Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

lee sangwon still remembers the conversation he and anxin shared, hours after their disbandment was announced.

so1ar’s dorm was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against the walls. boxes leaned against doors, half-filled with clothes and memories, like ghosts waiting to be carried away.

sangwon lay on his bed with a book open across his chest, eyes fixed on the page but not seeing a single word. sleep felt impossible—how could he rest when tomorrow meant the end of everything they had built?

then, in the stillness, a voice broke through.

“what do you plan on doing after this, hyung?” anxin asked.

sangwon’s chest tightened. he turned toward the faint outline of his roommate. “i still want to continue being an idol…” the words felt strange, heavy with both hope and fear. “how about you?”

a pause.

“i don’t know.”

his heart dropped. “anxin, you’re still young. you can keep going. you should.”

anxin only hummed, unreadable. “i’m not sure if that’s what i want anymore.”

sangwon shot upright, his pulse pounding so loud it drowned the quiet. panic clawed at his throat.

not him. anyone but him.

“but—you got that offer from hybe too, right?” the words spilled fast, trembling. “we could debut again. together. it’s not like before—no contract that runs out in just a few years, no countdown to another disbandment. they gave us assurance.”

he leaned forward, fingers twisting into the sheets, his voice thinning.

what he wanted to say was don’t throw me away. i can’t do this without you. but fear pinned it inside him.

all that escaped was a broken, “so why won’t you take it?”

“i know.” anxin’s gaze stayed on the ceiling, distant. “it’s a good offer.”

“then why not take it?” sangwon’s voice rose sharper than he intended, desperation cracking through. “after everything, you can’t just… walk away.”

finally, anxin turned his head. his calmness was worse than anger.

“because i don’t think my dream looks the same as yours anymore.”

the words hollowed him out. sangwon’s stomach dropped, his mouth dry. he searched anxin’s face for something—hesitation, regret, anything—but found only quiet resolve.

“…so you’re leaving?” he whispered.

anxin didn’t answer right away. his eyes slipped shut, as if it hurt to keep them open.

“maybe i was never meant to stay.”

the silence that followed was unbearable. sangwon’s fists curled tight, nails biting into his palms. he wanted to argue, to beg, to say don’t leave me please. but the words tangled in his chest, caught between pride and fear.

so he sat there in the dim light, staring at the boy who was already slipping away.

sangwon didn’t see anxin for a month after that night.

the days blurred—farewell schedules, last contents, fan events strung together with forced laughter and practiced smiles. the other members clung to each other in those small spaces in between: late-night meals, drinks passed around, stories retold just to hold on a little longer.

but anxin was never there.

“he’s busy,” someone would murmur. “probably filming something, or meetings.” excuses came easily, but they didn’t ease the hollow in sangwon’s chest.

because he knew.

he knew anxin was choosing not to be there.

and every empty chair, every missing laugh, every silence where anxin’s voice should’ve been—sangwon felt it like a thread snapping, one by one, until he wasn’t sure what was left holding them together.

so one night, after another gathering that ended with everyone stumbling home except him, sangwon finally pulled out his phone.

he typed out a message. then erased it. tried again. deleted again.

are you okay?

too weak.

we haven’t seen you in a while.

too casual.

don’t shut me out.

too much.

his thumb hovered, trembling. in the end, he sent the safest thing he could.

let’s meet. just us.

and then he waited. staring at the screen, praying for the dots to appear.

days.

sangwon kept checking, convincing himself he wasn’t waiting, that he wasn’t counting the minutes. but every time his screen lit up, his chest tightened anyway. every time it wasn’t anxin, something inside him sank lower.

a week later, just when he’d stopped expecting anything, the notification finally came.

okay. maybe. i’ll let you know.

three short sentences. nothing more.

sangwon stared at them until the letters blurred. his chest should’ve eased—after all, it was a reply—but instead, it hollowed him out. vague words were worse than silence. silence he could fight with excuses, tell himself there was still something unsaid. but this… this was like being tossed a crumb and told to be grateful.

he wanted to push. to ask when? where? why not now? but his fingers froze over the keyboard. he deleted everything he tried to write.

in the end, he left it unanswered.

the ache stayed. heavier, sharper. absence had turned into distance, and distance into something colder—something that felt like the beginning of goodbye.

another week passed since anxin’s last message when sangwon’s phone buzzed again.

can i see you?

his breath caught. he couldn’t reply right away—he was in the middle of schedules, cameras pointed at him, staff hovering nearby. the world didn’t stop just because his heart did.

a second notification.

sorry, are you busy?

by the time he can finally reply, anxin’s messages were stacked on top of each other.

where?

he typed back, fingers shaking slightly.

i’m already outside your apartment waiting.

it’s okay if you’re busy, i can meet on another day.

his pulse hammered in his ears. no. he couldn’t let this moment slip.

almost immediately, the reply came.

go inside. the password is 122506. wait for me there.

okay. take care.

relief spread through his chest for a moment—until he remembered he actually had to get there.

he grabbed his phone and hurried to his manager. “sorry, but can i cancel the rest of today’s schedule?” his voice was tight, heart thundering.

his manager froze. “huh? you can’t just—”

“i’m really sorry, but i have to go,” sangwon said, already moving toward the door, urgency pulling him forward.

“wait—!”

but he didn’t hear the rest. every step was fueled by the thought of anxin waiting—or leaving.

Chapter Text

sangwon’s manager caught up to him just outside the building, grip tight on his elbow. “lee sangwon, what is going on? we have a radio interview in forty-five minutes.”

the words were just noise. sangwon’s entire world had narrowed to his phone, waiting incase he gets another text.

“it’s an emergency,” sangwon rasped, though the excuse felt thin and useless.

“what kind of emergency?” his manager pressed, brows furrowed in frustration and concern. “is it your family?”

“it’s anxin,” the name broke free before sangwon could stop it, ragged and desperate. “it’s— i have to go.”

something in his voice, something raw and unguarded, must have landed. his manager’s grip loosened into pity. “sangwon-ah…”

“please, hyung. just this once.”

a heavy sigh. a pause. “go. i’ll cover it. but you owe me.”

sangwon didn’t wait for anything else. he flagged down a taxi, voice unsteady as he rattled off the address. his heart was a frantic drum, louder than the city rushing by outside.

the ride was a blur. he kept refreshing his messages—nothing new. every second of silence pressed down on him like a verdict.

by the time he reached the building, his body was shaking. he overpaid the driver, bolted up the stairs, two at a time. his chest burned, not from the run, but from the fear clawing at his ribs.

what if he’s already gone?

he fumbled the code into the keypad. 122506. the memory stung like salt in an open wound. the door clicked open into stillness.

the apartment was dark, hollow, filled with the faint smell of dust and cardboard. the space looked less like a home and more like a grave—an empty monument to a dream already dismantled.

and then he saw him.

anxin wasn’t by the door. he was by the window, city lights spilling around him, a single suitcase standing upright like a silent betrayal.

“you came,” anxin said softly, voice too steady to be natural.

“you called,” sangwon answered. his own voice cracked like glass.

a silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

“i’m leaving,” anxin said at last, simple and merciless. “my flight to shanghai is tonight.”

the word tonight landed like a physical blow. sangwon staggered a step back, air sucked from his lungs.

“tonight?” his voice was jagged, too small for the size of the grief pressing in on him.

“you weren’t even going to say goodbye?”

“i am saying goodbye.”

“this isn’t goodbye!” sangwon’s voice rose, fraying at the edges.

“this is you handing me a note while you run out the door! what about hybe? what about debuting together again? you said—you said you’d think about it!”

“i did think about it.” for the first time, anxin’s gaze met his, and the calm there was worse than fury. “and my answer is no.”

“why?” sangwon’s voice split open, raw, begging. “give me one reason. one real reason.”

“it’s a better opportunity.”

“bullshit.”

the word tore from sangwon’s throat like something feral. “you’re running away. you’ve been running for weeks—!”

and then anxin flinched. just slightly, but sangwon saw it. the crack in the armor.

so he pushed. he had to.

“is it because you’re scared? is that it? you’re scared to start over so you’re just… quitting?”

“you don’t know anything,” anxin whispered, his own voice starting to fray.

“i know you! i know you don’t just give up! what happened to the guy who fought tooth and nail to be here? where did he go?”

“he fell in love!”

the shout ripped out of anxin like a wound bursting. the sound echoed through the empty dorm, filling every corner until there was no air left.

both of them froze.

anxin’s chest rose and fell sharply, horror overtaking his face as he slapped a hand over his mouth, as if he could force the words back in.

sangwon stared at him, mind blank, heart slamming. “what?”

“nothing,” anxin whispered, turning away, his voice shaking. “forget i said that.”

“no.” sangwon’s feet moved on their own, a step closer, his panic now tangled with something he couldn’t name. “what did you say? who is it?”

anxin let out a broken laugh, the sound trembling. “it doesn’t matter. that’s why i have to go.”

“how does that not matter?” sangwon pleaded, his frustration returning. “if you… if you like someone, that’s okay! we can figure it out. the company—”

“you don’t get it!” anxin spun around, and his face was a mess of tears and anger and a pain so deep it made sangwon’s heart stop. “it’s not okay! it’s not some simple crush! it’s… it’s everything. it’s bigger than my dream. it’s all i can think about, and it’s ruining me!”

sangwon was lost. completely, utterly lost. “who is it?” he asked, his voice soft, desperate to understand the root of this pain.

for one unbearable moment, anxin’s gaze locked onto his.

and sangwon felt it—the weight of something vast, something unsaid pressing against him. his breath caught. he thought—he almost knew—that anxin was going to say it.

but then anxin’s face crumpled. he looked down, shaking his head.

“it doesn’t matter who it is,” he said, his voice a hollow whisper. “because they will never, ever look at me the way i look at them. and staying here… being near them, pretending… it’s going to destroy me more than leaving ever could.”

the confession hung in the air, obvious to everyone except the boy it was meant for.

sangwon’s stomach twisted with something sharp and ugly—jealousy, irrational and blind.

who could hold anxin like this?

who could be worth leaving everything for?

who was too blind to see what was right in front of them?

he wanted to demand a name, to tear the truth from him.

but the broken look on anxin’s face stopped him. this wasn't about some mystery rival anymore. this was about anxin’s pain. a pain so immense it was forcing him across an ocean.

“oh,” was all he managed, a pathetic, broken syllable.

the fight left sangwon completely....he couldn't fight that. what was left to fight for? you can’t argue with a love that big.

anxin wiped his face roughly, straightening, pulling the mask back over his features. “you should go. you still have time to catch your schedule.”

sangwon nodded, numb. he couldn’t speak. if he opened his mouth, all the words he’d buried—the begging, the don’t leave me—would come flooding out. and he couldn’t risk that.

he took one last look. memorized the way the fading light caught anxin’s profile. the boy who was once his dream.

then he turned and walked out.

he didn’t look back. he couldn’t.

behind him, the door clicked shut. the sound was soft. final.

it was the sound of a thread snapping.

in the silence of the hallway, alone, lee sangwon finally let the tears fall. he cried for his friend. he cried for the dream they lost. and he cried, without knowing why, for the love confession he just heard but was too oblivious to understand was his.

inside, zhou anxin slid down the wall, his body wracked with silent sobs. he had told the truth. and the one person who needed to hear it had listened, and heard nothing at all.

Chapter Text

time passed without mercy.

the days after anxin left were not marked by words, not by calls, not even by the simple blue check of a message seen. only silence. silence that stretched like a black thread between them, tugging tight but never snapping.

sangwon buried himself in training, in endless rehearsals, in lights so blinding they burned away his thoughts if only for a moment. he debuted in a top boy group, the kind whose name alone filled arenas, whose faces lit up billboards in every city corner. he smiled onstage, laughed in interviews, played the role the world asked of him.

but when the lights went off, there was a quiet darkness that settled into his chest. one he could never quite name.

anxin, on the other side of the sea, carved his own empire. china claimed him with open arms — first as an idol, later as the actor whose roles left people breathless. every magazine cover, every drama, every fan chant echoed his name louder, higher, brighter.

but the louder it got, the more he felt the quiet pressing down when night came. the applause faded, the cameras stopped, and there it was again: the hollow ache, the thought of someone he left behind.

they both learned to live in parallel. two stars burning in different skies. so close the universe should have let them collide, but distance stretched the space between them.

neither reached out. not once. perhaps out of fear. perhaps out of pride. or maybe because silence was easier than the truths they couldn’t bear to speak.

and so time moved. like it always does.

three years later

lee sangwon stood at the center of the stage, the roar of eighty thousand fans crashing over him like a physical wave. lightsticks lit the stadium in their color, a galaxy built just for them.

the music ended, but the screaming didn’t. sangwon’s chest heaved, sweat sliding down his temple as he grinned wide, breathless. he spread his arms, soaking it all in. this was it. the very top.

“thank you!” he shouted, his voice carrying across the vast space. 

the response was deafening, beautiful. proof of everything he’d worked for.

later, in the narrow backstage hallway, a manager fell into step beside him.

“incredible show, sangwon-ah. the numbers are insane. number one boy group. no one can argue.”

sangwon accepted a towel with a nod, his practiced smile never faltering. “it’s all thanks to the team.”

it was the right thing to say. it was also true. but sometimes, when the adrenaline faded, victory felt hollow. like he was standing at the summit alone, when he’d always pictured someone else there with him.

he pushed the thought away. it was an old ghost. he was happy. he had to be. this was everything he ever wanted.

in beijing, zhou anxin sat still in a plush chair while a stylist dabbed powder across his cheekbones. the reflection in the mirror was polished, untouchable.

“almost done, anxin-laoshi,” the stylist murmured. “the lighting here is harsh.”

he nodded lightly. his phone buzzed against the vanity. a notification.

[breaking] hybe’s crave achieves all-kill with latest comeback, solidifying their reign as k-pop’s top boy group.

his gaze lingered on the headline. on the name of the group. his breath caught, just for a second, before he forced it steady again.

beneath the headline was a photo. the group on stage, bathed in light. and right in the center—lee sangwon. his smile was brilliant, blinding. exactly how anxin always knew it would be.

a sharp ache bloomed in his chest. pride and regret, tangled together into something that hurt.

“anxin-laoshi? are you okay? you flinched.” the stylist was looking at him carefully.

anxin blinked, then slid the mask back over his face. he smiled with easy perfection. “i’m fine. just tired. please, continue.”

he picked up his phone and swiped the notification away.

after anxin swiped the notification away, the screen went dark. but the silence never did.

it followed them everywhere, slipping into the cracks of their lives.

sangwon would be filming when a staff member casually mentioned that anxin had been at the same studio last month. he’d look around the set, the air suddenly heavier, the space haunted.

anxin would be at a photoshoot when a stylist laughed that the concept reminded her of crave. his body would still, caught in a memory he couldn’t outrun.

they never spoke, never touched. yet the world found ways to press their names into each other’s wounds.

it was a special kind of torture.

the dorm was unusually quiet that evening. sangwon passed the living room, catching the flicker of light from the tv. their maknae was sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to the screen.

sangwon didn’t think much of it until he heard a name.

“…zhou anxin.”

his steps faltered.

he should’ve kept walking. but his feet betrayed him, carrying him closer.

on the tv, anxin’s face filled the screen—sharper angles now, his aura heavier than the boy sangwon once knew. the scene was intimate. too intimate. anxin leaned close to his co-star, their lips hovering but never quite touching. the camera cut away just before impact.

the maknae groaned. “ugh, again? another fake kiss? i can already imagine how much controversy this is gonna cause.”

sangwon swallowed. “…what do you mean?”

the maknae glanced up. “oh, hyung. you don’t watch his dramas, huh?”

sangwon shook his head faintly. “no.”

he remembered the first time he tried. the group had just finished practice, the others huddled around the tv. at first, he felt proud. there was anxin, speaking lines so smoothly.

but then came the first romance scene. a girl leaning closer, anxin’s character smiling back. it wasn’t even a kiss—just a soft touch of hands. yet sangwon felt his stomach twist.

“he’s really good,” one of his members had said. “he looks natural.”

natural. too natural.

sangwon had laughed it off, then slipped away to his room.

another time, he watched alone. there was a scene of anxin crying, confessing feelings for someone he couldn’t have. it hit too close. sangwon had to shut it off.

supporting him should’ve been simple. but it hurt him more than he could ever admit.

so he stopped watching.

“well, this is like… his second year acting now. and people are starting to notice,” the maknae continued. “every time there’s supposed to be a kiss scene, it gets cut or staged like that. they’re calling him out for being too sensitive. saying he’s not professional enough.”

sangwon’s chest tightened. sensitive. the word echoed. he thought of all the times anxin flinched away from skinship. the way his smile never quite reached his eyes whenever someone teased him about love.

the maknae sighed. “i mean, it’s not like he’s bad at acting. he’s actually really good. it’s just… you know how fans are.”

he laughed softly. “guess it’s kinda ironic, huh? all those roles where he’s supposed to be in love, but it always feels like he’s holding something back. like he can’t let himself go there.”

he can’t, sangwon thought. because he already gave that part of himself away. and he thinks it’s gone forever.

the thought was so sudden it stole the air from his lungs.

he forced a smile. “yeah… ironic.”

he stayed only a moment longer before retreating to his room. in the quiet darkness, he pressed his back against the door.

he didn’t need to imagine why anxin pulled away from those kisses. he already knew.

the knowledge settled deep in his bones. he created a private account. he didn’t follow anyone. he just searched.

his thumb would hover, then type: zhou anxin.

his feed would flood. fancams. candid photos. he’d watch, the sound off, studying the way anxin moved. it was different. sharper. 

he never liked the tweets. never saved the pictures. he would just watch until the ache became too sharp, then close the app.

in beijing, anxin did the same.

his search history held a name he never spoke: lee sangwon.

he watched crave’s stages. he analyzed their formations, their vocals. but his eyes were always pulled to the center. to sangwon.

he saw the practiced smile. but sometimes, in the moments right after a performance, he would catch a flicker of that old exhaustion.

he’d watch interviews, his stomach clenching when sangwon was asked about his past. he’d hold his breath. it never came.

one night, he made a mistake. he was scrolling through a fan edit. he watched, his heart a dull throb, and his finger pressed the ‘like’ button.

he realized it a second later. he frantically unliked it. he threw his phone onto the bed.

this was why silence was safer. every tiny connection was a risk.

their worlds were circles that refused to intersect. yet they orbited each other. 

a screenshot surfaced. ‘zhouanxin liked a video.’ the video was a fan-edit of sangwon.

the internet exploded.

@sangone: OMG ZHOU ANXIN STANNING LEE SANGWON??????

@kpop_newbie: wait wasn't he in that group with him? solar or something?

@so1ar_ot9: SO1AR! they disbanded ages ago. but they were so close back then 😭

@sangsforanxin: this is not just a casual like. he specifically searched for this edit. he WANTED to see sangwon content.

@ogwonxintruther: and he unliked it SO fast. guilty much?

@sangwonsfluffyhair: his agency is gonna have a field day with this damage control

@notdelulu: it's just a mistake, guys. his staff manages his account. leave him alone.

@wonxin_endgame: "mistake" sure. and i'm the queen of england. he's been caught.

sangwon found out in the van. his manager turned his phone around. sangwon saw the screenshot. the air left his lungs. it was a terrifying, hopeful, devastating yearning.

“he unliked it almost immediately,” the manager said. “but it was too late. it’s trending.”

the manager’s gaze was firm but gentle. “you won't comment. you won't acknowledge it. you understand?”

the orders were clear. but all sangwon could think about was the impulse behind that ‘like’. he gave a stiff nod.

the manager’s phone buzzed. “it’s his agency’s statement. they’re calling it a ‘brief account malfunction.’”

a snort came from the back. “it doesn’t matter if they believe it,” the manager replied. “it gives everyone a story. so it’s over.”

it’s over. the words felt like a door slamming shut.

sangwon pulled out his own phone. he scrolled through his messages. as if a new message might have appeared.

the screens were blank.

the van arrived. “game faces on. nothing happened. understood?”

a chorus of yes. sangwon nodded.

his leader bumped his shoulder. “you okay?”

sangwon forced a smile. “i’m fine. it’s just… noise.”

the radio host knew. she leaned forward.

“sangwon-ssi, from trainee days to now. does it feel bittersweet? for instance, seeing zhou anxin achieving such success in china.”

the air vanished. sangwon’s smile froze. his mind went blank.

“i…” he started. “i… um.”

the host tried to backtrack. “it’s nice to see everyone finding their paths to happiness, right?”

the word ‘happiness’ jolted him.

happiness. does he have it? is he happy without me?

the word struck like a blow. his composure split, dam bursting.

“anxin…” the whisper slipped out, raw and bleeding. it wasn’t just a name—it was confession, prayer, wound. “he’s… so talented. wherever he is…”

where are you? are you listening? do you know what you’ve done to me?

his breath hitched, ragged. his fists were bone-white, eyes glassy, tears threatening. don’t cry. not here.

“i’m… i’m sure he’s… doing well” 

the host, quick and professional, swept the moment away. “of course! such a talented individual! now, about your title track…”

but the damage was carved deep. the rest of the interview blurred, answers automatic, voice hollow. all he could hear was the pounding inside his skull. get me out. please.

the clip spread like wildfire.

@peachyxin: DID YOU GUYS SEE SANGWON'S FACE

@wonxinismydrug: HE LOOKED LIKE HE WAS GONNA CRY WHEN SHE SAID ANXIN'S NAME

@anxinsbunny: "wherever he is" BRO YOU HAVE THE INTERNET YOU CAN LITERALLY FIND HIM IN 2 SECONDS

@crave_sangwon: this is the most emotion i've ever seen from lee sangwon and it's about HIS LONG LOST EX-BANDMATE

@normalperson: they don't talk to each other? they were inseparable. what even happened between them?

@wonxinuntildeath: this is not "we drifted apart" energy. this is "i'm still not over you" energy.

@anxinsbunny: someone check on anxin in china rn i bet he's having a meltdown too

@emotionaldamage: two idiots in love with each other and bad at communicating. tale as old as time.

the theories spiraled. the silence was no longer theirs to control.

the moment the mic clicked off, the walls closed in. the green room shrank, pressing tight around his chest.

“hyung?” the group's maknae voice was near, worried.

sangwon couldn’t answer. ringing swelled in his ears. no air. lungs clawing for oxygen. his knees buckled, vision spotted black.

“i can’t—i can’t breathe—” the words ripped out, panicked, strangled. his hands tore at his collar, chest burning under the crushing weight. 

the manager burst through, face pale. one look and his tone cut sharp. “clear the room. now.”

the staff vanished. the manager dropped to his knees, steady hands catching sangwon’s trembling ones. “look at me. breathe with me. in… and out. follow me.”

he exaggerated each breath, grounding him. minutes crawled, each one a war, until the storm began to recede. sangwon collapsed against the couch, sweat-soaked, chest heaving.

“i’m sorry,” sangwon rasped, voice shredded. “i’m so sorry, hyung.”

“stop apologizing,” the manager said, weary but kind. “sangwon-ah. look up.”

with effort, sangwon lifted his eyes.

“i’ve watched you since you were in so1ar. i saw the way you looked at him. how could i not know?” his voice softened, steady. “i know you’re in love with him.”

the words cleaved him open. a single tear finally escaped, tracing a clean path down sangwon’s cheek. he didn’t wipe it away. “what do i do, hyung? it hurts...so much"

the manager’s hand was a solid, comforting weight on his shoulder. “you survive this. like you’ve survived everything else. you let me and the company handle the media. and you… you try to breathe. that’s all you can do right now. just breathe.”

in the silence of sangwon’s room, the dam broke. he didn’t bother with the media. he didn’t need to. he could feel the fallout in the air.

he curled on his bed, face buried in his pillow, and let the sobs come. they were silent, body-wracking things, years of suppressed emotion tearing out of him.

a soft knock. “hyung?” it was the maknae. “can i come in?”

sangwon couldn’t answer. the door opened slowly. the maknae took in the scene—sangwon curled into a tight ball, shoulders shaking—and his face fell. he walked over and sat on the edge of the bed, placing a hand on sangwon’s back.

“it’s okay, hyung,” he murmured. “it’s okay.”

“it’s not,” sangwon choked out, his voice muffled by the pillow. “it’s not okay. i miss him. i miss him so much it feels like i can’t breathe.”

“i know,” the maknae said softly. “we all know.”

a sound cut through the quiet. his personal phone. a specific tone. a chime he hadn’t heard in three years.

his head snapped up. his eyes locked onto the screen.

zhou anxin. 

i saw. i’m sorry.

the world narrowed.

sangwon fumbled for the phone. his heart was a wild drum.

he typed. 

it’s okay.

the reply was instant.

no it’s not. i caused this.

it was an accident. your agency said it was a malfunction.

the bubbles appeared. disappeared. appeared. 

it wasn’t an accident.

the air left his lungs.

i was watching your stages.

his vision blurred. he brought a hand to his mouth.

i shouldn’t have said anything. i’m making it worse. i’ll go.

no.

his fingers flew.

don’t go.

a long pause.

okay.

a wave of relief washed over him. he slid down the wall. the phone clutched to his chest.

the world was on fire.

but the silence was gone.

Chapter Text

to anyone else, it would have been nothing.

a short message. a polite word. a delayed reply.

not a big step. not even close.

but to sangwon, it was everything.

the first time it happened, he almost dropped his phone. after weeks of silence, a single bubble appeared on the screen:

congratulations on your comeback. i saw the stage. you looked good.

he read it once. twice. ten times. his hands shook like he was a rookie again, waiting for his name to be called in evaluations.

he typed, erased, and typed again. finally, he sent back something polite, restrained, and safe:

thank you. i watched your drama. you were really good in it.

but the moment it was sent, his chest ached with something that felt like relief.

sangwon wouldn’t call them friends again. not really. but there was communication, at least. that thin thread, fragile but real.

weeks later, another message came.

i heard you won the award. congratulations.

sangwon smiled at the screen until his members teased him for grinning at nothing. he waited three hours before replying—he didn’t want to seem too eager.

yeah… it still feels unreal. thank you. i saw the news about your endorsement. you suit the brand.

he stared at the typing dots for a long time. when they disappeared without a reply, his heart sank. but the next morning, his phone lit up.

sorry. fell asleep.

thank you, really.

three words—fell asleep. sorry.—and he felt like he’d been given the world.

sometimes the conversations were even smaller:

the food at the presscon was terrible.

 haha. when is it ever good?

 true.

or:

new song coming out next week. nervous.

 don’t be. you’ll do well.

or:

heard first snow will happen there tonight.

 wear a scarf. don’t get a cold.

sangwon found himself rereading those words at two in the morning, wondering if they meant more than they seemed. wondering if anxin stared at his replies the same way.

he saved every message in his head like a prayer. he knew anxin did not send them carelessly—that each word must have been thought through, rewritten, shortened. he imagined the versions anxin didn’t send. the confessions erased before they reached him.

his fingers would hover over the screen, tracing out questions he wasn’t brave enough to send:

can i call you?

do you ever think about the old days?

who was it, back then, the person you couldn’t tell me about?

but fear always won. fear that if he asked too much, if he reached too far, the fragile thread between them would snap. so instead, he stayed safe. safe, but restless.

they never touched the past. never mentioned the dorms, or the suitcase by the door, or the wound between them. but the silence was less heavy now. threadbare, yes. fragile, always. but real.

it made him happy. stupidly happy. enough to keep him smiling during rehearsals, enough to make the nights less heavy, the loneliness less sharp.

but it also made him sad. because if two lines could make him feel this much, what would it mean if they had more? and what if this was all there would ever be—just careful, surface-deep messages, never touching the truth?

months passed this way. quiet bubbles of words, stitched across time zones. sometimes days of silence, sometimes small bursts that left him smiling into his pillow.

and then came the night he saw him.

or, at least, evidence of him.

it was a location tag. a blurry, dark photo of the city lights from a high floor, posted to anxin’s private story. the caption was just a single, cryptic music note.

but sangwon knew that view. he knew that building. it was the hotel directly across from his practice studio.

his breath caught in his throat. he was here. in the same city. right now, maybe looking at the same slice of moon through the smog. the distance between them, usually measured in time zones, had shrunk to a mere hundred meters.

his thumb hovered over the heart icon. over the reply box. he could say something.

are you here?

i know this place.

but the old fear gripped him. he just stared until the screen timed out, leaving him alone in the dark with the painful knowledge that anxin was so close, and yet still completely out of reach.

the next message didn't come for a week. and when it did, it was about the weather.

then, a mistake. a pocket-dial. his phone rang, anxin’s name flashing like a siren, and sangwon fumbled to answer it without thinking.

“hello?”

static. the sound of fabric rustling, distant traffic. and then a voice, not meant for him, laughing at something someone else said.

“—i know, right? just hold on a second.”

it was the same laugh. the one that used to make his chest feel tight and warm. it was all exactly the same.

then, a sharp intake of breath.

“oh. oh my god. sangwon? i… my phone must have… i’m so sorry.”

the line went dead.

sangwon slid down to sit on the floor, his back against the door. a company mandate, a safety measure he never thought about, flashed in his mind: all calls in his phone were automatically recorded. a protection against sasaengs. a policy that now felt like a miracle.

with trembling hands, he opened the app and found the file. labeled with the date, time, and anxin’s name.

he listened to it. once. then again. a third time. he listened to the nine seconds of his laughter on a loop, late into the night, until the sound started to warp and lose meaning, until it was just a pattern of noise that somehow still made his chest ache.

it was the most he’d heard him saying his name in years.

it was 3:17 am on another sleepless night. the recording was paused on his screen. his phone lit up with a new message.

can’t sleep.

it was different. no pretense. no congratulation. just a quiet, raw admission. a crack in the surface after the earthquake of the call.

his heart hammered against his ribs. this was it. the biggest choice. he could reply with a ‘me neither’ and keep them safe in their silent prison. or he could be brave.

he typed before the fear could win.

me either.

he sent it. took a shaking breath.

then typed again.

do you want to talk?

the typing bubbles appeared. disappeared. appeared again. for a full, agonizing minute. sangwon felt like he was dying.

finally, the reply came.

yes.

just one word. and it changed everything.

the word hung in the air between them, glowing on the screen. a door swinging open. sangwon’s courage, which had flared so brightly a second ago, suddenly guttered out like a candle in the wind.

this was too much. too real. what would they even say? the silence would be agony. he would say something wrong, he would ruin the fragile thing they’d built—

sangwon’s breath hitched. his fingers were clumsy, all thumbs, as he fumbled for his headphones. he didn’t want to risk a single sound getting lost. he wanted to press the call button immediately before either of them could change their minds.

but then a new message popped up.

actually. it’s really late. you should get some sleep.

the rejection was a physical blow. sharp and cold. of course. he’d asked for too much. he’d reached too far and the thread had snapped.

he felt stupid. exposed. he wanted to throw his phone across the room.

he forced his fingers to move, to type something that wouldn’t show the hurt.

yeah. you too.

the conversation died there. the next morning, there was a new message, a retreat back to safe, familiar ground.

sorry about last night. was out of it. good luck with your shoot today.

and just like that, they were back to half-steps. but the distance between them now felt wider than ever.

the silence that followed was different. it wasn’t the quiet of before, filled with the potential of a next message. this was a void. a vacuum. the thread hadn’t just snapped; it had been severed and the frayed ends tucked away.

sangwon checked his phone a hundred times a day. the screen stayed dark. no comments on the weather. no congratulations on his new cf. nothing. the hope that had become a constant, humming thing in his chest was gone, leaving a cold, hollow space. he went through the motions. rehearsals, shoots, interviews. his smile felt like a plastic prop.

three weeks in, the hollow space started to ache. a deep, persistent throb that soju couldn’t numb, but he tried anyway. after a company dinner, back in his quiet apartment, he drank until the edges of the room blurred. until the ache wasn’t so sharp, just a dull, mournful echo.

his phone was in his hand. a bad idea. the worst idea. but the alcohol was a liquid courage that burned away the fear, leaving only the raw, stupid need.

he called him.

it rang. once. twice. sangwon held his breath, his heart a frantic, sloppy beat against his ribs.

then, a click. a quiet, hesitant. “hello?”

and the sound of his voice, after the weeks of silence, broke him. the sob was out before he could stop it, a wet, ragged thing. he couldn’t form words. he just cried, the phone pressed hard against his ear, as if he could somehow bridge the distance through the sheer force of his misery.

“sangwon?” anxin’s voice was sharper now, laced with alarm. “sangwon, are you—what’s wrong? are you hurt?”

“you stopped,” sangwon slurred, the words thick and clumsy in his mouth. “you just… stopped. after you said yes. you said yes and then you took it back. why did you take it back?”

“sangwon, you’re drunk.” the voice on the other end was quiet, strained.

“of course i’m drunk,” then a hiccup,“it’s the only way i can… the only way i can say this. it’s the only way i can call you. because i’m scared. i’m always so scared. and now you’re gone again and it’s worse than before. it’s so much worse.”

he could hear anxin’s breath, shallow and careful on the other end. listening.

“i miss you,” sangwon whispered, the confession torn from somewhere deep and broken. “i miss you so much it feels like i’m dying from it. and i just… i need to know if it’s just me. if this is all in my head. please. just tell me. please.”

the silence stretched, filled only by his hitching breaths.

then, a sigh. so quiet it was almost static. “it’s not just you.”

the words didn’t feel real. sangwon pressed the phone harder against his ear. “what?”

“it’s not just you,” anxin repeated, his voice low and exhausted. “i’m scared too. that’s why i stopped. i got scared.”

a fresh wave of tears, these ones of relief, rolled down sangwon’s cheeks. the admission was a balm, but it was thin, and underneath it, the ache for more, for everything, surged forward.

“do you remember,” sangwon began, his voice hoarse with memory and drink, “when we were in our room, and you were half-asleep on the floor, you said you couldn’t imagine life anymore without me in your room. and you said… you said we should just get married so we can be roommates forever.” he let out a wet, broken laugh. “you laughed… you said it was a joke. but i didn’t laugh. i just thought… maybe the fact that you thought of that, that it was even a concept in your head… maybe there was the tiniest part of you that wanted to marry me, too.”

anxin was silent, but sangwon could feel him listening.

“and when you stopped calling me hyung,” sangwon pushed on, the words tumbling out now, a floodgate opened. “you said it was because you didn’t see me as a brother. we were so cold after that. for weeks. and then you finally said you didn’t mean it the way i thought. what did you mean, anxin? what other way was there to mean it? tell me, because i have been turning that over in my head for years.”

he could hear anxin’s breath catch, a sharp, pained sound. “sangwon… don’t.”

“no,” sangwon’s voice cracked, desperate. “do you remember when i went blonde for that stage? you couldn’t stop staring at me—then you laughed and said i looked so good it made you want to kiss me. i don’t think you even realized what you were saying, but i did. i held onto it. i even kept my hair blonde longer than i wanted, just because i thought maybe… maybe you meant it.”

“anxin, just answer me please…” sangwon begged, sobbing harder now. “the silence is killing me.”

the memory of that recorded laugh, the sound of someone else sharing his space, his air, suddenly surfaced through the alcohol haze.

“that night,” sangwon began, his voice breaking. “the wrong number. you were laughing.”

he felt anxin’s breath catch through the phone, a tiny, sharp intake of air.

“you sounded happy,” sangwon continued, the words laced with a pain that had nothing to do with their current silence and everything to do with an older, deeper wound. “you never laughed like that with me. not at the end. who were you with? is that why you can’t answer me now? is there someone there? back then… the person you fell in love with… was it them? are you with them now? is that why it’s so easy to forget me?”

the line was so silent he thought for a terrible moment the call had dropped. he could feel anxin’s withdrawal, a retreat back behind a wall.

“sangwon,” anxin’s voice was a low murmur, thick with an emotion he couldn’t name. “don’t ask me that.”

“why? because the answer will hurt me? or because it will hurt you to say it?” he pushed, the alcohol making him reckless, cruel. “just tell me. i need to know if i was ever even close.”

“you have no idea what you’re asking for,” anxin whispered, and his voice sounded frayed, like a thread about to snap. “you think you want the truth, but you don’t. not like this.”

“i want any truth from you!” sangwon sobbed, the anger flashing hot and then dying just as quickly, leaving him hollow. “anything that’s real. just one real thing, anxin. please.”

the silence stretched again, thin and taut. sangwon listened to the empty air, waiting for the click of disconnection.

it didn’t come.

instead, a shaky exhale. and then, very softly, “if you still feel the same way when you’re sober… if you can say these things without the alcohol—call me tomorrow.”

sangwon’s breath caught, sharp and unbelieving. “w-what?”

“call me tomorrow,” anxin repeated, steadier this time. “and i’ll go to you. no excuses. no hiding. we’ll finally talk.”

the promise dropped into the space between them like a stone into still water, rippling through sangwon’s chest.

then, almost a whisper—“now… put the phone down, sangwon. wipe your tears. drink some water and lie down. you’ve cried enough tonight. just rest. please. i’ll still be here when the sun comes up.”

his voice cracked on the last word, gentle in a way that felt almost like a caress through the static.

the line went dead.

the phone slipped from sangwon’s hand. he curled on the floor, tears soaking the wood beneath his cheek. the silence around him wasn’t suffocating anymore. it was terrifying, fragile, alive—with the possibility of something he’d been aching for.

thanks to the alcohol, he had finally said the things he buried for years.

but also thanks to the alcohol, when morning came, he woke with a pounding head and no memory of his own words.

and across the sea, anxin sat with his phone in his hand, waiting for a call that would never come.