Archive of Our Own

Go Hyuntak was Keum Seongje’s plaything.

At least, that’s what everybody knew. 

A body to throw when boredom sharpened into violence. A fist to meet his own when no one else could keep up. Hyuntak was dragged bloodied, shoved into walls, left to spit red on the concrete while Union’s shadows circled like vultures. They didn’t call it loyalty, they called it spectacle—Seongje’s way of proving that even the one who stood back up every time still knelt for him.

But they didn’t see what came after.

The door locked, the noise outside dulled, and Seongje’s hands slower now, deliberate as he pressed gauze into a split lip, taped the knuckles he’d broken himself.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” 

He’d mutter, like the words could cover up the way his thumb lingered too long against warm skin.And Hyuntak—always smirking, always sharp even when he bled—would answer, 

“Why do you keep patching me up, then?”

It was nothing. It had to be nothing.
And yet, somehow, Hyuntak always came back.

But that night was different. 

Baekjin had him on the ground, knee twisted under the weight, and the sound it made was sharp enough to still the air. Something gave—bone or pride, maybe both—and for the first time, Go Hyuntak stayed down.

Seongje saw it all.

The twitch at the corner of Hyuntak’s mouth, like he wanted to bare his teeth but couldn’t bite back the groan fast enough. The vein straining at his neck, the shallow hitch of his breath—signs no one else would catch, because only Seongje had watched him long enough to know what it meant when Hyuntak clenched his jaw too tight, when his eyes burned but refused to waver. He knew Hyuntak was seconds away from breaking, even as the boy forced his body to stay upright on a leg that was already gone.

And Seongje did nothing. 

Hands useless at his sides, nails biting into his palms, jaw aching with the pressure he held in. He wanted—no, needed —to pull Baekjin off, to shove everyone back, to catch Hyuntak before he collapsed. The urge was a blade twisting in his chest. But pride cut sharper. Pride told him to watch. To stay still. To prove that nothing—not even this—could make him falter.

So he didn’t move. 

He let the sight of Hyuntak shaking, falling, splinter something inside him, and smothered it until his throat burned.

Because stepping in would mean admitting it. 

And Seongje would rather choke on the taste of blood in his mouth than let anyone see.

Hyuntak didn’t look at him.

And maybe that was worse.

Seongje thought that was the end.
That the game was over , the cycle broken . 

He sat in silence that night, cigarette smoke curling in the air, trying to convince himself that losing a plaything shouldn’t matter this much.

But his hands wouldn’t stay still. They twitched against his knees, curled too tight around the lighter, flicked flame after flame until his fingers stung. The silence pressed in, thick enough that for a moment he thought he could still hear it—that crack, Hyuntak’s knee giving way, the sound lodged in his skull. He told himself it didn’t matter. That Gotak would drag himself somewhere else this time. That it was cleaner, easier, if he never came back.

So why did it feel like his chest had been cored out?
Why did every shadow past the window look like him?
Why did Seongje keep waiting for a knock he swore he didn’t want to hear?

And then—there it was.
Uneven. Hesitant. Familiar.

His pulse stuttered. Horror hit first—that Hyuntak had actually come, broken and reckless enough to crawl back to him. Then relief, sharper than the cigarette burn in his lungs—because he came back to him at all.

Seongje opened the door, breath catching in a way that made him want to slam it shut again. Go Hyuntak stood there, leaning heavy against the frame, leg ruined, jaw tight. Daring him to say something.

For one terrifying second, Seongje couldn’t breathe. He wanted to pull him in, drag him away from the hallway, hold him upright until his body stopped shaking. He wanted to admit it: that he’d been waiting, that he’d almost gone mad thinking he wouldn’t come.

Instead, he forced it all down, every crack sealed with pride, and said flatly,

You’re late.”

His voice didn’t betray the way his chest had just unclenched.

Hyuntak smirked—ragged, defiant, but still him—and stepped inside.
Like he always did.
Like he belonged.

Home.

But the truth sat bitter in his throat.

He wanted to ask— why? Why did Seongje let him break out there in front of everyone, standing still while his knee gave way? Why did he keep patching him up afterward, touching him softer than anyone else ever had, only to act like it meant nothing once the door opened again?

Was it all nothing to you?

The questions clawed at the back of his teeth, desperate to be spoken. But Hyuntak swallowed them whole. To ask would be to admit it hurt. To ask would be to make himself smaller than he already was.

So instead, he smirked, let the limp carry him past Seongje like it didn’t matter, let the silence say what he couldn’t.

Pathetic—that’s what he was. Pathetic enough to come back here, to this place, to him.

And maybe that was the worst part of all: knowing he’d keep coming back.

It had been a year since that night. Since Hyuntak’s knee gave out beneath Baekjin’s weight and Seongje stood frozen, pride eating him alive while something else clawed at his chest.

Ever since then, something has shifted.

On the surface, nothing changed—Hyuntak was still dragged into fights, still caught Seongje’s fists when boredom demanded blood. Baku groaned about it constantly, tired of watching two stubborn idiots tear each other apart. To Union, it was the same cycle repeating, the same spectacle of Seongje breaking him down and Hyuntak standing back up.

But behind closed doors? The fights ended and Seongje still cleaned the cuts. His words stayed sharp, but his hands grew slower, steadier, almost reluctant to let go. And Hyuntak kept coming back, no matter how many times he swore he wouldn’t. No one else knew. No one else could know. It was theirs—whatever this was, whatever name it refused to take.

A year later, Suho woke up.

The news spread like fire, pulling everyone back to the hospital. Hyuntak ran, nearly late, nearly too late—and not just because he was still limping faintly from the old wound. He hadn’t been home the night before. He’d been at Seongje’s.

Cigarette smoke still clung to his jacket. His body ached where Seongje’s hands had pressed him into stillness, taping over scars that hadn’t faded in a year. He slipped into the room as Baku and Sieun crowded Suho’s bedside, Juntae laughing wetly with relief.

Hyuntak stayed at the back, chest tight, a crooked smile tugged onto his face like it might hide everything else. He looked at Suho—alive, awake, breathing—and for a moment, guilt hollowed him out.

Because while Suho clawed his way back, Hyuntak had spent his nights in someone else’s shadow.

Someone he couldn’t stop returning to.

A week after Suho woke up, he was already good enough to talk without breaking into coughs. Good enough that Eunjang crowded into his hospital room, questions stacked on questions—what he remembered, what he didn’t, if he was hurting anywhere.

But it didn’t take long before the attention shifted.

“Gotak,” 

Baku started, suspicion written all over his face.

“What the hell’s going on with you?”

Hyuntak blinked, too slow. 

“What?”

“You’re always late. To class, to our meetings—hell, even here.” 

Baku leaned forward, incredulous. 

“You. You don’t even skip class when you’re half-dead, so don’t give me that shit about being tired.”

Sieun narrowed his eyes too, quiet but watchful. Juntae smirked like he was waiting for the punchline. Even Suho turned his head, weak but alert, gaze landing on Hyuntak like he’d noticed it too.

Hyuntak shifted in his seat, smirking, tugging half-hearted at his mouth. 

“You guys are imagining things.”

“No, we’re not,” 

Baku shot back, horror creeping into his voice. 

“You’re drifting, man. I’ve known you my whole life—you’re not like this unless something’s up. So what is it?”

The room grew tense. Hyuntak opened his mouth, closed it again. Pride twisted with guilt, words caught somewhere in his throat where they couldn’t escape.

The interrogation would’ve dragged on if Suho hadn’t spoken. His voice cut clean through the noise, calm in a way that was anything but:

“Keum Seongje visited me.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was suffocating. Baku’s face went slack, Sieun’s stare sharpened like a blade.

Hyuntak’s chest locked tight. His pulse thundered in his ears, but his body wouldn’t move. Couldn’t.

Suho pushed off the wall, eyes steady on him now. 

“Didn’t stay long. Just stood there and talked like I wasn’t even awake.” 

His voice didn’t rise, didn’t falter—it slid smooth and deliberate, like he was placing each word exactly where it would land. 

“Said he and Sieun were the same. Same spectrum. Same level. That even their type in boys looked alike.”

It was too direct, too sharp to be casual. Suho wasn’t just repeating what he heard—he was making sure Hyuntak felt it.

And Hyuntak did. Every syllable split him open.

Sieun had chosen to stay behind, Juntae had slipped out an hour earlier, and somehow Hyuntak found himself walking beside Baku. Just the two of them, side by side, about to cross the street that led straight to his place.

And then—of course, because the universe clearly had it out for him—Seongje appeared. Crossing the same street. Head tilted, gait unhurried, walking in the exact direction of Hyuntak’s home like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Hyuntak wanted to die. Right there on the curb. Collapse into the asphalt and let the city swallow him whole, because why, why was this happening now?

It only got worse.

By the time Seongje was at their side, Hyuntak’s mother was already waving from the gate, smiling the kind of warm smile she reserved for Baku. Only tonight, it wasn’t Baku she fussed over.

It was Seongje.

Dinner was an ambush Hyuntak hadn’t prepared for. He wanted to disappear into the floorboards while his mother ushered Seongje in like some long-lost son, setting an extra plate at the table without missing a beat. Hyuntak barely touched his food; his mother carried the conversation effortlessly, asking Seongje questions and laughing at his flat, understated answers as if he were already a regular guest.

Baku, poor bastard, sat across from them with too many unspoken questions piling behind his teeth. But he played the part of the polite kid, nodding when Hyuntak’s mom asked him about school, making small talk when prompted.

And Seongje—oh, Seongje—was too comfortable . Not just polite, but bold in his quiet way, answering Hyuntak’s mother with an ease that made Hyuntak’s stomach flip. Every now and then he dropped something that almost sounded like a hint, the kind of remark that slid too close to dangerous territory. A dry comment about how Hyuntak always cooked the rice wrong, delivered with the casual authority of someone who’d seen it firsthand. A remark about the way Hyuntak left his books lying open, like he’d been in his room enough times to know .

Hyuntak’s mother chuckled, delighted, nodding as if she agreed, as if Seongje had already earned his place at the table.

And in the space of a single dinner, Hyuntak realized two things:

He was going to die tonight.

Keum Seongje had somehow become his mother’s favorite—without even trying.

The night air was cool, a relief after the heavy warmth of Hyuntak’s living room. His mom had waved them off with snacks wrapped in foil, as if the three of them were kids again.

Hyuntak lingered by the gate, shoulders stiff, eyes fixed anywhere but on Baku. He knew it was coming. The question. The confrontation.

But Seongje, leaning against the fence like it was his own house, was faster.

“You don’t have to drag it out,” 

Seongje said, calm in that way that was never really calm. 

“You want to ask what this is.”

Baku’s eyes narrowed. 

“I want to hear it from him. ”

Hyuntak flinched. His throat worked, but nothing came out. Words jammed against all the wrong places in his chest.

Seongje glanced at him once, sharp and soft all at once, before stepping forward. 

“He won’t say it. Not because he doesn’t feel it—but because he’s scared of how you’ll take it.” 

A beat. 

His voice dropped lower. 

“So I’ll say it for him.”

The silence stretched tight.

“He belongs with me.”

Not to. With.

The difference landed. Even Baku felt it. This wasn’t the casual orbit of Union, not a fling Hyuntak had stumbled into. This was something else—something steady, dangerous in its certainty.

Baku finally snaps, voice low but firm:

“You don’t get to decide that for him.”

Seongje doesn’t even flinch. He leans back against the wall like he owns the air they’re breathing, eyes sharp, tone calm but cutting:

“I’m not deciding for him. He already did. I’m just not letting you pretend you didn’t notice.”

Baku clenches his jaw, steps closer:

“He folds when you push. That’s not a choice, that’s you taking advantage.”

For a second, Hyuntak wants to disappear, but something in him cracks. He blurts, almost too quiet—

“…I let him.”

It hangs there. His first admission. Not loud, not brave, but true enough that it lands heavy.

Seongje’s gaze flicks to him—soft, satisfied—and then he turns back to Baku, tightening the knife:

“See? He belongs with me. Not because I said so. Because he stayed.”

That’s the line. The one that makes Baku stop, the fight in him hitting a wall. He realizes this isn’t Union’s games, isn’t manipulation or coercion. Whatever they are, it’s not something he can pull Hyuntak out of by force.

Baku exhales, sharp and frustrated, but he doesn’t press further. His silence is surrender, for now.

Morning came heavy. The kind where silence stuck to the walls, not because anyone was asleep but because no one quite knew what to say.

Sieun wasn’t one for words. He never had been. Still, even he felt it—the weight pressing against the air, thicker than the steam rising from his untouched cup of instant coffee. He had meant to tell them, today of all days, that Suho was enrolling in Eunjang. That they’d finally get him back, properly this time, healthy and steady. It should’ve been good news.

But when he looked across the room, Baku was too quiet, his jaw locked tight the way it got when he was biting down on something he didn’t want anyone to see. And Hyuntak—Hyuntak was restless. Not in his usual way, not pacing for the sake of pacing, but in the way someone looks when sitting still feels like suffocation.

The words stuck. Sieun let them. He wasn’t going to throw Suho’s name into a silence like this.

Then the door slammed open, and in came Juntae like a human sunbeam, his arms full of contraband convenience-store treasures. A mess of milk cartons and crinkling paper bags, his grin wide enough to burn through whatever fog they were sitting in.

“Breakfast!” 

He announced, as if they hadn’t all skipped straight past morning already. He dumped everything onto the table with a flourish.

“I got strawberry, banana, coffee—because someone’s always cranky without it—and hotteok. Don’t fight me, I bought extra.”

The air shifted, only a little, but enough to breathe again.

Classes let out, but the silence carried heavier than the weight of books in their bags. Baku didn’t say a word as they filed out. Sieun muttered a clipped goodbye, peeling off in Suho’s direction. That left Hyuntak trailing beside Juntae, who for once wasn’t humming or filling the air with chatter.

The gates loomed ahead.

That uniform. Maroon, sharp, impossible to mistake. Juntae froze mid-step, heart skipping. Standing by the door, leaning like he owned the hallway, was Keum Seongje. A lollipop—was tucked between his lips. Or maybe it wasn’t a lollipop. Maybe it was just another cigarette in disguise, rebellion rebranded as sweetness.

Seongje’s eyes flicked past Juntae and landed on Hyuntak like they always did—unbothered, precise. He started walking, slow, deliberate. Baku’s shoulders stiffened but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even look twice. Just brushed past, shoving the air aside with a shrug that said he didn’t care.

But before either of the two left behind could process, Seongje flicked the lollipop from one side of his mouth to the other and spoke, voice low and cutting straight to the bone:

“—At least hear him once before you act like this.”

The words weren’t for Hyuntak. They weren’t for Juntae. They were aimed at Baku’s back.

Baku didn’t turn. Didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

And then Seongje’s hand was already closing around Hyuntak’s wrist, pulling him forward. Juntae yelped his name, voice pitching with panic—

“Hyuntak!”

—but Seongje didn’t even glance back. He dragged Hyuntak away from the gate, the crowd, the questions. The lollipop clicked between his teeth, candy disguising what had always been sharper, darker.

“Can we—can we just go to mine?”

And Seongje pauses. The lollipop rolls to the other side of his mouth. He studies Hyuntak like he’s seeing him for the first time. Weak, shaken, not his usual sharp-tongued Gotak. And he hates it. Not because Hyuntak is weak—but because it wasn’t him who brought him there.

So instead of smirking or taunting like he usually does, Seongje softens just enough. His reply stays casual (because he’ll never outright say he’s worried):

“...Fine. Lead the way..” 

He doesn’t let go of Hyuntak’s sleeve the entire walk.

Hyuntak finally opens up in his room, the words spilling out in fragments, circling around Baku—how protective he is, how suffocating it feels, how it’s always Baku who gets to stand between him and the world. Seongje, sitting there with his candy-turned-lollipop, listens without interruption. His sharp tongue wants to cut in— Baku this, Baku that, why is it always Baku —but he bites it back.

Because it’s not about him right now.

Still, his face betrays him—jaw tight, eyes narrowed, the kind of look that would make anyone else shrink. But not Gotak. Gotak’s too tired to notice, too busy letting it all out. And Seongje… he listens. Really listens, for once, even if jealousy coils like smoke under his skin.

When Gotak runs out of words, there’s a silence—awkward, heavy, but not unbearable. Seongje shifts, props an elbow on his knee, and mutters something low, almost grudging:

“...He’s not the only one who cares what happens to you, you know.”

Hyuntak doesn’t answer. He just stares at the floor, shoulders still tense, but for the first time all day he isn’t alone.

Later that night, when Hyuntak is asleep, Seongje leaves. The first place he goes? Straight to Baku’s.

By the time he reached Baku’s place, he didn’t knock lightly.
Keum Seongje don’t do subtle. Not when it came to Go Hyuntak.

The door swung open, and before Baku could even shape his mouth into a word, Seongje’s fist connected with his jaw. No warning, no prelude—just raw intent, the kind that left no room for misinterpretation.

Baku staggered back, hand flying to his face, glare already sharpening.

“What the hell—”

“Shut up.” 

Seongje’s voice cut like a blade. Low. Controlled. But it carried the kind of weight that made silence the only option. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with his heel.

“You think you’re protecting him?” 

Seongje’s words were deliberate, each syllable landing like another blow. 

“You’re not. You’re dragging him down. You’re breaking him in ways you don’t even notice.”

Baku’s jaw clenched, but he stayed quiet.

“You handle things, don’t you? Always the one taking the punches, always the one standing in front. But look around, Baku. Look at what’s left after you’re done ‘handling.’ Ruins. People holding the pieces you dropped.” 

Seongje’s eyes didn’t waver, burning straight through him. 

“You think it makes you strong. But all it does is make everyone else weaker.”

He took a step closer, close enough that Baku could see the storm in his expression—cold fury with something fiercer underneath.

“Hyuntak isn’t your shield. He’s not your second chance to get it right. And if you keep hurting him—intentionally or not—you’ll answer to me.”

“Hyuntak doesn’t need your kind of protection. He needs space to stand. And you’re too damn selfish to give it.”

Seongje’s voice lingered long after the door slammed behind him.

Baku stood there, jaw tight, the sting on his lip still fresh. He should’ve gone after him, should’ve thrown the words back in his face. But he didn’t.

Instead, he grabbed his jacket and left.

He didn’t even know where he was going until his feet took him toward the hospital. Toward Suho. Toward the chance—that Sieun would be there too.

And he was. Halfway down the corridor, Sieun appeared, his usual unreadable calm softening when he saw Baku.

They didn’t talk at first. Not until Sieun tilted his head and said, almost too gently, “You know he’s right.”

Baku froze, the echo of Seongje’s voice colliding with Sieun’s.

Hyuntak doesn’t need your kind of protection.

Baku scowled, ready to deflect, but Sieun kept going.

“Hyuntak isn’t like you. He doesn’t fight because he wants to win—he fights because he doesn’t know how else to keep breathing. You can’t shield him from that. You can’t throw yourself in front of it forever.”

Baku opened his mouth, closed it. His fists curled uselessly at his sides.

Sieun’s voice stayed steady, precise in the way only he could be.

“He doesn’t need another cage, Baku. Not yours, not Union’s, not anyone’s. He needs the chance to stand there on his own, even if it means he falls. If you love him the way you say you do, you’ll let him.”

The words landed heavy, heavier than Seongje’s had. Because Sieun wasn’t taunting, wasn’t provoking—he was just telling the truth.

For once, Baku had nothing to throw back.

And that silence—his silence—was the first time he really let the words sink in.

Juntae was not the type to go out at night. Everyone knew that. Which was why, when Keum Seongje saw him slipping out quietly, bag slung over one shoulder and hood pulled low, curiosity gnawed at him harder than he’d like to admit.

It wasn't a suspicion. Not tonight. This wasn’t the Union president who tracked weaknesses in people’s routines. This was Hyuntak’s Seongje—the one who could afford to follow on impulse, no plan, just hope. Hope that the smaller boy will notice him.

And Juntae did. Halfway down the street, when he turned at the sound of uneven footsteps shadowing him. His surprise was sharp and unhidden, but what shocked him more wasn’t Seongje’s presence. It was the question.

“What makes Hyuntak happy?”

No bite in his voice. No venom. Just a raw, restless weight that didn’t belong to the Keum Seongje they all knew.

Juntae froze, because what kind of answer could there be? He thought of Hyuntak’s crooked grin when he was being careless, the rare softness when he forgot to guard himself, the quiet loyalty that never asked for anything in return. He thought, but he didn’t speak fast enough.

Because before he could even try, Seongje was already gone. Steps heavy, retreating into the dark like he’d realized too late what he’d let slip.

And after that?

Keum Seongje ghosted his Go Hyuntak.

No texts. No visits. No lingering presence at his side. Just silence—because for the first time, Seongje felt stupid for wanting to know something as fragile as what could make Go Hyuntak happy.

Stupid, and worse—guilty. As if the moment he reached out, the moment he wanted, he’d already taken too much. Maybe if he clawed his way back to the old him, the violent him, things would fall back into their right places. Because wasn’t that how it always worked? Who was Baku without Hyuntak? And who was Hyuntak without Baku? That was something everyone could agree on.

But Seongje? He was still Keum Seongje. With a gang at his back, or with nothing at all. Alone—that was his ground. That was the only place he knew how to stand. And when things went south, no one was ever there for him. No one but Hyuntak.

And what had he ever given Hyuntak in return? Bruises. A weight to carry. A shadow that never asked what it meant to stay.

Hyuntak didn’t rage this time.Didn’t throw his phone against the wall, didn’t demand answers, didn’t even mutter a curse under his breath.

He just… stopped.

No texts sent, no calls made. He didn’t even bother checking the last time Seongje was online, didn’t sit up waiting in the dark with that faint, ridiculous hope of headlights pulling up outside his building.

He stopped waiting.

Stopped showing up early at the gate where Seongje might appear.
Stopped standing guard over a space that felt like it had been carved for two, even when one half of it vanished without warning.

Hyuntak simply let the silence eat him alive.

It was worse than anger, worse than fists. Because anger meant he still had somewhere to put the ache. Silence meant he was carrying it all inside.

And if anyone looked close enough, they’d notice: the faint slump in his shoulders, the way his eyes didn’t linger anywhere, how his voice stayed flat even when the others laughed.

This was the kind of crash no one hears.
The kind that leaves no sound—only the hollow weight of someone slowly shutting down.

Hyuntak’s mother stood at the door, hesitant but relieved to see the familiar faces gathered on her porch. Suho leaned lightly on Sieun’s arm, still pale but healthy enough to walk. Baku and Juntae hung back, awkward in their silence.

She let them in, wiping her hands nervously on her apron.

“Go on upstairs,” 

She said softly, then stopped them with a hand on the banister. 

“Wait, before you do—tell me.”

Her eyes moved between them, searching for something they couldn’t name.

“Where is Seongje?” 

The question was simple, but it landed heavy. 

“It’s been a month since he last came here. A month since Hyuntak smiled properly.”

No one answered.

She sighed, glancing toward her son’s closed door. 

“I used to think it was Baku who kept him steady. And maybe that was true once. But lately…” 

Her voice cracked into something closer to grief than frustration. 

“…Lately, it’s Seongje. Do you not see it? How much he matters to my boy? And how much my boy must matter to him?”

Baku looked away, jaw tight. Sieun’s eyes flicked toward the stairs, thoughtful. Even Juntae stilled, the usual ease gone from his posture.

It was Suho who finally spoke, quiet but sure.

“Who is Hyuntak without Baku? Everyone knows that answer. But what is Hyuntak’s life without Seongje?”

The silence that followed was deeper than guilt. It was a realization.

Upstairs, behind the shut door, Hyuntak sat in his own silence—head leaned against the wall, eyes open but unfocused, as if waiting for someone who had no intention of coming back.

They pushed the door open gently.

Hyuntak was sitting on the edge of his bed, fists clenched against his knees like he was holding himself together. The moment his eyes lifted to them—Suho, Sieun, Juntae, Baku—something cracked.

Tears slipped before he could stop them. He pressed a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking, but the guilt came spilling out with every broken breath.

He cried because they were here, every single one of them who mattered—his anchor, his friends, his family in their own ways—and still he felt incomplete. He cried because it should have been enough. But it wasn’t.

How come?

How come Seongje told him he belonged with him, that he was his, yet vanished like he never existed? How come Hyuntak had everyone in this room and still felt like half of him was missing?

The more he tried to stop, the worse it came out—wet, gasping sobs that only deepened the shame pooling in his chest. He wasn’t supposed to break like this, not in front of them, not when he always kept it together. But it hurt. It hurt so badly that no one could fill the space Seongje left behind.

Sieun moved first, kneeling in front of him, not speaking, just steady. Suho sat close by his side, hand resting on his back, quiet in the way only someone who understood could be. Juntae hovered near the doorway, gaze lowered. Baku stood rigid, swallowing something unspoken.

And Hyuntak kept crying—crying with guilt, crying with loss, crying because belonging was promised but nowhere to be found.

The first week back wasn’t easy, but Hyuntak let them pull him out of his room and back into the world. At first, it was small things—sitting with Suho on the porch just to feel the wind, helping his mom with groceries, walking to the gym even if he didn’t plan to play. He still looked tired, like he was holding himself together with threads, but there was effort in the way he showed up.

Slowly, the old pieces of him returned. His laugh slipped out more often when Baku joked, his sharp comments came back when Juntae teased him, his patience tested when Sieun insisted on tutoring him for midterms. He even let Suho drag him out for late-night snacks, and for a moment, in the glow of the streetlights, it almost felt like nothing had changed.

Almost.

Because no matter what, there was always a shadow following him. Every time the school gates opened, his eyes lingered, searching for a maroon uniform that never appeared. Every time his phone buzzed, he hoped for a message that wasn’t there. Every time he caught himself smiling, a quiet thought snuck in— would it last longer if Seongje were here to see it?

So when the Eunjang × Ganghak basketball match was announced, Hyuntak clung to it like a promise. He trained harder than anyone, drowned in drills and sweat, his lungs burning with something that wasn’t just exhaustion. Baku warned him not to push too much, but Hyuntak only shook his head.

Maybe he’ll be there, he muttered once, not even realizing he said it aloud.

Game day came. The Ganghak court roared with cheers, and Hyuntak shone brighter than ever, every pass precise, every shot clean, every rebound his. He was crowned MVP, the crowd chanting his name, teammates patting his back. But as the noise died down and the faces blurred, his chest hollowed out with a bitter truth—Seongje wasn’t in the stands.

On the walk home, trophy tucked under his arm, the weight of it felt heavier than it should. He had everything—a team, friends, recognition, family—and yet it all felt incomplete. He was muttering curses under his breath by the time he reached his porch.

“Fuck you, Keum Seongje” 

He spat into the night, not caring if anyone heard.

And then, as if the universe decided it had teased him enough, his eyes caught something impossible. A motorcycle parked outside his house. His mom never rode one—hell, she was scared of them.

Before his brain could catch up, his body moved. He swung the door open.

And there it was.

The missing piece of his life. Keum fucking Seongje—leaning against the wall, laughing at something his mom had said, like he hadn’t disappeared, like he hadn’t left Hyuntak to break and rebuild himself in silence.

Hyuntak didn’t say a word when they stepped inside. He bowed once, stiff and short, to his mom before disappearing straight to his room. The door clicked shut like it always did when he wanted the world to leave him the hell alone.

He sat on the edge of his bed, fists pressed against his knees, ears still catching the faint sound of laughter downstairs—his mom’s, warm and genuine, and Seongje’s, annoyingly low and unshaken. It made his teeth grind. It made his chest ache.

Minutes later, the door opened without knocking. His mom slipped in, the scent of laundry clinging to her clothes, the softness of her footsteps betraying that she was nervous too.

“Hyuntak,”

She started carefully, as if testing the ground. 

“Don’t be so hard. Seongje’s trying… he came here, you saw that. Maybe it’s time you try too. Forgive him.”

 

Forgive him.

The words landed like glass in his throat. Rage flickered, not loud, not explosive—the kind that burned quietly until it had nowhere to go. Why was it always someone else telling him what to do? What to forgive, who to trust, where to stay, when to break? Why did everyone seem to have a say in his life but him?

His mom patted his arm before leaving, as though the conversation was decided, as though she’d said all that needed saying.

And Hyuntak sat there, nails digging crescents into his palms, breath stuck in his lungs.

But the cruelest part? The ugliest, most pathetic part of it all?

That no matter how much he wanted to scream that he had no choice in anything, that no matter how much he wanted to stay angry—his chest still caved in with one single, unshakable truth.

He wanted Seongje back anyway.

Hyuntak doesn’t speak. Not when he slips on his shoes, not when the door creaks shut behind him, not even when he feels Seongje’s presence falling into step beside him like it was always meant to.

The night air is sharp. They walk without direction, hands buried deep in their pockets, shoulders brushing when one of them refuses to yield the narrow space of the sidewalk. It’s stupid—childish—but neither moves away.

Seongje’s voice cuts through first. Low, unsteady in a way Hyuntak has never heard before.

“Are you done being mad at me?”

Hyuntak huffs a laugh, bitter at the edges. 

“You think it’s that simple?”

“You want me to beg?” 

Seongje snaps back, but it’s not sharp enough, not real anger—just that stubbornness, that armor he hides behind.

 “Because I will. If that’s what it takes.”

Hyuntak stops walking. Turns. His jaw tightens.

“You left, Seongje. You didn’t even give me the chance to—fuck, to decide if I wanted you gone. You just… made the choice for me. Like everyone always does.”

Silence hangs heavy between them. Seongje doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away—he never does—but there’s something in his eyes that’s different. Something cracked open.

“I thought it was the right thing to do.” 

He admits, voice hoarse. 

“But then I realized… I was just fucking scared, too. Because if I stayed, you’d see all of me. And I don’t know if you could take it.”

Hyuntak scoffs, but his chest aches. 

“You think I haven’t already? You think I haven’t seen the worst parts of you and still—” 

He bites it back. Too much. Too bare. But Seongje hears it anyway.

And then Seongje does something reckless, something so him : he steps closer, close enough that Hyuntak can feel his breath ghosting across his face.

“Then take me back.”

Hyuntak’s knees feel weak again—pathetic, just like always—but his body moves before his pride can argue. And then Seongje stepped closer—too close. The kind of close that wasn’t a question, wasn’t permission, just inevitability. Hyuntak should’ve moved, should’ve shoved him away, but his body betrayed him.

Their lips met, sharp and desperate, more collision than kiss. It was brief, brutal in its honesty. The kind of thing that stripped the air between them bare.

Hyuntak pulled back first, breathing ragged, eyes wide like he’d been caught stealing something. He didn’t even know if he’d kissed Seongje or if Seongje had kissed him. It didn’t matter.

“Don’t you fucking disappear on me again.”

Seongje smiles—small, tired, almost tender.

“Not unless you’re coming with me.”

Seongje just won a fight Hyuntak didn’t realize he was in.

Hyuntak wanted to scream, to run, to disappear. Instead, he stayed there—because as much as he hated it, as much as he hated him , Seongje was the only place he ever came back to.