Chapter Text
The studio lights were brutal—like staring into the sun if the sun had commitment issues and kept flickering. Sion squinted, feeling sweat gather under his foundation despite the makeup artist's twenty-minute war against his pores.
NCT WISH sat arranged on the pristine white couch like good little media-trained soldiers. Sion had somehow ended up between Riku and Yushi, which was his first mistake because Yushi's nervous habits made him want to commit actual crimes.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
"Yushi-ya," Sion said softly, his voice automatically dropping into the gentle baby tone he'd been using with the younger boy since their trainee days. He knew this habit—Yushi always cracked his joints when he was nervous, had been doing it since before they even debuted together. His first baby, the one who'd trained alongside him when it was just the two of them figuring out this whole idol thing. "Deep breaths, okay?"
"Sorry, hyung," Yushi whispered back, but his hands stilled for exactly three seconds before another pop echoed between them.
Sion sighed fondly despite his own nerves. Some things never changed, and Yushi's anxiety habits were apparently eternal. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath that tasted like vanilla candles and expensive camera equipment.
The interviewer shuffled her cards with opportunistic gleam—the kind of smile that meant someone was about to get emotionally demolished for content.
"So," she began, leaning forward like she was sharing state secrets, "you guys are known for your incredible chemistry. But I'm curious—who do you think has the worst chemistry?"
The question hung in the air like a loaded weapon.
And Sion, because his brain apparently took a coffee break, decided chaos was the answer.
"Saku and Jaehee are still awkward," he announced, laughter already bubbling up his throat like champagne that had been shaken too hard.
The reaction was chef's kiss perfect.
Sakuya's eyes went so wide you could see his entire soul having an existential crisis. Jaehee jerked like he'd been tasered, his perfect posture crumbling into pure mortification.
"HYUNG!" Sakuya shrieked, his voice hitting frequencies that probably violated several noise ordinances.
Sion lost it completely. The laughter hit him like a tsunami, doubling him over until his forehead nearly kissed his knees. Tears gathered in his eyes, probably turning his eyeliner into abstract art.
"It's true!" he gasped between fits of hysteria. "You two interact like you're planning a heist but forgot the plan!"
The other members smelled blood in the water and circled like sharks.
"They do have weird energy," Riku said with mock seriousness. "Like two people stuck in an elevator who don't know if they should make small talk."
"Very awkward," Yushi nodded gravely, hands finally still. "They apologize for existing in the same room."
"We're not awkward!" Sakuya protested, but his voice cracked so spectacularly it sent Sion into fresh waves of laughter.
Ryo was biting his lip so hard it turned white. "They say 'excuse me' when they're already three feet apart."
"Oh my god," Sion wheezed, wiping tears that were definitely destroying his makeup. "Jaehee, defend yourself!"
All eyes turned to Jaehee, who looked like he wanted to spontaneously combust. His face had achieved a shade of red that should probably be named after him.
"I—we're not—" Jaehee opened and closed his mouth like a fish having an existential crisis. "We're perfectly—"
"SEE?!" Sion pointed triumphantly, though the gesture lost impact since he was basically horizontal at this point. "This is exactly what I'm talking about!"
The interviewer looked like she'd struck content gold. Her smile could have powered the building.
And that's how Sion accidentally started a war while being too entertained by his own chaos to notice the way Jaehee had gone very, very quiet.
Two weeks later, Sion was having what could only be described as an emotional breakdown in the world's most uncomfortable chair.
The photography studio was cramped and smelled like hairspray mixed with the dreams of overworked assistants. Sion sat folded into a metal chair that was definitely designed by someone who hated human spines, picking at a loose thread while trying not to stare at the absolute disaster happening in front of him.
Except it wasn't a disaster. That was the problem.
The past two weeks had been... strange. Ever since the interview aired, something had shifted in the group dynamic. The teasing about Sakuya and Jaehee's supposed awkwardness had become a running joke among fans, spawning memes and compilation videos that their management found hilarious. But Sion had started noticing things he'd never paid attention to before—how Jaehee would tense up whenever the topic came up, how he'd grown even quieter during group interactions, more careful with his words.
As their leader, Sion should have done something about it. Should have talked to Jaehee, made sure the joke wasn't actually hurting him. But every time he'd tried to bring it up, the words got stuck in his throat. Because talking to Jaehee required getting close to Jaehee, and lately, that felt like walking through a minefield of his own confusing emotions.
Now, watching Sakuya and Jaehee nail their unit shoot, every direction, every pose change, every tiny adjustment—they moved like they'd been doing this since birth. Professional, natural, effortless.
Everything Sion's interactions with Jaehee weren't.
"Perfect! Jaehee, hand on his shoulder—gorgeous! Sakuya, lean in slightly... beautiful!"
The photographer's commands created a rhythm that should have been boring, but Sion was transfixed like he was watching a car crash in slow motion. Jaehee's touch was gentle, respectful—the way he always was with all the members, but especially the younger ones. And Sakuya responded naturally, comfortably, without overthinking every breath.
When was the last time Sion had felt that comfortable with Jaehee? When had they ever been that natural together?
The realization hit him like cold water: they hadn't. Not really. Even before the interview, even before he'd started having these weird, complicated feelings, there had always been a distance between them. Professional courtesy, yes. Mutual respect as bandmates, absolutely. But the easy warmth Jaehee showed with the younger members, the natural affection he had with Riku, the comfortable silences he shared with the others—Sion had never been part of that inner circle.
And now he wanted to be. Desperately, pathetically wanted to be.
"You look like someone stole your lunch money and then kicked your dog," Yushi announced, dropping into the adjacent torture device with a bag of chips that sounded like bubble wrap having a breakdown.
"I look normal."
"You look tragic. Are you jealous?"
The question hit like a physical blow. "Of what?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out."
Sion opened his mouth to deny it, then stopped. Because yes, he was jealous, but not in any way that made sense or could be explained without sounding completely unhinged.
He wasn't jealous of Sakuya—the kid was like everyone's little brother. He treats him as his son too, like he brought him into this world. So why would he be jealous? Fine, he was jealous but that kind of jealous because of how easy they made it look. How Jaehee smiled at Sakuya with genuine warmth instead of the careful politeness Sion usually got. How Sakuya could exist in Jaehee's space without his brain short-circuiting.
I want what they have, he realized with growing horror. I want Jaehee to look at me like that.
"Hyung!" Sakuya's voice cut through his spiral. "We're done! Did you see? The shots look amazing!"
Sion looked up to find both of them approaching, faces glowing with success. Jaehee's hair was messed up from posing, and there was something relaxed about his expression—the way he always looked after working with the younger members. Like being their reliable hyung was as natural as breathing.
"They looked great," Sion managed, hoping his voice sounded normal instead of like he'd been having a mental breakdown in furniture designed by sadists.
"Thanks, hyung!" Sakuya beamed, apparently having completely forgiven him for the interview massacre. "Jaehee-hyung made it so easy. He's really good at making people comfortable."
Jaehee's ears went pink at the praise. "You did all the work, Saku. Very professional."
The gentle tone, the easy affection—it was everything Sion wanted and couldn't figure out how to ask for. How did you tell someone you wanted them to like you without sounding pathetic? How did you bridge a gap you'd never even noticed existed until it was too late?
You're the leader, Sion reminded himself. He respects you as a leader, but that's different from the way he cares about the others.
But that knowledge didn't make the weird jealousy gnawing at his chest any less uncomfortable.
"Celebration dinner?" Riku suggested, saving Sion from his thoughts.
Everyone agreed immediately, and Sion tried to match their enthusiasm while his brain played a very sad violin solo.
The restaurant Riku had chosen was trying way too hard to be cool. Exposed brick, aggressively dim lighting, and enough ambient noise to hide the fact that Sion was slowly unraveling.
When they arrived, the hostess apologetically explained that they only had tables for four or two available—no table for six. After a brief discussion conducted in a mixture of Korean and Japanese, they decided to split up. Riku immediately claimed the table for four, dragging Yushi, Sakuya, and Ryo with him with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested this was exactly the outcome he'd wanted.
Which left Sion at a smaller, more intimate table with just Jaehee.
This was suspicious. Riku was usually glued to Jaehee's side at restaurants, whining in rapid Japanese about not being able to reach the kimchi or dramatically declaring that he was too tired to cut his own meat. Jaehee would spend entire meals making sure Riku ate properly, refilling his water, and listening to his animated stories with the patience of a saint.
So why was Riku sitting at the other table, chatting happily with the younger members in a mix of languages, while Jaehee had quietly taken the seat across from Sion without anyone suggesting it?
This was not ideal for his rapidly deteriorating mental state.
Sion stared at his menu with the intensity of someone trying to decode ancient hieroglyphics, hyperaware of every tiny sound Jaehee made. The soft rustle of pages turning. The quiet tap of fingernails on wood. The way he breathed—when had breathing become so noticeable?
"The seafood pancake looks good," Jaehee said quietly, leaning across the small table to point at something on Sion's menu.
The movement brought him close. Close enough for Sion to catch his cologne—something clean and expensive that probably cost more than Sion's entire skincare routine. Close enough to see the small scar on his chin from when he'd fallen off his bike as a kid, a story Sion had heard exactly once during a late-night conversation months ago that he definitely shouldn't remember this clearly.
"Yeah," Sion managed, his voice coming out slightly strangled. "Sounds good."
Smooth. Very articulate. Definitely not obvious that you're having a crisis.
When their server appeared, Jaehee ordered for both of them without being asked. Not just the pancake, but the spicy pork bulgogi Sion always got but could never pronounce correctly, and the kimchi fried rice that wasn't on the menu but most Korean restaurants would make if you asked nicely.
"How did you—" Sion started, then stopped himself. It was probably just a coincidence. Or good guessing. Or—
Jaehee was already reaching for the water pitcher, refilling Sion's glass without comment. Then he pushed the dish of pickled radish closer to Sion's side of the table, rearranging the banchan so everything was within easy reach.
These were small things. Tiny gestures that could easily be explained by politeness or basic human decency. But they made something warm and dangerous unfurl in Sion's chest like a flower blooming in fast-forward.
He's just being respectful to his hyung, Sion told himself firmly. This is normal behavior.
But even as he thought it, he couldn't help but notice that at the other table, Riku was loudly complaining in Japanese that his water glass was empty, while Yushi was trying to flag down their server for more kimchi. The two youngest were completely absorbed in their own conversation, barely touching their food. If Jaehee was naturally this attentive with everyone, wouldn't he have noticed his other members needed things too?
When their food arrived steaming and fragrant enough to make Sion's mouth water, Jaehee reached across the table to grab chopsticks from the container, selecting a pair for each of them with the same careful consideration he might use for something actually important.
"Be careful, it's hot," he warned, using his own chopsticks to transfer a piece of the seafood pancake to Sion's plate. He even blew on it slightly, his lips pursed in concentration, before setting it down.
Sion felt heat rise in his cheeks and thanked every deity he could think of that the restaurant's lighting was dim enough to hide his blush. This was not normal hyung-dongsaeng behavior. This was the kind of thing you did for someone you wanted to take care of in a way that went beyond normal group dynamics or even close friendship.
But that couldn't be right. Jaehee was just... Jaehee. Responsible, considerate, probably raised by parents who'd taught him that being respectful to his hyung was important. It didn't mean anything special.
Stop reading into it, he told himself firmly, even as Jaehee reached over to serve him rice when his bowl got low. You're being delusional.
But as the evening went on, it became harder and harder to convince himself that this was just politeness. Jaehee kept his water glass full without being asked. He made sure Sion got the best pieces of bulgogi. When Sion mentioned that the kimchi was particularly good, Jaehee immediately signaled for their server to bring more, even though his own plate was barely touched.
It was like being the center of someone's entire attention, and it was overwhelming in the best and worst possible way.
"You're not eating much," Sion observed, partly because it was true and partly because he needed to say something that wasn't why are you being so nice to me or what does this mean or please don't stop.
Jaehee looked down at his plate like he was surprised to find it still mostly full. "I guess I'm not that hungry," he said with a small shrug. "Besides, you've been working hard lately—you should eat more."
You've been working hard lately. Like Jaehee had been paying attention. Like he'd noticed.
Sion's chest did something complicated and painful, like his heart was trying to rearrange itself into a new configuration. He focused very hard on his bulgogi, chewing slowly and trying to ignore the way Jaehee was looking at him with something that might have been fondness.
This was dangerous territory. This was the kind of situation that led to misunderstandings and hurt feelings and the complete destruction of carefully maintained group dynamics. Sion needed to get his head on straight before he did something stupid like read romantic intent into basic human kindness.
But when Jaehee reached across the table one more time, this time to gently touch Sion's wrist and point out that he had sauce on his hand, Sion's brain completely short-circuited.
The touch was brief, barely a brush of fingertips against skin, but it sent electricity shooting up Sion's arm like he'd grabbed a live wire. He jerked back instinctively, nearly knocking over his water glass in the process.
"Sorry," Jaehee said quickly, pulling his hand back. "You just had—"
"It's fine," Sion interrupted, his voice coming out higher than intended. He grabbed a napkin and scrubbed at his hand with probably unnecessary force. "Thanks."
The moment stretched out awkwardly between them, filled with the restaurant's background noise but somehow feeling completely separate from it. Jaehee looked like he wanted to say something else, but Sion was already reaching for his phone, pretending to check messages that didn't exist.
Get it together, he told himself again, more urgently this time. You're making this weird.
But the damage was done. For the rest of dinner, every small kindness from Jaehee felt loaded with meaning that Sion couldn't decipher and didn't dare assume. Every casual touch—and there were several, because apparently Jaehee was a naturally tactile person when he was relaxed—sent Sion's heart rate into overdrive.
By the time they were ready to leave, Sion felt like he'd run a marathon while solving calculus problems. His face hurt from trying to maintain a normal expression, his shoulders ached from tension, and he was pretty sure he'd eaten approximately three bites of actual food despite Jaehee's best efforts to feed him.
This was not sustainable. Whatever this was—this hyperawareness, this constant analysis of every interaction, this painful hope that maybe Jaehee's kindness meant something more than it probably did—it had to stop.
He just needed some space to think. Some distance to get his head on straight and his feelings back under control.
Unfortunately, the universe seemed determined to make that as difficult as possible.
The cool night air hit Sion's face like a relief when they finally escaped the restaurant. After two hours in that warm, close atmosphere, the freshness felt like being able to breathe properly again. The street was quieter now, most of the dinner rush having moved on to bars or karaoke or wherever normal people went to continue their Friday nights.
Their group clustered together on the sidewalk, the comfortable exhaustion of a good meal making everyone move a little slower, speak a little softer. Riku was already calling for cars, his phone pressed to his ear as he navigated the app with the focused concentration of someone who'd had just slightly too much soju.
"Two cars," he announced. "Five minutes."
Sion pulled out his own phone to check the time and immediately realized he had a problem. His bag—the one with his keys, his wallet, his entire life basically—was nowhere to be found.
"Shit," he muttered, patting down his pockets in the universal gesture of someone who had definitely forgotten something crucial.
"What's wrong, hyung?" Sakuya asked, noticing his distress.
"My bag. I think I left it... fuck, where did I leave it?"
"The studio?" Yushi suggested helpfully.
"Maybe the restaurant?" Ryo added.
Sion was about to launch into a full panic spiral when he noticed Jaehee standing slightly apart from the group, holding two bags instead of one. The second bag was familiar—black canvas with a small tear near the zipper that Sion had been meaning to fix for months.
"Oh," Jaehee said, following his gaze. "I grabbed your bag when we left. Force of habit, I guess."
Force of habit. Like taking care of Sion was something Jaehee did so automatically that he didn't even think about it. The thought should have been comforting, but instead it sent a fresh wave of panic through Sion's already overwhelmed system.
Because if Jaehee returned his bag, that would mean coming up to his room. It would mean being alone together in a space that felt private and intimate in a way that the restaurant, for all its dim lighting and small table, hadn't been. It would mean having to maintain his composure while Jaehee was in his space, surrounded by his things, close enough to touch.
Sion's brain, already running on fumes from two hours of hyperanalyzing every interaction, threw up emergency flares.
ABORT. ABORT. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
"Actually," Sion heard himself saying, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, "just leave it by the door. I'll get it later."
Jaehee's expression shifted subtly, the easy warmth from dinner cooling into something more uncertain. "Are you sure? It's no trouble to bring it up."
The offer was perfectly reasonable. Kind, even. The sort of thing any considerate person would do for a friend. But Sion's panic was expanding like a balloon in his chest, filling every available space until he could barely think straight, and he needed Jaehee to not be in his room looking at him with those dark, serious eyes.
"I'm sure," he said, and the words came out sharper than he'd intended. More final. "Just... leave it there. Thanks."
For a moment, Jaehee just stood there, holding both bags, his face cycling through emotions that Sion couldn't read but definitely didn't like. Confusion, maybe. Hurt, possibly. Or maybe that was just Sion projecting his own guilt onto the situation.
"Okay," Jaehee said finally, his voice carefully neutral. "I'll leave it by your door."
"Thanks," Sion repeated, softer this time, but the damage was already done. He could feel the other members' attention on them, could sense the shift in energy that happened when someone said something they couldn't take back.
The cars arrived then, cutting through the awkward moment with the practical necessity of getting home. They split up naturally—Riku, Yushi, and Sakuya in one car, Sion, Jaehee, and Ryo in the other. Normally, this would have been fine. Normal, even.
But now the backseat felt cramped and airless, despite the fact that they were the same three people who'd shared cars dozens of times before. Ryo, bless him, seemed to sense the tension and immediately launched into a detailed recap of something funny that had happened during his last gaming stream, filling the silence with the kind of cheerful chatter that required no response.
Sion stared out the window at the city lights streaming past, hyperaware of Jaehee sitting beside him in the darkness. Every time the car turned a corner, their shoulders brushed. Every time Jaehee shifted in his seat or reached for his phone, Sion felt it like a small electric shock.
This is insane, he thought. You're being completely insane.
But knowing that didn't make it stop. If anything, it made it worse, because now he was not only overwhelmed by his own feelings but also disgusted with himself for having them in the first place. Jaehee was his bandmate, his friend, someone he had to work with every day for the foreseeable future. Getting weird and romantic about their friendship was the fastest way to ruin everything good in his life.
When they finally pulled up to their building, Sion practically launched himself out of the car. The night air felt good on his overheated skin, and he took several deep breaths while the others gathered their things and sorted out the fare.
"Sleep well, hyung," Jaehee said quietly as they waited for the elevator, and his voice carried that same gentle tone that had been making Sion's chest tight all evening.
Sion opened his mouth to respond—to say goodnight, to apologize for being weird, to somehow salvage what was left of their normal friendship. But the elevator arrived with a cheerful ding, and the moment passed.
"Yeah," he managed finally. "You too."
They rode up in silence, the elevator's soft music filling the space between them with something that might have been comfortable if Sion hadn't been vibrating with nervous energy. When they reached their floor, Sion practically bolted from the elevator, mumbling something about being tired and needing to shower.
He made it to his door and was fumbling with his key when he heard Jaehee call his name softly.
"Sion-ah."
He turned, key still half-inserted in the lock, to find Jaehee standing a few feet away with his bag.
"Your bag," Jaehee said, holding it out. "You'll need it tomorrow."
Of course. Because Jaehee was considerate and thoughtful and had probably realized that leaving it by the door was impractical when Sion would need his things in the morning. Because despite Sion's weirdness and panic and completely unreasonable behavior, Jaehee was still taking care of him.
Just take the bag, Sion told himself desperately. Say thank you. Act normal.
But normal felt impossible when Jaehee was looking at him with such gentle concern, when the hallway felt so quiet and private, when taking the bag would mean their fingers might brush and Sion might do something truly stupid like lean into the touch or ask what it meant or confess that he'd been having feelings that made no sense about someone who was way too good for him.
"Actually," Sion heard himself saying for the second time that evening, "just leave it by the door like we said."
Jaehee blinked, clearly taken aback. "But—"
"Please." The word came out more desperate than Sion had intended. "Just... leave it there."
Something shifted in Jaehee's expression, the gentle concern hardening into something cooler, more distant. He looked down at the bag in his hands, then back at Sion, and for a moment Sion thought he might argue. Might ask what was wrong or why Sion was acting so strange.
Instead, he just nodded once, set the bag down carefully by Sion's door, and stepped back.
"Goodnight, hyung," he said, and this time his voice was perfectly polite, perfectly professional, completely empty of the warmth that had been there all evening.
Sion watched him walk away, disappearing around the corner toward his own room, and felt something important crack in his chest. He'd gotten what he wanted—space, distance, a chance to get his feelings under control. So why did it feel like he'd just made a terrible mistake?
He stood there for a long time, staring at his bag sitting innocuously by his door, before finally picking it up and letting himself into his room. The space felt smaller than usual, too quiet, filled with the absence of something he couldn't name but already missed desperately.
This is better, he told himself as he got ready for bed, going through the motions of his nighttime routine on autopilot. This is what you wanted.
But as he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, he couldn't shake the memory of Jaehee's face in that last moment—the way his expression had closed off, the careful politeness that had replaced genuine warmth. He'd pushed Jaehee away to protect himself from his own emotions, but the cost was starting to feel higher than he'd expected.
Outside his window, the city continued its late-night hum, indifferent to the small drama playing out in an idol's bedroom. Sion closed his eyes and tried to convince himself that everything would be normal again tomorrow.
It had to be. Because the alternative—that he'd ruined something good because he couldn't handle his own feelings—was too awful to consider.
But deep down, he already knew the truth. Some things, once broken, couldn't be easily fixed.
And he was about to learn that lesson the hard way.