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The roar of the crowd still trembled through the floor when the last chord faded. Confetti drifted in slow spirals, catching the light, settling on Yushi’s shoulders. His lungs ached from singing, but the heaviness at the back of his throat had nothing to do with breath.
He kept his eyes trained on the glow sticks glittering in the dark, on the faces stretched upward with hope. He didn’t dare glance to the left, where Sion stood. Even without looking, he could feel the quiet, but dangerous, pull. A single glance would undo him.
The ending ments began. Voices passed from one member to another, words of thanks echoing over the cheers. When Sion’s turn came, Yushi’s body reacted instinctively: a subtle tightening in his chest, as if some part of him had been waiting for that voice.
Sion spoke of gratitude, of nights spent in empty practice rooms, of how far they had carried one another. He spoke of us, and the word slid beneath Yushi’s ribs like a key turning in a lock.
Memories rose in a rush: mornings spent staring at the ceiling of the trainee dorm, too tired to move, wondering if he could survive another day. Waking up had never been the first thing he wanted to know; it was only the weight of everything ahead. But there had been Sion, always Sion hyung, standing in doorways with water bottles, humming quietly as they stretched, laughing low after evaluations that had left them raw.
Even when the days were too heavy, Yushi could still count the reasons he wasn’t alone. Sion’s name sat at the top of every list.
Applause swelled as Sion finished. Yushi risked a glance.
For a heartbeat the world collapsed to a single frame: Sion framed by falling gold, eyes soft with pride and everything they had weathered. Yushi’s breath snagged. He turned back toward the audience before the tears could slip free.
When the encore ended, they filed backstage. The dressing room was buzzing with stylists collecting mics, staff congratulating them, members chattering about fan signs they’d spotted. Yushi slipped away to a quiet corner near the wings, heart still galloping.
The images kept replaying: their first pre-debut showcase, the way they had kept each other standing through sleepless nights, the trust that had grown like roots between them. All of it felt as solid as the stage beneath his feet.
Yushi sensed Sion before he heard him, a soft shuffle of footsteps cutting through the backstage noise. Sion stopped at Yushi’s side. For a long moment neither spoke. The warmth of his presence was enough.
“You avoided me out there,” Sion started. His voice was gentle, but something in it vibrated with concern.
Yushi let out a shaky laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “If I’d looked at you any longer, I would’ve cried on camera.”
Finally Sion broke the silence, voice low and rough around the edges. “Maybe that’s okay sometimes.” He stepped closer, close enough for Yushi to see the faint shimmer of tears in his eyes. “We worked too hard not to feel this.”
The words settled over Yushi like an anchor, steadying everything that had been shaking inside him. He let himself turn, let himself really look.
And there it was. The swell of years: sleepless nights, bruises, laughter in hidden corners, the trust that had been planted early and grown deep. He didn’t reach out; instead, he made himself smaller, Ushi-ya the ever-careful one, folding in on the storm of feeling as though tucking fragile glass inside his ribs.
Sion watched him with a steadiness that asked for nothing, only offered space. Then, with the same quiet certainty he’d always carried, Sion closed the gap and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against Yushi’s temple.
It wasn’t grand or loud. Just a touch, so warm and grounding, it almost carried every word they didn’t have to say. Years of bruised mornings, of shared triumphs, of choosing each other again and again were folded into that single gesture.
Yushi let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. The knot in his chest eased, leaving behind a quiet, steady warmth. In that small, unguarded moment, surrounded by echoes of cheers and the faint scent of paper confetti, he understood: he didn’t have to reach first, didn’t have to speak at all. Sion was already there, and that was enough.
He reached out, fingertips brushing Sion’s hand. A touch small but steady. “You’re the reason I could get up every day,” he said, voice rough but clear. “Even when it wasn’t the first thing I wanted to know.”
Sion’s smile curved, crooked and shy, carrying a quiet relief that matched Yushi’s own. “We’re both still here,” he murmured.
They stood there, surrounded by echoes of cheers and the faint scent of confetti clinging to their clothes. And in that quiet, Yushi understood that he could still count the reasons he wasn’t alone, and every single one of them led back to the person standing before him.
As they finally turned toward the waiting room, Yushi felt lighter. The weight hadn’t disappeared; it had simply found a place to rest — right there, in the space between their joined hands.