.”

Of course.

Lab. Of course it’s lab. Probably your love language now, right?
Mixing chemicals and exchanging smirks over pipettes. Learning each other’s routines. Becoming partners.

The kind that last.

“Right,” Seongje said, stuffing the drink back and stepping away. 

“Don’t let your partner wait.”

Hyuntak didn’t move right away. He looked like he wanted to say something again.

But as always—he didn’t.

He just nodded.

And left.

Baku was elbow-deep in marinade when his phone pinged.

>> "court in 5."

From Keum Seongje.

No emojis. No punctuation. Just that.

Which was weird as hell.

Because Seongje hadn’t touched a ball in weeks. Not since that night . Not since everything got loud, then quiet, then worse.

So Baku rinsed his hands, yelled to his dad he’d step out for a bit, and grabbed his bike.

The court was empty except for Seongje, who was sitting on the bleachers, hoodie pulled over his head, knees bent like he was trying to fold into himself.

No basketball in sight.

Just that silence again.

"You good?" Baku asked, stepping into his line of sight.

Seongje didn’t look up. 

“You lied to me.”

That stopped him.

"Come again?"

“You knew I was at Baekjin’s that night.” 

His voice was steady, but his eyes—red. Not from crying, maybe. Just tired. 

"You left your phone on. You wanted me to hear."

Baku swallowed. 

“I didn’t know you were there.”

“But you hoped I’d be,” Seongje snapped. 

"You wanted me to hear him say all that shit. 'As if Seongje sees me like that.' You wanted me to finally do something about it, huh?”

Baku didn’t answer.

Because yeah.

That was exactly it.

“And now what?” Seongje huffed. 

“I skip one class and he's off with his lab partner like it’s nothing. Like I didn’t hear the way he—" his voice cracked, just slightly. 

“Never mind.”

Silence.

Just them.

Just night air and broken things hanging in it.

"You think I don’t see it?" Baku finally said, softer. 

“I’m not stupid. I see the way you look at him. The way you don’t look at anyone else.”

Seongje laughed—sharp, humorless. 

“And what good does that do me?”

“Maybe none. But running from it won’t help either.”

Another pause.

And then, low:

“He’s scared too, you know.”

That shut Seongje up.

Baku ran a hand through his hair, eyes toward the dark sky. 

“You’re both cowards. Just different types. He leaves before it gets real. You push before anyone can stay.”

Seongje sat with that.

Didn’t deny it.

Didn’t defend himself.

Just stared down at his hands and said,

“I don’t know what to do.”

And Baku, sighing, stepped forward, bumped his shoulder into his like old times, like love wasn’t hard and complicated and stupid.

“Then maybe start with not disappearing. Come to class.”

That night, Seongje couldn’t sleep.

He wasn’t even trying. Just laid there on his side, phone on his pillow like it could keep him warm. Blank screen. Black ceiling. Silence.

Then—

The bubble appeared.
“Go Hyuntak is typing…”

His heart jolted.

Then it vanished.

Appeared again.

Vanished.

Appeared. Gone.

Just like always.

He chuckled bitterly, rolled onto his back. 

“Cowards,” he whispered into the dark. 

“Both of us.”

The next class, Seongje, showed up late.

Dark hoodie. Low cap. Barely looked like himself, but still took the seat to Hyuntak’s right again, like a routine muscle memory.

Hyuntak glanced. Quickly. Just enough.

Teddy was already there, smiling too wide, too bright for a morning lab. 

“Let’s switch, Tak,” he said. 

“I’m too sleepy to function, I’ll need your brain beside mine.”

Gotak didn’t say no.

Of course he didn’t.

And suddenly, Seongje was flanked by silence on one side and Teddy fucking Jin on the other, sipping iced coffee like this was fine .

It wasn’t.

Teddy slid an extra straw toward Hyuntak. 

“Don’t say I never treat you.”

Hyuntak laughed—soft, but it rang in Seongje’s ears.

He stared straight ahead. Didn’t even breathe.

Teddy winked at him.

“Morning, Keum.”

Seongje didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because if he opened his mouth now, it wouldn’t be pretty.

Not when Hyuntak was sipping iced coffee he didn’t even buy himself. Not when Teddy was acting like this wasn’t a loaded battlefield. And especially not when Seongje knew, knew , that there was a message almost sent at 2:48 AM last night. A message that said nothing. But meant everything.

So he sat back, teeth grinding.

If he’s gonna play games... fine.

Let’s play.

It was a stupid task.

Measure. Record. Observe. Partnered work.

Seongje didn’t even need to look up to know that Hyuntak was keeping his distance. Elbows tucked, voice low, eyes anywhere but him.

Fine.

Whatever.

He reached across the shared notebook, shoulder brushing Hyuntak’s arm—barely, but intentional. His hand lingered longer than it needed to as he adjusted the graduated cylinder, fingers grazing Hyuntak’s knuckles.

Hyuntak froze. A breath caught between reaction and restraint.

Seongje didn’t look at him. Just said, calm and quiet, 

“You’re spilling.”

Hyuntak jolted slightly, fixed the beaker with fumbling hands. 

“Thanks.”

That was all.

But then— Teddy .

“Shit, I forgot—” 

Teddy’s voice behind them was too close before his presence was even announced. One smooth step and his arm was suddenly around Hyuntak’s waist, pulling the other boy slightly back with casual familiarity. 

“Gonna grab my bag.”

He leaned in, his mouth close to Hyuntak’s ear. 

“Later, Tak.”

The whisper wasn’t intimate. Not really. But the look Teddy threw Seongje as he pulled away— that was a challenge.

And Hyuntak? He just stood there. Like it was normal. Like it didn’t matter.

Like Seongje hadn’t been right there .

Seongje’s hand curled into a fist on the table.

He blinked once.

Twice.

Then shoved the lab journal toward Hyuntak, knocking over a pencil in the process.

“What the fuck is this, huh?” he muttered under his breath, low enough that only Hyuntak could hear. 

“You two dating now?”

Hyuntak stiffened, eyes wide. 

“What—? No. Of course not—”

“Oh, right. You’re just playing house in front of the whole goddamn class for fun, yeah?”

“It’s not like that,” Hyuntak said quickly. Too quickly.

Seongje didn’t care.

Because his chest hurt and his pride was bruised and if he didn’t get out of this room soon he’d say things he couldn’t take back.

“Don’t worry,” Seongje said coldly, gathering his things. 

“Not my business anyway, right?”

Hyuntak didn’t stop him.

Teddy watched from the hallway with a smug little smirk like he knew .

And maybe he did.

Because if killing someone with a stare were real, Keum Seongje would've buried Teddy Jin sixty-nine times by now, and still wouldn’t be satisfied.

Hyuntak didn’t realize he’d moved until he was already outside the lab room.

Didn’t realize he’d left everything behind—his notes, his bag, Teddy's questions—until the sun hit his face like a slap.

But it didn’t matter.

He was looking for Seongje.

Down the hall. Across the courtyard. Through the covered walkway connecting buildings. Each turn sharper than the last, like if he ran fast enough, he’d make it in time to say what needed to be said.

But Seongje?

Gone.

No reply on Messenger. Not even the cursed "bubble" this time.

The last time he saw him—back in class—Seongje had looked at him like he was nothing . Not someone he used to know. Not someone he used to touch.

And now?

Now he was smoke. Wind. A door that slammed shut the moment Hyuntak dared to knock.

He found Baku near the vending machines, sipping on a can of coffee like the world hadn’t just shifted beneath his feet.

"Have you seen him?" Hyuntak asked, breathless.

Baku didn’t look surprised. He just sighed. 

“He left.”

“Where?”

Baku raised an eyebrow. 

“You think he tells me everything?”

Hyuntak swallowed. 

"Please."

That softened Baku. But only a little.

“He’s not ignoring you just to piss you off,” Baku said after a pause. 

“He’s ignoring you to survive.”

And that hurt more than anything.

When Seongje got home that day, his phone buzzed.

GO HYUNTAK

>> can we talk

Then:

>> i didn’t mean for it to go like that
>> i didn’t mean for you to walk away

And then the final one:

>> please just say something

Seongje didn’t reply.

He didn’t delete them, either.

He stared at them until the words blurred into one long ache and reminded himself—feeling something doesn’t mean anything if it never meant enough to choose him in the first place.

He tossed his phone onto the bed, pulled the curtains closed, and reminded himself again:

It doesn’t mean anything.

It never did .

But he didn’t sleep that night.

Couldn’t .
How could he, when there was an angel behind his door, banging like his life depended on it?

“Seongje,” Hyuntak’s voice cracked. 

“Seongje, please—open up.”

At first, silence. Then one more desperate thud. Not angry. Just... collapsing.

“You win, okay?” came the muffled voice. 

“You always fucking win. Just—open the goddamn door.”

Seongje opened it.

He expected a furious Hyuntak—maybe with a wild glare, a shove, a smart-ass line.

What he got was Hyuntak, cheeks stained, breathing like he’d run miles, eyes swollen and glassy. And Seongje hated that it still hit him like a fucking bullet to the chest.

“I’m—” Hyuntak started, voice breaking, 

“—I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Seongje snapped, though his voice trembled too. 

“For ditching me? For leaving me in pieces every time? For pretending like I’m nothing when he’s around?”

Hyuntak didn’t respond.

So Seongje did.

“What now?” he bit. “Your pissed-hair boyfriend break up with you so you’re here running to me? 'Cause you know I’d fucking accept you in a heartbeat?”

That’s when Hyuntak kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. Like he didn’t know how else to shut him up.

Seongje responded like breathing—he always would. Hands fisting in his hoodie, dragging him closer, closer, until they were half-tumbling backward into the room, mouth to mouth, teeth almost clashing.

But Hyuntak was the one who pulled away.

Seongje’s lips chased him. 

"Why?"

Hyuntak stared at him like he hated himself.

“Because I like you, fucker.”

Silence.

Then Seongje smirked, messy and cocky and something dangerously hopeful beneath it. He leaned in again.

But Hyuntak moved back, again.

His chest rose and fell too fast, like he was trying to breathe through water. His hand came up—not harshly, but almost like a barrier, trembling as it landed over Seongje’s mouth. A pause. Then he spoke, voice tight, hoarse.

“Don’t you even dare to kiss me,” he whispered, “if you can’t say it back.”

Seongje froze. The burn of the kiss still lingered on his lips, but it was nothing compared to the sting in Hyuntak’s voice. His eyes searched the other boy’s face, but Hyuntak wouldn’t meet them.

“Say what back?” 

Seongje managed to ask, low, cautious—like the wrong word might shatter everything.

Hyuntak laughed once. Dry. Shaky. Not at all amused.

“The truth,” 

He said, swallowing hard. 

“That I’m not just your leftover option. That I’m not just—” 

He broke off, biting his tongue, blinking away the wetness in his eyes. 

“That I’m not imagining this.”

He stepped back, hand falling away.

“Because I can’t keep doing this,” Hyuntak said. 

“Letting you in just to wonder if you’re already halfway out the door. I can’t keep hoping I mean more to you than a warm bed or a place to hide.”

Seongje’s breath hitched.

“You think I don’t feel the same?” he asked, stunned.

“I think,” Hyuntak said, quiet now, 

“You don’t believe I’m someone worth choosing.”

And that— that —was the moment something broke in Seongje’s chest.

Because he had always been so good at hiding it. So fucking good at swallowing it down, pretending it didn’t matter.

But now? Now that Hyuntak was looking at him like he was already preparing to walk away—no fight in his voice—just exhaustion. A small, aching plea dressed up in resignation.

And Seongje… dropped.

Right there on his knees in front of him, fists curled tight against his own thighs before lifting his shaking hands—palms open, offering, as if to say: this is all I have left .

“I’m sorry,” 

Seongje said, barely more than a whisper, and then again, louder. 

“I’m fucking sorry. Tak-ah”

Hyuntak’s eyes widened slightly, startled.

“I didn’t know how,” 

Seongje continued. His hands gently gripped Hyuntak’s thighs, thumbs brushing the fabric, grounding himself there. 

“I didn’t know how to say it when it mattered. And now I’m scared shitless that I’m too late.”

He leaned in, eyes clenched shut, and pressed a kiss to the inside of Hyuntak’s clothed thigh—soft, desperate, reverent.

“You’ve always mattered,” he murmured against the fabric. 

“Even when I didn’t want you to. Even when I told myself I could survive not having you.”

Another kiss, higher this time, like a prayer.

“You think I don’t see you?” he choked out, lifting his face, voice trembling. 

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever seen clearly.”

His fingers clenched slightly in the fabric.

“I didn’t say it because I didn’t think I deserved to. Because if I said it, and you left anyway, I wouldn’t survive it.”

He dropped his forehead to Hyuntak’s thigh now, like a sinner at the altar, holding on like he’d disappear if he let go.

“But I do. I fucking do love you, Hyuntak.”

A beat.

“I just didn’t think someone like you could love someone like me back.”

Hyuntak stood still, silent, trembling with too many emotions to name. He wanted to test him. He wanted to throw every wall back up and make Seongje climb over them, bloody his hands to prove it. Wanted to say, not yet, not like this, not until you crawl the way I did.

But the sight below him—

Keum Seongje, the boy with too many walls and not enough bridges, on his knees and pressing kisses into the folds of Hyuntak’s pants like he’s praying to something he’s never believed in before—

It broke something loose in him.

Hyuntak snorted .

Then laughed.

And laughed harder.

Not out of mockery, not out of cruelty—but the kind of laugh that bubbles up when everything inside is so overwhelming there’s nowhere else for it to go. The kind of laugh you cry through.

Seongje pulled back a bit, brows furrowed in deep, sincere offense. 

“You’re laughing? I just confessed to you like a fucking man in a k-drama finale—on my knees, even. And you’re— you’re laughing? ”

“I—” Hyuntak gasped between wheezes, wiping at his eyes. 

“I’m sorry— fuck, I’m sorry. You just—you look so…”

He couldn’t even finish.

Before Seongje could stand or throw something at him out of sheer wounded pride, Hyuntak dropped down, knees hitting the floor, and leaned forward until their foreheads touched—breath mingling, glasses slightly askew from the closeness, Hyuntak’s nose almost bumping into the frames.

His voice, this time, was nothing but soft.

“We’re both fucking idiots, aren’t we?”

Seongje blinked at him, stunned.

Then huffed. 

“Biggest ones I know.”

And for once, neither of them had anything left to hide behind.

Just breath, laughter that didn’t hurt, and warmth so sharp it made their eyes sting.

They stayed like that for a while.

Foreheads pressed together, breaths tangled in the hush of the room. Not kissing. Not moving. Just there.

Not enemies. Not lovers.

Something bruised and blooming in between.

Seongje swallowed first, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“So… what now?”

Hyuntak pulled back just enough to look at him properly. 

“You tell me.”

Seongje’s face twisted—not angry, just... tired. 

“I don’t know how to be this kind of honest with you.”

Hyuntak nodded. 

“Yeah. Well. You just were.”

Another beat of silence.

And then Seongje, voice almost breaking, said, 

“I’m scared it’s still not enough.”

It hit Hyuntak in the chest like a fist. Because he knew that fear. Knew it down to the marrow. He wanted to say you are enough —hell, you’ve always been —but the words clung to his throat like thorns.

So he didn’t say them.

He just reached out and tugged Seongje’s sleeve gently, pulling him closer until their knees touched again.

“Then we figure it out,” Hyuntak said. “You and me.”

Seongje looked at him for a long time. Then, finally, leaned in—not for a kiss, not for anything big or cinematic. Just to rest his head on Hyuntak’s shoulder, like he was finally letting himself be held.

And Hyuntak?

He held him.

For now, that would have to be enough.

Tomorrow, they could start again.

But tonight—they were just two cowards, learning how to be brave for each other.

It was late. The bathroom light was still on, muffled water running behind the door. Seongje sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet tapping anxiously against the wooden floor. His glasses sat skewed on his nose, eyes flicking between the ceiling and the faint reflection of himself on the black TV screen across the room.

And then— buzz buzz .

Hyuntak’s phone lit up on the nightstand. Once. Twice. Three times.

Teddy Jin.
1 new message: “Tak-ah, any update?”
Another one: “U breathing?? What happened? 🧍”

Seongje blinked. Leaned forward.

Update for fucking what?

He reached for the phone but didn’t touch it. His hand hovered just an inch above the screen. The chat preview glared at him like it knew something he didn’t.

Update.
Updates.
Why would Teddy need updates?

On what?

On them ?

He felt it—a sharp, irrational twist in his gut, like he’d just been sucker punched. Like he was back in high school again, overhearing things he was never meant to hear.

Hyuntak stepped out of the bathroom, towel around his neck, rubbing at his damp hair when he stopped short.

Seongje was sitting cross-legged on the bed, arms crossed like a pouty little prince, lips pushed out, and his glasses were fogged . From anger. Or maybe the sheer force of his breathing. Hyuntak couldn’t tell.

“…What happened?”

Seongje didn’t look at him. Just nodded at Hyuntak’s phone on the table, still vibrating. 

“Your boyfriend’s texting you.”

Hyuntak blinked. 

“…Teddy?”

“Oh, so it is Teddy, ” Seongje snapped. 

“Wow. Great. Fantastic. Is he asking for a post-game report or what?”

“Seongje…”

“‘Any updates?’” 

He mimicked in a mocking tone. 

“Yeah, here’s an update— he lost. You’re mine now. Tell him to go send that emoji to someone else.”

Hyuntak laughed, which was the wrong thing to do because Seongje stood and threw a pillow at him. 

“ I’m being serious! ”

“Okay! Okay! You’re right.” 

Hyuntak raised both hands in surrender, grinning. 

“I’ll tell him I’ve been kidnapped by a four-eyed jealous gremlin who kisses my thighs when he’s emotional.”

“GOOD,” 

Seongje declared, turning his back dramatically. 

“And tell him I said this is the last time he gets to text you about us. He’s had his fun. It’s over. I won. I’m the endgame.”

“Are you jealous?” Hyuntak teased, walking over.

“I am protecting my investment.”
“Your what—”
“My—!” 

Seongje turned, flustered, jabbing a finger at Hyuntak’s chest. 

“My—you! You're mine now, and I don't like sharing, okay?! So tell him to stop texting you, or I’ll block him myself!”

Hyuntak stared at him, fondness blooming so fast it hurt. 

“You’re really cute when you’re insane, you know that?”

“Shut up,” Seongje mumbled, cheeks pink.

Hyuntak kissed his forehead. 

“I’ll text him now. Just don’t murder anyone.”

Seongje nodded primly. 

“Thank you. Now get in bed. I'm not done being possessive.”

They’re finally in bed, the lights dimmed, tangled under one blanket that neither of them seems to know how to share properly because Hyuntak’s leg keeps twitching and Seongje’s elbow is way too pointy.

And yet—Hyuntak, being Hyuntak, shifts just a little closer. His voice is small, careful. Teasing, but not really.

“Does my boyfriend not love me anymore?”

The room stills.

Seongje chokes . Like, literally. Over absolutely nothing.
Hyuntak shoots up, eyes wide.

“Wait—what?! Are you okay?!”

But Seongje waves him off, coughing into his fist, his entire body going rigid.

“You— you— what did you just call me?”

Hyuntak freezes.
Heart? Slammed against his ribs.
Voice? Suddenly lost.

He didn’t mean to say it like that , not yet. He didn’t even know if Seongje could handle that word, not when they just barely crossed that line.

And when Seongje finally turns to face him—eyes huge, blinking fast, like he’s buffering—Hyuntak panics a little.
Because what if he messed up? What if Seongje’s about to bolt again?

But instead… Seongje whispers, barely audible:

“…say it again.”

Hyuntak blinks.

“What?”

“That word,” 

Seongje mutters, now aggressively looking anywhere but at Hyuntak, ears red again. 

“You said it like it’s normal. Say it again.”

Hyuntak slowly grins.

And he does.

“Boyfriend.”

This time, Seongje just grabs the blanket and buries his entire face in it.

(They don’t sleep for another hour, mostly because Hyuntak won’t stop whispering “boyfriend” in different tones while Seongje threatens murder with a blushing face.)

The next morning, everything feels a little too good to be true.

No overlapping classes, no excuse to see each other in passing—just that one agreement sealed in whispers and half-kisses from the night before: “After class. I’ll wait for you.”

And Hyuntak does . For over an hour.

He sits on one of the benches outside Seongje’s building, iced coffee in hand (Seongje’s usual—half sweet, less ice), a tote bag hanging from his shoulder, and Teddy Jin, of course, beside him. Laughing. Too close. Throwing his head back like the protagonist of a badly written sitcom.

So when Seongje finally steps out of class—hair disheveled, eyes tired, but with the softest kind of anticipation on his face—that smile drops the moment he sees them.

Cue his entire brain spiraling.

He storms over like a storm cloud about to thunder.

“The fuck are you doing here again?” 

He says, unprovoked, to Teddy, while grabbing the coffee from Hyuntak’s hand without even looking.

Teddy just shrugs, raising an eyebrow.

“Chill, man. Just saying hi.”

Hyuntak looks between them, caught off guard, just about to open his mouth when—

“Didn’t I say last night that this is the last time he gets to text you?” 

Seongje snaps, still not looking at him directly, but the red on his ears is screaming possessive . Territorial . Very much in love.

And that’s when it happens.

Baku, Sieun, Juntae—maybe even Suho in the distance—all slow their pace, watching the chaos unfold like it’s a live k-drama finale.

“Wait. Did he just say last night ?”
“TEXT?”
“Don’t tell me…”
“They’re dating?!?”

Hyuntak, face suddenly flushed, chokes on nothing—again.

But Seongje just blinks at them, annoyed.

“…yeah?”

Everyone’s mouths fall open.
Teddy laughs.
Hyuntak almost drops his coffee.

Then Seongje finally looks at his boyfriend, meeting his eyes for the first time that day.

Softly, and a little too vulnerable for someone who just threatened a classmate over texting, he mumbles:

“Told you I’d say it back. Now don’t make me say it again in front of all these clowns.”

And Hyuntak?

Hyuntak just smiles, wide and warm and stupidly in love, before pulling Seongje in by the wrist, letting their foreheads touch.

“I’ll never make you say it again. But I’m still gonna keep calling you boyfriend.”

Juntae dies internally.
Baku is filming.
Teddy Jin is vindicated .
And Seongje?

He just groans, hides his face in Hyuntak’s hoodie, and lets himself have this .

Finally.

They’re walking out of campus.

Or well— Seongje is walking like a normal person, trying to keep it low-key, hands in his pockets, avoiding eye contact with literally anyone, especially the nosy group trailing a few feet behind them like they’re on a school field trip.

But Hyuntak? No such thing as chill.
He’s walking backwards, hands behind his back, grinning at his boyfriend like he’s sunshine incarnate .

And louder than necessary, 

“ Boyfriend~ where should we eat, boyfriend~”

“Stop calling me that,” Seongje mutters, not meeting his gaze.

But his ears are red . Again. That tells enough.

Behind them, the gang is LOSING IT.

“Look at him trying to act unbothered.”
“He’s literally blushing up to his neck.”
“I didn’t think he had it in him, holy shit.”

Suho is snickering. Juntae is kicking Baku so he won’t laugh too hard. Even the campus guard standing by the gate is watching with amusement.

And Hyuntak?

He keeps going. Still walking backwards, letting their hands brush, before suddenly pretending to pull away.

“Oh nooo, my boyfriend doesn’t wanna hold hands anymore~ he doesn’t love meee~”

He says it with a pout. Loudly.
People stare .
Seongje freezes mid-step.

The others are about to explode when suddenly—

“Keep walking backwards like that,” Seongje says, calm, flat.
“And you’ll trip straight into the fact I let you come twice last night.”

Silence.

DEAD. SILENCE.

Baku drops his phone.
Sieun almost chokes on air.
The guard audibly gasps .
Hyuntak goes beet red and nearly trips for real .
Juntae screams .

Suho has to bend over, wheezing:
“HE’S NOT PLAYING AROUND ANYMORE—”

And Seongje?

Still expressionless. Still walking. But this time, he’s the one grabbing Hyuntak’s wrist—fingers laced, grip firm.

“Now keep up, boyfriend .”