Work Text:
In the fragments of broken pieces
I turn around at the sight of you
I can see us in your eyes
Chihen stops when he realizes JL isn’t walking beside him anymore.
The grocery bags in his hands rustle when he turns to look behind him. “Hyung?”
“You know,” JL suddenly says, apropos of nothing, “I’m really smart in Filipino.”
Chihen blinks at the odd non sequitur. “I’m sure you are, hyung,” he says amusedly, chuckling when JL huffs in exasperation. “No, I mean it. You’re already smart in English.” His grin softens into a gentle smile. “And you’re starting to be really, really smart in Korean.”
JL looks genuinely startled at the compliment, ears visibly reddening to Chihen’s delight, before he frowns once again. “Thanks, but…” he trails off, shuffling closer and making Chihen’s pulse traitorously quicken. “I get frustrated a lot, when there’s so many things I want to say and I know them all in my head but when I try to say them all out loud I feel so stupid—”
“You’re not,” Chihen interjects quietly.
“—and when it’s time to talk in front of the cameras I still have trouble speaking fluently and I know I look stupid—”
“You’re not.”
JL’s wild rant is derailed when he finally looks up and meets Chihen’s eyes.
When they were still competing together in Universe League, Chihen has heard of the murmured feedback going around that his eyes look scary when performing, and that he has to tone it down.
Chihen wonders if that’s what JL is seeing now in his eyes. Oddly, even back then, JL has never been afraid of him.
No matter how close Chihen gets—JL has never, ever been scared.
Even when it terrifies Chihen himself to be that close.
Something in JL finally relents, his features a strange mix of wistfulness and shame; his face has always been so animated and open that Chihen can always see what JL thinks and feels, even if he doesn’t say them.
It’s why Chihen has never had trouble understanding him. Not even when they perform together on stage and JL pulls him close, confident and sure, eyes blazing with passion for the stage and the fire of—something else.
What is it in Filipino, Chihen desperately wants to ask him. How do you translate what I see in your eyes when we perform together, because I don’t think there’s a word for it in Korean. Or English. Or Mandarin.
Do you have a word for it in Filipino… Kuya?
“Chihen-ah,” JL murmurs, and something in Chihen’s stomach twists.
Chihen should be used to this—JL’s close proximity is a constant at this point given how much they practice and perform their pair choreography together—it’s just—
They’re not on stage.
Here, in the middle of the street on their way back to their dorm, there’s no one to perform for, no wild cheers to beckon with how closely they stand, their bodies a mere hair’s breadth away, the fabric of their clothes rustling as they touch, eyes half-lidded and faces so, so close in those few breathtaking seconds when the harmonized melody spill together from their mouths—before they have to abruptly turn away for the next part of the choreography.
They’re not on stage. And yet—and yet—JL’s eyes are still blazing with the same fire.
And Chihen—is burning.
“I wish,” JL finally says, eyes sharpening now with a fierce determination, “that I can tell you exactly the words inside my head.”
Chihen opens his mouth.
“And my heart, for that matter.”
Chihen’s jaw abruptly snaps shut. His brain blanks out.
He is absolutely at a loss for words.
“And if I do,” JL says, his face crumpling into... sadness? “Would you even understand?” He tilts his head thoughtfully as his hands—ever as lively and animated as the rest of him—flutter aimlessly in the air. “The Filipino words constantly playing inside my head… does it even have an equivalent in Korean? English? Mandarin?”
JL blinks when Chihen abruptly shoves one of the grocery bags onto JL’s chest; JL’s hands instinctively fly up to catch it as he stumbles.
“Take it,” Chihen insists.
“Oh, uh, right,” JL stammers, confused and contrite as he takes the bag with one hand and lets it fall to his side. “Sorry Chihen-ah, hyung should have been more helpful, these must have been heavy—”
And JL is once again derailed as Chihen abruptly takes his hand.
“There,” Chihen says decisively. “Now we both have one hand free.”
It’s very, very rare for someone as ridiculously talkative and extroverted as JL to be silenced like this, and Chihen takes a moment to bask in the satisfaction.
“I—” Chihen can see how JL’s mind is rebooting, cycling through all the languages he knows inside his head, before visibly giving up and settling on: “…What?”
Chihen smirks at him. “Hyung,” he says patiently. “Sometimes—we don’t need words to communicate.”
JL looks down at their entwined hands. Chihen threads his fingers through JL’s, and something inside his chest unspools at the way JL holds him tight.
Grip firm and secure—just like the way JL pulls him close on stage every time.
Except—right now, they’re not on a stage.
“I guess…” JL murmurs, breath fanning hotly over Chihen’s skin—just like when they sing their part together face to face, like this.
“We can have our own language like this.”
Maybe we're not incomplete after all
I know everything, we were shaken
Who's the one who waited for us?
That was you
“Why are you sitting out here?”
Shuaibo blinks and looks up to see Steven towering over him—a rare sight indeed, given that Shuaibo is sitting on the steps to their dorm.
“Oh, uh, I’m waiting for the kids,” Shuaibo answers, tucking both legs primly inside his arms as he makes space for Steven to settle beside him. “They made a quick grocery run a while ago.”
“Who?” Steven asks curiously. “There are five of them.”
“The troublemaking foreigner pair,” Shuaibo answers without missing a beat, making Steven laugh out loud.
“If I hadn’t known Daisuke is currently inside the dorm,” Steven muses, “I would’ve been confused as to who you meant.”
“That one isn’t a troublemaker,” Shuaibo says dryly, “that one is mischief incarnate.”
Steven grins. “That one is also your favorite kid.”
Shuaibo huffs. “I do not have a favorite kid.”
“Yes, you do,” Steven cheerfully insists.
Shuaibo playfully smacks his shoulder. “Yah, and what would you know about me, Steven Kim?”
The Australian in Steven is completely unfazed at the lack of honorifics. “We’ve been raising the kids together since Universe League. I know you better than you think, Zhang Shuaibo.”
Shuaibo’s breath hitches, caught off guard at Steven’s earnestness—and the unexpected weight of the words.
Something in Steven’s features soften. “We’ve known each other that long, Zhangshu-ya.”
The unbridled affection in Steven’s voice warms Shuaibo from the inside. “Actually,” he says softly, “I’ve known you even longer than that.”
“Oh?”
Shuaibo inhales deeply before he turns to fully face Steven, who is looking back at him with a calmness and steadiness that Shuaibo is already familiar with: their strong, centered, ever reliant leader.
Yet once upon a time, Steven Kim once was someone else entirely.
“Years ago, before we even met at Universe League, I—” Shuaibo bites his lip, fingers nervously fiddling with the edges of his sleeves. “I danced to your song.”
“Marionette, right?”
Startled, Shuaibo lifts his head to meet Steven’s eyes.
“I told you.” Steven is smiling at him. “I know you better than you think.”
The intensity in those eyes is too much to bear, and Shuaibo quickly averts his gaze. “Yeah,” Shuaibo admits, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “How did you know?”
“I watched your video.”
It’s not fair, Shuaibo thinks in despair, how Steven keeps pulling the rug under him like this with how much he does know him, because—what does Shuaibo even know about Steven?
“And I remember thinking,” Steven murmurs, “I want you on my team.”
Shuaibo swears his lungs have stopped functioning at that moment. “In Universe League?”
“No,” Steven says quietly, “in Luminous.”
It takes a moment for him to process the implications of that revelation, and Shuaibo stares.
“You watched me back then?”
The look in Steven’s eyes is something Shuaibo has never seen before. “I’ve wanted you since then, yes,” he rumbles, and it fills Shuaibo with unexpected heat. “I’ve never seen anyone dance like you. Hell, I’ve never seen anyone like you. You were mesmerizing, Zhangshu-ya, and you danced to my song. I felt so honored, and I desperately wanted to work with you.”
The awe and admiration spilling through Steven’s breathless words is knocking Shuaibo off-kilter. “Hyung,” he whispers, “the honor is mine. When I saw you of all people walking towards Team Rhythm as the last member to join our team I—”
Shuaibo abruptly cuts himself off and clamps his mouth shut. He can’t bring himself to say it, even as his heart is loudly screaming it:
I felt like it was destiny.
Steven is looking at him, that piercing gaze assessing him, like a knife peeling off all the layers Shuaibo is desperately wrapping protectively around himself—and hears him anyway.
“It feels right, doesn’t it?” Steven murmurs. “That we’re now together, like this.”
Shuaibo swallows. He feels a sudden heaviness engulf him, and he wraps his arms around himself.
Steven, ever attentive and observant, notices.
He always does.
“Zhangshu-ya?”
He feels Steven shifting closer. Shuaibo squeezes his eyes shut.
“The time I loved you as Luminous felt so short,” he whispers. “I hope the time I will love you as AHOF—will not have an ending.”
Steven stills.
“I don’t—” Shuaibo’s voice catches, “I don’t want to have to re-learn how to love you as someone else. I want this to be the final way I love you. As AHOF.”
Shuaibo takes a deep breath and gathers the strength to meet Steven’s weighted gaze.
“As our leader.”
Steven is sitting a step above Shuaibo, so when Steven pulls him into an embrace, it’s the perfect height for Shuaibo to bury his head on the crook of Steven’s neck as Steven presses his face into Shuaibo’s hair, breathing deeply.
“It will be,” Steven fiercely vows. “I’ll make sure of it.”
The belief that this isn't the end
Fragments that wanted to glow
I gathered them, each and every one
Even if their shapes are rough
Woongki smiles softly as he observes them from above, leaning over the railing as he watches the way Shuaibo hesitate at first before visibly sagging against Steven, wrapping his arms around their leader’s waist as both anchor and comfort.
He senses movement from his peripheral vision, and he turns to look. Chihen and JL are rounding the corner of the street towards their dorm, groceries in tow and walking firmly hand in hand.
Woongki feels his heart ache at the sight.
He hears a rustling behind him, and Woongki’s smile inevitably widens. He doesn’t have to look to know who it is.
It’s him. It’s always him.
Woongki feels a sudden weight on his shoulders, and he blinks at the blanket being wrapped around himself.
“It’s getting cold,” is the simple explanation, and Woongki curls his fingers over the soft fabric in gratitude.
The warmth that suffuses him is coming from more than just the blanket.
“How did you know I’d be here?” Woongki murmurs.
“Because you’re always here.”
Woongki’s breath catches, and he finally turns to look.
His heart flutters at that dear, familiar smile.
“You always come here at the rooftop when you need to decompress,” Jeongwoo tells him gently. “Or when you want to be alone.”
Curious now, Woongki asks: “And how would you know that?”
Jeongwoo always has that camera-ready smile, honed from his days as an actor and perfected now as an idol, rightfully earned as his very own brand.
The smile he gives Woongki is not that.
This one is laced with something more tender, more heated—something more vulnerable than the practiced perfection that is more of a shield, rather than being stripped to the core, like this.
This is something more real.
“Because I’m always here too, Woongki-ya.”
Woongki blinks in confusion. “What do you mean, hyung? I never see you?”
The corner of Jeongwoo’s mouth quirks as he tilts his head meaningfully behind them at the doorway to the rooftop. “I’d always be sitting there at the landing of the stairs, watching you. I never let my presence be known to you because I don’t want to disturb your chosen solitude.”
The revelation sends Woongki reeling. “Why…” he swallows, “why do you feel like you need to watch me?”
There’s a depth in Jeongwoo’s gaze that Woongki can’t decipher. “Because,” Jeongwoo murmurs, “no one really wants to be alone. Even when they think they do.”
Unbidden, Woongki feels a sudden surge of fresh tears well up, and he furiously blinks them away as he averts his gaze.
“Like right now,” Jeongwoo says as he shuffles closer and wraps the blanket tighter around Woongki. “You haven’t even completely recovered from your flu just yet. I can’t let you be cold, like this.”
I’m not, Woongki thinks as his throat constricts with emotion. Oddly, ever since I’ve known you, I’ve never once been cold.
Nor have I ever been truly alone.
“You’re really living up to your brand, hyung,” is what he says out loud instead, attempting to steer them back into more familiar territory of lighthearted banter.
“Oh?” Jeongwoo says amusedly. “And what is my brand, Woongki-ya?”
Woongki turns to beam at him brightly. “First Love Seo Jeongwoo.”
He fully intends it to be teasing. Instead, his words become breathless at the way Jeongwoo is gazing back at him.
“Mmm,” Jeongwoo hums thoughtfully. “That’s not a bad brand to have, admittedly. But it’s not really the brand I want to have.”
His gaze turns soft. “At least, not with you.”
Woongki feels his heart race. “Well, what brand do you think is better, hyung?”
The early evening breeze picks up, blowing Woongki’s bangs into his eyes. Tenderly, Jeongwoo reaches up to brush the strands away so Woongki has a clear view of Jeongwoo’s breathtaking smile when he says:
“Don’t you think it’s better to be someone’s last love instead?”
Core memories flash in Woongki’s mind, one after the other:
The look of fear and betrayal Kyungho directed his way when Woongki left their dorm for the last time.
The flash of hurt and confusion in Kyungho’s eyes when he first crossed paths with Woongki at the hallway during Universe League, and Woongki could only bow to him as if they were strangers.
The wistful fondness in those same eyes when Kyungho pulled him into a hug for the first time in a long while—and the last—after their dance break together for We Ready during the Universe League finale.
The way Jeongwoo held him tightly—fierce and strong and so, so warm—when Woongki broke down on stage in tears when he finally had his first win after five long years.
“Seo Jeongwoo, Cha Woongki’s Last Love,” Jeongwoo is saying teasingly now, his voice laden with something Woongki can’t dare name.
Can’t dare to hope.
“Don’t you think it’s a better brand for me to have?”
Beneath the blanket, Woongki links his arm through Jeongwoo’s.
Beneath the blanket, Jeongwoo pulls him close.
“It is, hyung,” Woongki tells him softly as he rests his head on Jeongwoo’s shoulder. “It is.”
Too hard, it won’t be еasy
But we'll make it one day
Wе'll make it through
“Juwon-ah, I really, really appreciate your intention to help but—” Han’s voice is high-pitched now, not for a song, but out of panic: “That is not how you chop vegetables.”
Juwon blinks as Han very carefully confiscates the kitchen knife and the onion his dongsaeng has been attempting to peel before Juwon actually slices through his precious fingers.
“Sorry, hyung,” Juwon says sheepishly as he hands over the cutting board as well, together with the rest of the vegetables. “I’ve never actually cooked before.”
“I can tell,” Han says wryly, heart softening when he sees Juwon visibly deflate. “Why don’t you start measuring out the other ingredients?”
Instantly, Juwon brightens again, making Han smile in relief. “I can do that!” Juwon declares as he rushes towards the cabinets where they keep the kitchen utensils and supplies.
“Careful,” Han admonishes when Juwon reaches for the top shelves by climbing onto the kitchen counter. “I swear, Juwon-ah, you’re going to take off years from my total lifespan.”
“Where’s Zhangshu-hyung when he’s needed,” Juwon grumbles as he attempts to carry the utensils in his arms as he ambles off the counter; inwardly Han is grateful their manager had the foresight to buy non-breakable ones. “I’m not a titan like him.”
“Well, you still have time to grow. Although,” Han grins, “Daisuke-nini is already starting to outgrow you. Soon, you’re going to be AHOF’s tiniest member.”
Juwon scowls at him as he sets the utensils on the counter. “I may be tiny, Hannie-hyung, but—” He throws his arms wide, “I have the biggest—”
Juwon abruptly cuts himself off, as if realizing he actually doesn’t know what to say next. Amused, Han raises his eyebrows as he folds his arms across his chest and waits.
Juwon startles as if the idea actually strikes him. “The biggest passion for the stage!” He exclaims with a flourish, twirling for good measure and ending with his hands curled over his head in a heart pose.
Han laughs out loud when Juwon winks and blows him a kiss as if he’s the ending fairy camera. “You’re such a showman, Juwon-ah. Let’s see if you can channel that passion in the kitchen today, shall we?”
Juwon beams and salutes. “Yes, chef!”
Han takes a moment to fondly watch how focused and meticulous Juwon actually is—in contrast to his earlier chaotic shenanigans—in precisely measuring out the ingredients. Satisfied with his self-appointed sous chef, he turns his full attention back to finishing his mise en place.
Cooking has always been therapeutic for him, muscle memory kicking in the same way it does when he’s dancing. It doesn’t register how deeply he’s been in the zone until he finishes up the last of the ingredients that needs to be chopped—and realizes that Juwon has been staring at him with wide eyes and open-mouthed awe.
“Hyung,” Juwon breathes, “how can you be so good in everything? How did you even learn to cook like this?”
The thing with Juwon is that not only is he generous with his praise, he sincerely means it every time. His vocals, his dancing, his overall stage presence—there is nothing about Han that Juwon doesn’t shower with love, and it makes Han want to keep doing even better every time, because he never, ever wants Juwon to be disappointed in him.
He desperately, achingly wants to make Juwon proud.
But this—Han doesn’t know if he himself can even be proud of this.
Because Juwon doesn’t know.
Juwon smile fades at the ensuing silence. “Hannie-hyung?” He bites his lip. “Did… did I say something wrong?”
It tugs at Han’s heartstrings to hear that painful doubt in Juwon’s voice. He takes a deep breath.
“I worked plenty of part-time jobs at a lot of restaurants and cafes,” he quietly confesses as he starts cleaning up his station, refusing to meet Juwon’s eyes. “Mostly as a dishwasher, but sometimes when there were a lot of leftover ingredients, if the owners were kind enough, they’d let me cook these for myself because the ingredients couldn’t be used the next day anyway. That’s… how I learned how to cook.”
Because I was hungry, Han doesn’t say, and beggars can’t be choosers.
There’s a beat of silence. “Wasn’t your food supposed to be sponsored by the company?”
The smile that graces Han’s lips is bitter. “They didn’t renew me, remember? When my trainee contracts expired. And because you don’t earn any money as a trainee, I didn’t have any savings, so I couldn’t go back to school either. I needed to pay rent.” And I needed to eat. “So I was desperate to have a job, any job.”
The dishes he’s holding start to rattle; his hands are starting to shake. He sets them back carefully down on the counter and slowly lets out a trembling exhale.
“So when I said in Universe League that I was desperate to debut,” Han whispers, “I meant it.”
He grips the edge of the counter as he tries to steady his breathing. He squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself as he turns to face Juwon. He’s been so used to seeing Juwon look so brightly upon him—those wide eyes always glimmering with admiration and pride and something else that he can’t quite figure out—that he knows it’ll break his heart if he sees the one thing he never wants to see in Juwon’s eyes.
Pity.
“Seven years.”
Han’s eyes snap open—and it takes his breath away.
Of all the things he hasn’t expected to see in Juwon’s eyes—it’s a hardened determination.
“AHOF has to stay together for seven years at the minimum.”
Han swallows. “Our contract together isn’t that long, Juwon-ah,” he reminds him, heart clenching painfully at the thought of already shortly losing something he has fought for so hard for so long.
“If we’re good enough—if we’re successful enough—they have no choice but to keep us.”
All the air is punched out of Han’s lungs as Juwon steps closer, resolutely holding his gaze.
“That’s why AHOF has to succeed. So that your time with us will be longer than all those years you’ve had to endure alone.”
Juwon surges forward and grips both of Han’s hands.
“And I’ll make that happen,” Juwon fiercely declares. “I’ll be good enough for the company. I’ll be good enough for the fans. And most of all—”
Han inhales sharply as Juwon presses their foreheads together, tremblingly whispering a plea and a vow:
“I’ll be good enough for you. So you’d want to stay with me, too.”
At the end of this cold season
We will meet again
Oddly, it feels like the Universe League draft all over again. Except this time, it’s Daisuke who is the unwitting judge.
And it’s all eight of his hyungs who are anxiously vying for his approval.
He stares down at the meal set neatly in front of him. Several dishes of it.
“… Champuru?” he inquires haltingly.
Han instantly brightens. “You recognize it, Daisuke-nini?”
Juwon looks happy too. “Hannie-hyung and I worked so hard to prepare it!”
“Really?” Woongki probes doubtfully as he narrows his eyes at Juwon. “You cooked?”
“Yah, I helped!” Juwon loudly protests, pointing accusingly at Woongki. “And what did you do to help, Woongki-hyung?”
“I set the table!” Woongki shoots back with his hands on his hips.
“And I washed all the dishes,” Shuaibo interjects, folding his arms over his chest as he glares at Han. “Why did you have to use so many?”
“I was just following the recipes Jeongwoo-hyung gave me!” Han exclaims, pointing to Jeongwoo in turn.
“Hey, I was just thoroughly doing my research,” Jeongwoo says defensively, hands in the air with both palms out. “Just as Steven-hyung instructed me to!”
“Chihen-ie and I bought the ingredients!” JL pipes up as he slings an arm over him, Chihen smiling faintly as JL turns to address Shuaibo. “And I agree, Bobo-hyung, there were so many?”
“JL-hyung and I might as well have skipped arm day at the gym with how heavy the grocery bags were,” Chihen adds wryly. “We should have brought a cart.”
Amidst all of his hyungs’ bickering—the chaos is a white noise that’s comforting to him by now—Daisuke gingerly lifts his chopsticks to take a bite.
Instantly, the noise stops.
Daisuke chews thoughtfully as all his hyungs watch with bated breath for his judgment. He swallows. He raises his head and meets the penetrating gaze of their leader sitting at the head of the table across from him.
The only one who hasn’t spoken until now.
“Did you talk to my Mom?”
There’s a collective gasp that ripples around the table.
Steven smiles. “How did you know?”
“Because,” Daisuke’s hand is shaking as he replaces the chopsticks on the table, “this tastes exactly like her cooking.”
“Really?” Han says breathlessly, pressing his hand over his heart. “That’s such a relief to hear, wow.”
Grinning, Juwon claps a hand on Han’s shoulder. “Good job, hyung.”
“It was actually JL-hyung’s idea,” Chihen tells Daisuke softly.
Daisuke bites his lip. “Why?”
Something wistful and bittersweet flickers in JL’s eyes. “Because I missed my Mom’s cooking, too. And that’s when I realized you must be also missing your family.” He offers Daisuke a gentle smile. “Your home in Okinawa.”
Beneath the table, Daisuke’s hands curl into fists on his lap.
“So imagine our surprise when we talked with your mother and she informed us what your favorite dish of hers was,” Woongki says with a smirk.
“Champuru.” Jeongwoo smiles warmly. “Okinawa’s signature vegetable dish.”
“And that’s when we figured it out.”
Steven is older than Daisuke by almost a decade—just three weeks shy of ten years. It makes Daisuke feel small sometimes, being around someone infinitely stronger and wiser.
“It’s not that you don’t like vegetables. It’s just that you only eat them if it’s your Mom who cooks them.”
Yet the one thing that keeps fascinating Daisuke every single day—is how Steven is also infinitely kinder.
“And I’m sorry,” Steven says softly, “for only now understanding that.”
I don’t hate vegetables, Daisuke thinks in despair, I just hate when it doesn’t taste like home.
The back of his hands feels cool and wet; belatedly, Daisuke realizes his tears have fallen onto his balled fists.
His whispered words come out warbled.
“I hate this.”
There’s a tense, thick silence that settles in the room before Shuaibo gently breaks it.
“What is that you hate, Daisuke-kun?”
Hearing the warm affection in his own language shatters him.
“I hate that you all always have to take care of me. I hate that I’m so young. I want to grow up, and I hate that it’s taking so long because—”
He chokes up mid-rant, and he hates even this, how he can’t even string words together or form coherent thoughts and he absolutely hates being a kid.
“Because I want to be someone the hyungs can rely on, too. And I hate how every day, I’m always reminded of how I’m still so lacking.”
His hands come up to cover his face because his hyungs definitely don’t need to see how pathetic he looks right now.
“I wish I was strong enough, too.” The words come out muffled between his fingers. “I want to take care of you and protect all of you, too.”
He hears a rustling movement and feels the presence of someone settling beside him. He finds himself being pulled into an embrace—and judging from how his head fits right into this hyung’s shoulder, he knows immediately it’s Shuaibo.
“Daisuke,” he hears Jeongwoo say quietly. “No one is asking that of you.”
Hesitantly, he lifts his head from Shuaibo’s shoulder. Chihen slides a pack of tissue towards him. Seeing that Daisuke isn’t moving, Juwon takes it upon himself to procure a sheet and determinedly holds it up to Daisuke’s face.
“Blow,” is Juwon’s simple instruction, and Daisuke helplessly follows as he blows his nose.
He takes a deep, shaky breath, and when he turns—he is met by the unfathomable gaze of their leader.
Steven begins pointing to each member in turn, starting with Jeongwoo. “Military idol.”
He then gestures at Han. “Seven years as a trainee.”
JL is next. “Four years as a trainee, a year as an idol.”
Woongki. “Victim of company disputes.”
Steven then points at Woongki, Shuaibo, and himself. “Failed survival show contestants.”
Daisuke sees Steven briefly hesitate—his hand doesn’t leave his own chest—before Steven lets out a sigh. “Eight years… and a failed debut as an idol.”
“It wasn’t,” Shuaibo fiercely interjects, his rumbling voice reverberating through Daisuke as Shuaibo still holds him close. “Luminous has never been a failure.”
Daisuke sees the grateful smile Steven sends Shuaibo’s way before he finally addresses Daisuke.
“We lost so much of our youth to hardships and failures, Daisuke-ya.”
From his peripheral vision, Daisuke sees the way Han drop his head and look away.
There’s a touch of sadness in Steven’s words. “I was already worried for Chihen-ie and Juwon-ie for starting in the industry so young—Chihen-ie, especially, as a foreigner moving into another country and risking it all alone. Because I know exactly what that’s like.”
“I do, too.”
JL has never been one to hide his emotions, always freely wearing his heart on his sleeve, and it overwhelms Daisuke to see waves of empathy and concern and unabashed love directed his way when JL addresses him, too.
“But you, Daisuke-ya,” JL says sagely, “you were even younger when you began. You were younger than all of us when we were starting out.”
“And that’s why all your hyungs are in this together, Daisuke-ya.” Woongki is smiling at him kindly, fondly. “Because we now have a chance to make sure you won’t ever have to go through what we did.”
Daisuke’s eyes widen as he is abruptly reminded that in another group, in the lives they once had before AHOF—
Woongki, JL, and Steven had once been the maknae, too.
“There’s almost ten years between us, Daisuke-ya,” Steven is saying now, that ever-present wisdom and kindness flaring in his eyes—yet there is something new there, too. Determination. “That’s ten years worth of blood, sweat, and tears I can save you from. That we can all save you from.”
He pauses, a smile lifting his lips as he gazes around the table, part acknowledgement, part dare: a leader’s command.
“Daisuke-kun,” his leader declares. “Oniisan-tachi will protect you.”
Daisuke’s fingers curl over Shuaibo’s shirt when Shuaibo wordlessly presses a kiss onto his hair.
“Ten years…”
He gently eases out of Shuaibo’s arms as he looks at them all, holding each of their gazes in turn.
“I’m gonna grow older, eventually,” he says softly, his eyes finally meeting Steven’s. “Ten years later, hyung, when I finally get to the age you are now—”
“Nine years,” Steven interrupts, grinning. “If we’re following the Korean age system.”
“You’re Australian, why are you suddenly switching nationalities?” JL points out. “You wanna serve in the military that badly?”
“You really don’t want to,” Jeongwoo vouches dryly.
“Steven-hyung’s cheating with his age because he’s gonna be an ahjussi sooner than the rest of us,” Woongki teases, laughing when Steven sticks his tongue out at him.
Daisuke finally smiles, and it’s like the entire room brightens. Like the whole world is shining again.
“Nine years later, when I finally get to be who you are now, Steven-hyung—will you let me protect AHOF, too?”
Steven looks as if he’s been struck. He visibly swallows against the emotion threatening to overtake him and opens his mouth to answer—
Before he’s interrupted by the unexpected sound of a sniffle.
JL blinks. “Juwon-ah? What’s wrong? Why are you crying all of a sudden?”
Chihen looks slightly concerned as he holds the tissue for Juwon as this time, he’s the one who blows his nose. “Because,” Juwon wails, “Daisuke-nini just promised to grow old with us for nine years.”
Juwon looks over at Han, who looks like he might start crying anytime soon too. “That’s—a lot longer than seven years,” Han affirms with a trembling smile.
“Ten years.”
Eight heads swivel to Chihen as he primly disposes of the soiled tissue. He looks up to see eight pairs of eyes on him—and he smirks.
“We’re a global group. We should follow the international standard time.”
He catches Daisuke’s gaze—and smiles.
“Daisuke just promised to be with us for ten years.”
Those endless times
The nights we endured
That made our beginning complete
It’s Woongki who suggests they all go to the rooftop.
“Someone once told me that no one really wants to be alone, even when they think they do,” is his only cryptic explanation, before he tells Steven beseechingly: “And I think tonight—our maknae shouldn’t be alone.”
Steven catches the open look of adoration Jeongwoo has for Woongki when he thinks Woongki isn’t looking. He smiles, choosing not to call Jeongwoo out on it, and turns to Woongki instead.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s do that, Woongki-ya.”
And that’s how the nine of them find themselves here, picnic mats spread on the concrete and bundling themselves up in several blankets—Jeongwoo making sure Woongki is bundled extra—conversing softly under the stars with each other about nothing in particular and everything all at once.
Their hopes. Their fears. Their dreams. Their vows to do it all together.
This is Steven’s whole universe. And come hell or high water, he will protect this.
He will fight for this.
The night wears on, and eventually they begin dozing off one by one.
Jeongwoo wraps the blanket tighter around Woongki as he falls asleep on Jeongwoo’s shoulder, before he puts an arm around Han who is dozing on Jeongwoo’s other side. Juwon shifts his head on Han’s legs as he snuggles closer to Chihen, who in turn is sleeping on Jeongwoo’s lap.
“Gege,” comes the soft whisper from above him, and it gently pulls Steven back from the tempting lull of slumber.
From his position lying on Shuaibo’s lap, he sighs as Shuaibo runs his fingers through Steven’s hair. “You’re a liar,” Shuaibo tells him, gaze half-lidded as Shuaibo leans his head on Woongki’s shoulder and links their arms together.
Steven’s mouth quirks. “Really,” he murmurs as he snuggles closer to JL, who has his head pillowed on Woongki’s lap. “Whatever would I be lying about, Zhangshu-ya?”
Shuaibo smiles. “Daisuke is your favorite kid.”
Steven blinks. Shuaibo tilts his head meaningfully.
Steven pushes himself up on his elbow to look—and feels his heart swell a thousandfold inside his ribs at the sight.
In a breathtaking mirroring of their iconic pair choreography, Chihen and JL are lying facing each other, their mingled breaths snuffling in soft snores, arms reaching across to hold each other even in sleep.
And cocooned between them—warm and sheltered and safe from the cold of the night and the world—is Daisuke.
“I’ll let you in on a secret, Zhangshu-ya.”
Steven lays his head back down on Shuaibo’s lap—Shuaibo’s hand gently guiding him—and closes his eyes as he smiles.
“Daisuke is everyone’s favorite kid.”
Even if the meaning of "us"
Might still be unfinished
We know what it means to be together
Only once I met you