Work Text:
(1)
It used to be Hanbin’s job.
Not officially – not something anyone ever assigned him – but in the quiet, natural way certain things fall into place, it had always been him.
Whenever Matthew stumbled over a word, his brows knitting together in that particular way that made Hanbin’s chest squeeze with fondness, he’d turn with that small, hopeful glance. And Hanbin would be there. Ready. Always ready. Leaning in with a soft smile and a gentle correction, never mocking, never impatient – just an easy “ah, more like this,” as Matthew tried again.
Sometimes Matthew got it right. Sometimes he didn’t.
It never mattered. There was something achingly endearing about his efforts – the sincerity, the way he’d tilt his head in concentration or widen his eyes at his own mistakes. Hanbin found himself drawn in by how genuine Matthew was in trying.
But lately, with their schedules growing more demanding and the dorm arrangements splitting them across different floors, those moments had become... rarer. Hanbin would finish a meeting only to find Matthew already asleep, or Matthew would be sequestered somewhere else leaving a text that said schedule’s running late, sorry hyung.
So when Matthew started turning to Gunwook instead, Hanbin told himself it was just logistics. Timing. Proximity. It made sense.
At first, he didn’t think much of it. Maybe it was just convenience – Hanbin had been in another room, or distracted by leader duties. Maybe Matthew simply hadn’t wanted to bother him when he looked so worn down.
But it kept happening.
Again. And again. Until one day, Hanbin walked into the practice room to find them on the floor, Matthew’s head thrown back in laughter while Gunwook grinned at whatever word he’d just butchered. Something tightened in Hanbin’s chest, he wasn’t sure for what.
He paused just inside the doorway, close enough to hear but far enough to remain unnoticed.
“Honestly, hyung?” Gunwook said, in that offhanded way of his. “I kinda hope your Korean doesn’t get too good. I like the way you speak now. It feels real when you express yourself… it’s very you.”
Matthew’s face lit up – that radiant grin Hanbin knew so well, all bright and bashful. “You think so?”
“Yeah,” Gunwook nodded earnestly. “It’s sincere. Kinda charming, actually.”
Hanbin had never thought of it like that. He’d always tried to help Matthew get things right because right meant fluent, confident, understood. Because that was the point, wasn’t it? To improve. To be better. He’d never considered that the flaws might be part of the appeal – that someone might hear the imperfect and think don’t fix it, I like it just like this.
When had he stopped looking at Matthew like that? When had helping become more important than simply... appreciating?
He didn’t say anything. Just sat down a few paces away and pulled out his phone, pretending not to listen in to their easy conversation. Matthew glanced over once – that automatic look he always gave Hanbin, seeking connection.
“I see Gunwookie has become your new teacher,” Hanbin joked.
“Ah hyung, he’s really good at explaining stuff!” Matthew laughed, and there was something in his tone – eager, like he wanted Hanbin to understand, to approve of this.
But Hanbin was already staring at his phone screen, thumb scrolling through nothing.
It was all just a quiet shift in attention, a natural redirection that happened between best friends. But it still felt like something small and tender had been taken from him. Not maliciously, not even deliberately. Just... slipped away while he wasn’t paying attention.
He’s good at explaining stuff.
He wasn’t sure why it bothered him as much as it did.
(2)
It was a slow Sunday. The kind that stretched long and golden, full of nothing in particular – just enough freedom to feel like something soft and good might happen.
Hanbin had a vague plan forming as he padded through the dorm in his sleep-rumpled clothes. Nothing elaborate. Just a thought: maybe he’d find Matthew, maybe they’d grab something to eat or curl up with a movie in one of their rooms. Something easy. Familiar.
Between their respective responsibilities and the way their schedules had been pulling them in different directions lately, those Sunday moments had become precious and rare.
He checked Matthew’s usual spots – the kitchen where he liked to make his threatening pancakes, the living room where he’d sprawl with his phone, even his bedroom. But Matthew was nowhere to be found.
He pulled out his phone. Typed wanna hang out? and immediately deleted it. Too casual. Where are you? felt worse – too obvious.
He shoved the phone back in his pocket. He turned toward the hallway, frustrated, nearly colliding with Gunwook.
“Oh, Hanbin hyung. Looking for Matthew hyung?” Gunwook asked, because apparently it was that obvious.
Hanbin stopped. “Yeah. You know where he is?”
“He’s at the gym,” Gunwook said, checking his phone. “Should be done in about thirty minutes if he started on time. He usually goes for two hours on Sundays.”
Just like that. Effortless. So sure. So very specific.
“Oh. Cool… thanks.”
Hanbin kept walking, trying to ignore the way that simple exchange had left him feeling strange. But it followed him, persistent.
How did Gunwook know that, and to such detail?
He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe Matthew had mentioned it in passing. Maybe Gunwook just happened to remember. Maybe it was just coincidence, good timing, lucky guess.
But then it kept happening too.
Gunwook always seemed to know. Where Matthew was. When he’d be back. What he was doing. What he needed.
Oh, he’s in his room watching that new drama. Ricky keeps talking about it.
He skipped breakfast, said he’d eat later.
He’s doing laundry at four. You know how he gets when the machines are busy.
He went to that café near the station, the one with the soybean milk tea. He’s been obsessed.
He’s been listening to those space podcasts to fall asleep. Something about the secrets of the universe being soothing.
Little things. Small facts. Spoken like habit.
Things Hanbin used to know.
When had that changed? When had Hanbin stopped being the one who noticed Matthew’s patterns, his small preferences, the way he moved through his days?
He wondered when he’d stopped being the first person Matthew wanted to share mundane thoughts and small discoveries with.
The questions stacked up but he didn’t know how to ask them. Didn’t even know who he was upset with – if anyone. It wasn’t like Matthew was hiding from him. But the idea that he might be telling Gunwook these things instead of him, or that Gunwook was simply noticing what Hanbin had somehow stopped seeing, made something shameful curl in him.
I didn’t even know he still liked soybean milk tea.
That random, harmless thought struck harder than it should have.
Because once, he would’ve known without question. Once, he wouldn’t have needed to wonder about something so simple.
Now it was Gunwook who knew where Matthew liked to sit at the café, what he ordered, how long he usually stayed. Gunwook who collected these details.
And Hanbin, who used to notice first and know best, had somehow fallen behind.
He tried convincing himself that it was just growing pains. It was just what happened when people got busy. Part of group dynamics.
But the ache didn’t care about logic.
Because sometimes, when he realized he didn’t know where Matthew was – and Gunwook did – it didn’t feel like coincidence at all.
It felt like being left behind.
Gently. Gradually. And worst of all... naturally.
(3)
Hanbin heard the door before he saw anyone.
It opened with a soft click, then shut fast – the kind of rushed that meant someone didn’t want to be noticed. He looked up from the couch where he’d been reviewing their schedule for the week, expecting the usual – one of the members sliding in quietly, maybe a tired smile or muttered greeting in passing.
It was Matthew.
But he wasn’t smiling.
His hoodie was pulled low over his head, shoulders hunched inward like he was trying to make himself smaller. His eyes were glassy and distant – that particular look that set off every protective instinct in Hanbin. The look that meant something was wrong, something that needed fixing.
Hanbin pushed off the couch instantly, heart’s instinct taking over. He was half-standing before he’d even thought about it, already preparing himself to catch whatever this was – to hold it, to soothe it, to make it better.
Come here, he thought. My baby. What happened? Let hyung–
But before Hanbin could even get both feet under him, Gunwook was there.
Already up from the floor, already moving. Like he’d been waiting.
Hanbin stopped, one hand still braced against the couch cushion. Matthew hadn’t even glanced his way.
Gunwook pulled Matthew in, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. He bent his head low and whispered something private, meant only for Matthew’s ears.
Whatever it was, it worked. Matthew sagged into him, shoulders dropping.
Hanbin lowered himself back down onto the couch, feeling out of place in his own living room.
Not rejected – he hadn’t even been acknowledged enough to be rejected. Just... too slow.
I used to be that fast, he thought, bitterness metastasizing in his chest. I used to be that certain. That close.
When things were hard – when Matthew wasn’t feeling well or overwhelmed or homesick – he used to find Hanbin first. Used to call Hanbin’s hugs home. Said they made him feel safe, like nothing could touch him as long as Hanbin was there.
He remembered the last time – late one night after a particularly brutal schedule right after debut. Matthew had just curled into his arms without a word with a sigh that trembled all the way through him.
“You okay, Seokmae-ah?” Hanbin had whispered.
“I don’t know,” Matthew had murmured into his shirt. “But when you’re here… I always feel like I’ll be okay in the end somehow.”
Hanbin had tightened his grip, “Then hyung will always hold you.”
Back then, that felt like a promise.
But now?
Now Gunwook held him the same way. Gunwook’s voice was the one that steadied him, Gunwook didn’t need to ask what was wrong because he already knew.
The sharp twist behind Hanbin’s ribs had a name. He’d been avoiding it for weeks. But it refused to let go.
This wasn’t just discomfort anymore. It wasn’t confusion or wounded pride.
This was jealousy. Raw, and… new?
No, not new.
Because he was losing something that had always felt wordlessly his.
(4)
The call came at 3AM.
Hanbin’s phone buzzed against his nightstand, pulling him from the edge of sleep. He fumbled for it in the darkness, squinting at the harsh glare of the screen.
Gunwook calling...
“Hello?” Hanbin’s voice came out rough, confused.
“Hyung, sorry–” Gunwook’s voice was tight, panicked. “Matthew hyung’s really sick. He’s in a lot of pain, he can barely sit up. I think something’s seriously wrong.”
Sleep was forgotten instantly. “What? Where is he?”
“In his room. He’s been throwing up for the past hour and he keeps saying his right side hurts. It’s getting worse.” Gunwook’s voice cracked slightly. “I think we need to get him to the hospital.”
“I’ll be right there–”
“I already called manager hyung to pull up with the van. Five minutes.”
When Hanbin shoved Matthew’s door open, the scene made his stomach plummet.
Matthew was curled into a tight ball on his bed, face pale and slick with sweat, one arm clamped protectively around his stomach. Every few seconds his breath would hitch, and he’d press his face deeper into his pillow.
Gunwook was crouched beside him, voice low and soothing, easing Matthew’s arms into a jacket.
“It’s okay, we’re going now,” he was saying. “Just breathe through it, hyung.”
Hanbin took in the state of the room. There was a glass of water on the nightstand, tissues scattered around, medicine lined up. Trash can within reach. Gunwook had thought of everything, had been managing it all alone.
“How long has he been like this?” Hanbin asked, dropping to his knees on Matthew’s other side, feeling helpless and late.
“Started around midnight. He tried to tough it out at first – you know how he is. Said it was just something he ate. But it kept getting worse.” Gunwook’s voice stayed level, but his hands shook when he smoothed Matthew’s hair back. “He looked off at dinner too, barely touched his food.”
Matthew hadn’t been feeling well during dinner, when they’d all been sitting together, laughing and talking. And Hanbin – who prided himself on knowing Matthew better than anyone – hadn’t seen what Gunwook saw.
“Matthew-yah,” Hanbin whispered, reaching out. Drawn by instinct, by memory, by the desperate need to do something.
But before his hand could make contact, Matthew flinched away with a sharp breath. A full-body recoil.
“Sorry, hyung,” Matthew gasped out, voice strained. “Don’t– it hurts too much right now. I’m… okay.”
But when Gunwook’s hand settled on his back, Matthew immediately leaned in. Relaxed. Even through the pain. Hanbin let his hand fall.
“The car’s here,” Gunwook was already helping Matthew up. “Can you walk?”
At the hospital, they learned it was appendicitis. The doctor said it was routine, but they needed to operate immediately.
They wheeled Matthew away, still shaking, still exhausted. Gunwook squeezed his hand. “I’ll be right here when you wake up, hyung.” While Hanbin just stood there and watched.
That used to be me.
He used to be the one who noticed first when the slightest thing was off with Matthew. Who knew how to hold him steady when the world got too loud.
Matthew’s safe person, safe place.
Now he was just another person in the waiting room.
What did I miss?
And then the truth hit, uninvited and unkind.
Maybe Gunwook hadn’t taken his place. Maybe Hanbin had simply... left it empty.
All those times Matthew had looked to him first – for comfort after bad days, for that check-in look across rooms. Hanbin had been there, but not really there. Present but distracted. Available but not intentional.
He’d thought being Matthew’s safe person was something that just was - permanent, earned once and kept forever. But safety wasn’t something you got to keep by default. It was something you chose to be every time someone reached for you.
And Matthew had been reaching. For months. In all those small, quiet ways Hanbin was only now learning to recognize. He just hadn’t been paying attention.
I taught him that I wouldn’t catch him, Hanbin realized with sick clarity. So he found someone who would.
So maybe there was a reason after all.
And under everything else – guilt, jealousy, bitterness – something else stirred. Something terrifying. Something tender.
Maybe I wanted him to need me so much because I–
He shoved it down. Not yet.
But when Matthew woke up groggy from anaesthesia, his eyes found Hanbin first. Unfocused but searching.
“Hyung.” Matthew’s voice was thick, slow. “You stayed.”
“Of course I did,” Hanbin said softly, moving closer. “How are you feeling?”
Matthew’s hand moved against the sheets. Hanbin reached out, covered those familiar fingers with his own. Matthew’s fingers tightened weakly around his.
“Better now,” Matthew whispered, eyes already drifting shut again. “Always better when you’re here.”
Something warm and hopeful unfurled in Hanbin’s chest.
Maybe he hadn’t lost everything yet. Maybe there was still a place for him.
(5)
It was late.
The dorm had that end-of-day heaviness to it – bodies sprawled across couches, empty takeout containers littering every surface, crumpled napkins forgotten on the floor. The lights were dim as conversation drifted in lazy waves.
Hao scrolled through his phone with heavy eyelids. Jiwoong hummed absently to himself. Gyuvin was curled in the corner, occasionally mumbling between yawns.
Hanbin sat cross-legged on the floor, elbow propped against the table as he chased the last grains of rice around his container. Across from him, Gunwook sat against the wall.
Someone – Taerae, maybe – made a passing comment about how Matthew had been practically attached to Gunwook’s hip all week. Something fond and teasing.
Hanbin didn’t think before he responded. The words slipped out too fast, edged with something he hadn’t meant to reveal.
“He’s always been like that,” he said, voice carrying a brittleness that made everyone glance over. “Clingy like a koala. Latches onto someone and doesn’t let go.” He forced out a laugh to cover it up. “Guess it’s your turn now, Gunwook-ah. Looks like I’ve been officially replaced.”
A few scattered chuckles rippled through the group. Gyuvin muttered something like, “Ah, Matthew hyung is so cute I might die.”
All of it was meant to pass. To float and fade.
But Gunwook didn’t laugh.
He looked up slowly, his gaze suddenly sharp. “That’s interesting coming from you, Hanbin hyung.”
Hanbin blinked, caught completely off guard. “What?”
Gunwook’s jaw worked for a moment, like he was deciding whether to let it go. Then he looked away. “Nothing. Sorry.”
The conversation moved on. Someone changed the subject to their upcoming schedule, and the moment dissolved into the background noise of tired voices and shifting bodies.
But Hanbin couldn’t let it go.
Later, after the others had gone to their rooms and the dishes had been cleared away, those words still bothered him.
He found Gunwook in the kitchen, rinsing out a cup.
“Hey,” Hanbin said, voice carefully controlled.
Gunwook glanced over his shoulder, expression neutral.
“What did you mean earlier?” Hanbin stepped closer, fingers worrying at the hem of his sweatshirt. The question had been burning in his throat for hours. “When you said that thing about it being interesting coming from me?”
Gunwook paused, water still running over the cup in his hands. For a moment, Hanbin thought he wouldn’t answer.
“I just don’t think you realize how much Matthew hyung held onto you,” Gunwook said quietly as he turned off the tap, hands braced against the edge of the sink. “Or how much he had to learn to let go.”
“Let go…?” Hanbin stared at him, throat dry.
“Before all this. Before me and him got closer.” Gunwook turned to face him fully. “He used to follow you around everywhere, hyung. You were it.”
Some part of Hanbin wanted to argue, to defend himself. But Gunwook wasn’t being cruel – just honest.
“And then it was less time. Less of you in the ways he needed.” Gunwook’s expression was gentle but unrelenting. “He waited for you for a long time.”
Hanbin’s pulse kicked up. He looked at the counter, the floor, anywhere but Gunwook’s face. His mind scrambled for some explanation. I had responsibilities. I was there when I could be. He never said anything was wrong.
But wasn’t that exactly the problem?
He hadn’t seen it.
Didn’t clock when Gunwook had started stepping into that same space until it hit him too squarely in the face to mistake.
“People can only try so long,” Gunwook added softly. “Even Matthew hyung.”
The words rearranged everything Hanbin thought he understood. Everything that him and Matthew had become looked different now. Looked like consequence rather than coincidence.
“I didn’t know,” Hanbin said, and his voice came out smaller than he’d intended. More fragile. “Did he... did he ever say anything?”
“No, but he didn’t have to.” Gunwook’s expression softened with something that might have been pity. “He wouldn’t have anyway. You know he wouldn’t, not to you.”
And Hanbin did know that. Matthew would have stayed silent rather than burden someone he cared about. Would have made excuses, convinced himself otherwise. He would’ve just... waited. And then quietly stopped.
Hanbin stood there, his mind turning everything over in agonizing detail. Every missed signal. Every overlooked moment.
Matthew lingering by his door. Matthew asking if he wanted to grab food. Matthew laughing at something that wasn’t funny. Matthew, waiting.
“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” Hanbin said finally, voice rough. “About him being clingy. That wasn’t fair. I was just...” He trailed off, not sure how to name the ugly tangle of emotions inside him.
“I know,” Gunwook said.
Hanbin leaned back against the counter and closed his eyes.
I just don’t think you realize how much Matthew hyung held onto you.
God. Maybe he hadn’t. Didn’t want to. Because if he did – if he’d let himself see how much Matthew was giving him all along – it would’ve felt too much like something else.
Gunwook was quiet for a moment, then added, “He used to light up whenever you walked into a room, hyung. Like his whole face would change.” He paused, considering. “That kind of thing doesn’t just disappear.”
Hanbin’s breath caught. “You think...?”
“I think,” Gunwook said with a small smile, “some feelings simply run deeper than disappointment.” He patted Hanbin’s shoulder as he passed. “Maybe just talk to him.”
+1
It was cold when Hanbin found him.
The rooftop was quiet except for the urban sounds below – distant traffic, someone’s music bleeding through an open window. Seoul glowed against the night sky, bright enough to wash out most of the stars.
The door scraped against the concrete when Hanbin pushed it open, but the figure by the railing didn’t turn.
Matthew sat with his back against the low wall, knees drawn up to his chest, hood pulled over his head. His face was tilted toward the sky, eyes tracking something Hanbin couldn’t see.
Hanbin crossed the space in careful steps, his footfalls soft against the concrete. He didn’t announce himself, just lowered himself down beside Matthew, leaving a measured distance between them.
For a while, they just existed in the quiet together.
Finally, Matthew shifted. Didn’t look at him. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“Didn’t want to yet,” Hanbin replied honestly.
Another stretch of silence, not quite comfortable.
Then carefully, Hanbin asked, “Do you ever think about the people in your life? Like how long they’ll stick around?”
Matthew’s turned slightly, eyebrows drawn together in quiet curiosity. “You planning on going somewhere, hyung?”
“No,” Hanbin said quickly, then paused. “I’ve just been thinking. Some people feel permanent, you know? It feels like they’re always gonna be there.” He stared out at the city. “But then time happens. Things change. And one day, you realize they’re not there anymore... slipped out of your life without you meaning to let them.”
When he turned his head, Matthew was watching him with those dark, intelligent eyes – not guarded exactly, but wary.
“Are you trying to tell me something?” Matthew asked gently.
Hanbin opened his mouth, then closed it again. The words felt too big, too important to get wrong.
Yes. No. Maybe.
All he knew was that it had been sitting heavy on his chest for weeks now, growing heavier with each passing day. If he didn’t say it now, or didn’t at least try, when would he?
“I don’t want to become one of those people, Matthew-yah. The kind that fades away. And I don’t want you to be one either.”
He looked down at his hands, clenched tight in his lap.
“Because I miss you,” he said, shaking just slightly. “Even when you were right next to me, I missed you. And I didn’t understand why until–” He cleared his throat.
There. Honest. Bare. Naked. Somewhat.
Matthew was quiet for a long moment, just watching him. Then, so softly Hanbin almost missed it, “I didn’t go anywhere.”
“But I did.” Hanbin’s voice cracked. “And I’m sorry.”
Something flickered across Matthew’s face – surprise, maybe.
“You were always so close,” Hanbin continued, the words coming easier now that he’d started. “And I didn’t realize how much I took that for granted until it felt like I couldn’t reach for you anymore.”
Matthew’s fingers twitched against his knees.
“I miss you,” Hanbin said again, because it felt important to repeat. “And I don’t want to keep missing you if I’m still allowed to have you.”
Matthew didn’t answer immediately. Just studied Hanbin’s face like he was looking for something – sincerity, maybe, or proof that this wasn’t just another moment that would fade when the sun came up.
“What changed, hyung?”
Everything. Nothing. You. Me. The way I see you. The way I see myself. The way I finally understand what this is.
“I think I was so busy trying to take care of everything else that I forgot to take care of us.” He turned fully toward Matthew. “Can I come back now?”
“I– of course.” Matthew simply nodded, and something in Hanbin’s chest loosened. “You never had to ask. I was just... waiting for you to remember.”
And that was it. So easy.
But it was everything.
Relief flooded through Hanbin. He exhaled shakily, looking away before his face gave too much away. Before he started talking about things they probably weren’t ready for.
Matthew scooted closer, his shoulder pressed firmly against Hanbin’s. It was such a simple gesture. But to Hanbin, it felt like a second chance.
He let himself lean into it, everything else around him distant and unimportant.
I’ll do better this time. I’ll pay attention. I’ll earn my place again.
And maybe, when the time was right – when he’d worked his way back into Matthew’s heart close enough to see if the same feeling he felt was flickering there too – he’d be brave enough to say the rest.
To call it what it always was. What he wanted it to be.
Love.
Later that night, Hanbin found Gunwook sprawled on the couch on his way to check on something with Yujin.
He walked past without saying anything.
But three steps away he paused, then doubled back.
“Hey Gunwookie,” Hanbin said, settling into the chair across from him.
Gunwook glanced up, expression shifting to something watchful. “Oh. Hey, hyung.”
Hanbin sat quiet for a moment, trying to find the right words. There were so many things he wanted to say.
“Thanks,” he decided finally. “For taking care of Matthew when I... didn’t.”
“Didn’t do it for you,” Gunwook shrugged. “He’s precious to me too.”
“I know.” Hanbin smiled, heartened by that if anything. “But I’m taking my place back now.”
Gunwook raised an eyebrow, lips quirking upward. “You think he’ll just give it to you?”
Hanbin’s smile widened. “He already did.”
“I’m still his favourite though,” Gunwook said with mock seriousness. “Just saying.”
“Hmm… then may the best member win. Fair warning – I have a head-start and I play for keeps.”
“Is that a threat?”
“More like a promise.”
“We’ll see.”
Hanbin narrowed his eyes. “And is that a challenge?”
“What if it is?” Gunwook lifted his chin, lips quirking upward.
“Try it, and I’ll throw your phone and your entire skincare stash off the balcony.” Hanbin’s tone though playful, turned laced with threat.
“Woah, okay. Message received.” Gunwook raised his hands in surrender, grinning. “You’re kind of scary when you’re in love, hyung.”
Hanbin choked.
Literally choked on air, face flushing and eyes watering as he coughed into his fist.
“I– what– in love?” he sputtered.
“Relax,” Gunwook patted his back, trying and failing to look sympathetic. “I’m just calling it like I see it.”
“Is it that obvious?” Hanbin groaned, covering his face with his hands.
“To me? Yes.” Gunwook’s expression softened into something fond. “To you and Matthew hyung? Apparently not so much.”
They both dissolved into laughter then – easy and genuine, the tension from before completely gone. Just two people who cared about the same person in different ways.
When it faded, Hanbin felt lighter.
He had his place back. And Matthew’s trust, fragile but there.
A chance to hold on properly this time. To love – whatever that word would mean for them.
Matthew had been patient. Always left the door open.
And now?
Hanbin was finally walking back in.