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The rehearsal room is half-lit, mirrors reflecting five shadows that move in sync, sweat dripping from skin that has been pushed to its limit. Nut counts under his breath, sharp eyes trained on the choreography, but inevitably, his gaze strays.
It always strays.
Hongshi is laughing at something Lego said, bright grin splitting across his face, his damp grey hair clinging to his temples. He’s not even trying, but he glows. The kind of glow that makes every light in the room feel redundant.
Nut bites the inside of his cheek. Focus. He tells himself that every day. He’s not here to fall apart over someone who has no idea how badly he’s already been claimed.
Hong notices everything about the world. He notices when William’s ankle twists mid-practice. He notices when Tui looks pale from exhaustion. He notices when Lego is quieter than usual and cracks a joke to lift the mood.
But Hong doesn’t notice Nut. Not in the way Nut wants. Not beyond friendship. Not beyond teammates, brothers, family.
The night stretches long after rehearsal. They’re sprawled across the studio floor with half-finished mineral water, everyone restless from the announcement earlier of their new single, Foreground.
The lyrics still echo in Nut’s head. He’s the one who stayed silent when the songwriter asked if the words resonated with them.
Hong, of course, had said yes.
Hong had smiled like he already knew how it felt to yearn for someone who might never look back.
Nut wanted to laugh bitterly then. Because Foreground was his life written out in a chorus.
Hong is leaning against the mirror now, eyes half-lidded, humming softly. Even tired, he’s magnetic. The room tilts around him.
“P'Nut, you’re zoning out,” Hong says suddenly, catching his gaze.
Nut startles. “I’m not.”
“You were staring at me.”
The other members snicker. Lego whistles. William hides a grin behind his drink.
Nut glares at them all, heat prickling his skin. “I was thinking about the formation.”
“Sure you were,” Tui mutters under his breath.
Hong just tilts his head, a small smile ghosting his lips. It’s not mocking. It’s curious. And that’s worse.
The promotion cycle begins. Stages, interviews, fansigns. The world screams their names louder than ever, and Nut smiles where he’s supposed to, answers where he’s supposed to. But it’s Hong’s laughter beside him that keeps breaking through his armor.
Sometimes their hands brush accidentally. Sometimes Hong slings an arm around his shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes, onstage, their gazes lock a beat too long and the fans go feral.
“Fanservice,” Lego calls it.
“Reality,” Nut thinks.
But reality is cruel. Reality means Hong still doesn’t see him.
It happens after a late-night schedule. Just the two of them in the van, silence thick except for the hum of the engine. Hongshi leans against the window, phone dark in his hand.
“P'Nut,” he says softly.
Nut hums.
“Do you ever wonder if we’d notice each other like this if we weren’t… friends first?”
Nut’s chest constricts. He swallows hard. “…What do you mean?”
Hong turns, gaze steady. “I mean… if I was just some stranger. If you didn’t have to see me every day. Would you still look at me the way you do?”
The words hang heavy between them, and Nut’s world tilts. He almost laughs. So, you noticed after all.
But he can’t answer. His throat closes around the truth. Because if he says it, it will ruin everything.
So he lies. “…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hong’s lips part, then press into a line. He turns back to the window. And Nut stares at his reflection in the glass, hating himself for all the things he’ll never say.
The turning point comes with Foreground’s showcase. The stage is washed in blue light, lyrics bleeding through the hall like confessions that were never meant to be heard.
Nut’s verse is about unrequited longing. Hong’s follows, about reaching out to someone who never turns around. When they stand together for the chorus, it feels less like performance and more like exposure.
And for one split second, Nut lets the mask slip. His eyes find Hong’s. He doesn’t hold back.
The look is raw, desperate, everything he’s swallowed for months.
Hong freezes—only for a breath, but Nut sees it. The widening of his eyes. The sharp inhale. The realization.
The song ends. The crowd erupts. But the silence between them is louder.
Backstage, the air is thick. The others are buzzing from adrenaline, but Nut and Hong move around each other like the eye of a storm.
Finally, when they’re alone in the hallway, Hong blocks his path.
“P'Nut.”
Nut doesn’t look at him. “We should get back.”
“Stop.” Hong’s voice is low, trembling. “Don’t do that. Not after what you just showed me on stage.”
Nut exhales sharply. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not.” Hong steps closer. “You’ve been looking at me like that for months. I just… I didn’t let myself believe it.”
Nut’s heart lurches. “…And now?”
Hong’s hand brushes his wrist, tentative but sure. “Now I can’t unsee it.”
The world tilts again, but this time Nut doesn’t fight it. Their breaths mingle in the narrow space, the tension coiling tight, and for a moment, it feels like gravity itself is pulling them closer.
They don’t kiss. Not yet. The moment breaks with footsteps. Lego is yelling down the hall about snacks. They spring apart like teenagers caught red-handed, faces flushed.
But something has shifted.
And the others notice.
Weeks pass. Stolen glances become lingering ones. Casual touches spark like live wires. Their bond is louder, undeniable, threaded through every interaction.
The fans scream about fanservice, edits go viral, and every interview host teases them. Nut and Hong smile, deflect, play along.
But the truth is theirs alone.
One night, after another performance, they end up on the rooftop of the company building. The city sprawls beneath them, lights glittering like stars.
Hong exhales, tilting his head back. “You know, sometimes I hate that everyone thinks it’s just fanservice.”
Nut watches him. “Why?”
“Because it makes what I feel sound fake.” He turns, gaze locking onto Nut’s. “But it’s not. It never was.”
Nut’s breath catches. The confession is quiet, but it’s everything.
Slowly, he steps closer. “Hong…”
The tension snaps taut again, pulling them toward each other until they’re standing so close Nut can feel the warmth of Hong’s breath. Neither moves further and it’s enough. Because finally, they both know.
The rooftop door suddenly bursts open.
“BRO, ARE YOU SERIOUS?!” Lego’s voice echoes, followed by William groaning.
“God, just kiss already,” Tui mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Hong yelps, stumbling back a step, face blazing. Nut covers his own smile with a hand, trying to look annoyed.
William sighs dramatically. “Do you guys know how painful it is watching you two eye-fuck on stage every night? Spare us.”
Lego points accusingly. “I want royalties when you finally confess!”
Nut finally lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. Hong hides his face in his hands, ears burning.
“Shut up,” Nut says, but the words are softer than they’ve ever been.
And despite the chaos, despite the teasing, when Nut and Hong’s eyes meet again, they both know, this is theirs.
Not fanservice. Not performance. Not make-believe.
Real.