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The stage lights were still burning in the back of his eyelids. Even when Yumeki closed his eyes, all he could see was the blinding white and the screaming crowd. His name had been shown on the screen—just not the way he once dreamed. Not in the top eight. Not in the line-up that would etch itself into history books and trending hashtags.
Rank 11.
Close. Too close.
And yet, when the roar died down and his knees hit the stage in a polite bow, all Yumeki felt was relief.
It was enough.
He’d told himself that all through the months of hellfire training, endless evaluations, the nights he patched up someone else’s trembling hands before tending to his own. If he made it to finals, he’d be happy. If his fans saw him on that last stage, he’d be proud. If the people who loved him felt seen in his smile, he’d consider it a win.
So he smiled. He clapped. He bowed until his back ached and the cameras captured his grin as if it were effortless. Because for Yumeki, it was real. It wasn’t fake. His chest swelled with pride—for himself, for the friends who made it, for the fans who carried him this far.
But for Xinlong, Jiahao, and Junseo?
It was unbearable.
---
Xinlong’s hands were still trembling hours later, the kind of tremor that wasn’t stage fright but heartbreak disguised as adrenaline. He’d ranked third. Third. His name was shouted with thunder, his fan chants echoing like a storm. He should be elated. He should be screaming into the ceiling of the dorm they’d be given, drunk on victory and disbelief.
Instead, he couldn’t breathe.
Because every time he turned his head, he saw the empty space where Yumeki should have been.
Rank 11. God, it wasn’t fair.
The cameras had eaten up his shocked expression when the results were read, but they hadn’t seen the way his body curled inwards, like a kid trying not to cry in public. They hadn’t caught how his first thought wasn’t I made it, but Where’s Yumeki?
And when the confetti fell, Xinlong had swallowed his sobs like glass. He waved. He smiled. He let the dream crown him because wasn’t that what they’d all been fighting for? But inside he was clawing, bleeding, screaming. Because what was debut worth if his anchor wasn’t there beside him?
---
Jiahao had been quieter. He always was. Rank five—solid, undeniable, the kind of number that guaranteed center time and lines. His parents would cry, his hometown would cheer, his future was written in stone now. But none of it mattered the second he caught Yumeki’s eyes across the stage.
Yumeki had smiled at him. A real, soft, steady smile, the kind Jiahao had leaned on a hundred times during training. The smile that said I’m proud of you, don’t look back.
But Jiahao wanted to look back. He wanted to run the other way, drag Yumeki with him, scream at the judges, the voters, the universe itself. How could they separate them like this? Didn’t anyone else see it?
Without Yumeki, the group felt like a house built without a foundation. Pretty on the outside, crumbling on the inside.
---
Junseo was the last to break. Rank eight had left him trembling, his whole body folding under the weight of relief and disbelief. He was the last name, the last chance, the edge of the knife—and he’d made it.
But when he turned around, desperate for someone to anchor him, the stage was missing its brightest light.
Yumeki wasn’t there.
Junseo bit his lip so hard it bled. He forced a smile until his cheeks hurt. He let the cameras devour his relief like a feast, but inside he was splitting open. He’d promised himself—no, he’d promised Yumeki—that they’d make it together. That if one of them stumbled, the other would carry them. And now? Now the stage felt like quicksand, and every cheer just pulled him deeper.
---
The show ended. The cameras shut off. The staff bustled, the winners were herded like prized cattle to interviews, photo ops, meetings. It was chaos, a blur of congratulatory words that all tasted like ash.
And then—finally—they broke free.
Xinlong was the first to bolt. He didn’t care if anyone saw. He ran until his lungs burned, until the world blurred into static. Jiahao followed without hesitation, his hand reaching, desperate. Junseo stormed behind them, his long strides fueled by something close to panic.
They found Yumeki where the cameras couldn’t reach—backstage, tucked in a shadowed corner, still glowing like he belonged on that stage even in the dark.
And then they collapsed.
Three bodies crashing into one, arms flung tight, sobs tearing out like they’d been dammed up for years. Xinlong buried his face in Yumeki’s shoulder and let it break him. Jiahao’s fingers laced into Yumeki’s hand like he’d drown without it. Junseo, bigger than all of them, wrapped himself around the trio like a collapsing wall.
“Meki Hyung,” Xinlong choked, words drowned in tears. “It’s not fair. It’s not—”
“I don’t want it,” Jiahao whispered, voice hoarse. “Not without you.”
Junseo’s whole body shook as he rasped, “I can’t—please, I can’t do this without you—”
Yumeki let them. He let their tears soak into his clothes, let their sobs echo in the narrow hallway. His own eyes burned, but he didn’t cry. Not here. Not when they needed him steady.
Instead, his hands moved, gentle as always, threading into their hair, stroking like they were fragile things. His voice, the one that had carried them through every breakdown in the dorms, every failure on stage, rose again—soft, steady, unyielding.
“You’re debuting,” he murmured, lips brushing the crown of Xinlong’s head. “You deserve it. Every single one of you. Don’t ever think otherwise.”
“But you—” Junseo’s voice cracked, ugly and broken.
“I’m happy,” Yumeki cut in, smiling through the ache in his chest. “I swear I am. I’m proud. I’ll be cheering louder than anyone, you know that, right?”
His grin was so bright it hurt. It split through their grief like sunlight through storm clouds. Junseo wanted to cry harder just looking at it.
And maybe he did.
Yumeki’s arms tightened. His hands kept stroking, comforting, grounding. “I’ll always be here. Always. No matter what stage I’m on, I’ll be your biggest fan.”
The words landed heavy, bittersweet, the kind of promise that seared itself into bone. The three of them clung tighter, like if they held Yumeki hard enough, the universe might rewrite itself.
But it didn’t.
So they wept. And Yumeki held.
Like always.
The sobbing didn’t stop.
Backstage smelled faintly of sweat and hairspray, the air too hot and too stale, but none of them noticed. Xinlong’s breath hitched against Yumeki’s collarbone, loud and ugly, his tears soaking through the thin fabric of Yumeki’s stage shirt. Jiahao’s hand was clammy and shaking in Yumeki’s, like he was afraid to let go for even a second. And Junseo—God, Junseo was heavy, his entire body trembling as he caged them all in with his arms, forehead pressed to Yumeki’s shoulder like he was begging the ground not to open up and swallow him whole.
It should have been overwhelming. Three boys pressed to him like they’d break apart without him. Their sobs reverberating down the quiet corridor. The sheer weight of their grief and love colliding all at once.
But Yumeki let them.
He’d always let them.
“Shh,” he murmured, soft but steady, stroking the back of Junseo’s head with one hand, squeezing Jiahao’s fingers with the other, while his shoulder took Xinlong’s storm. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”
The words cracked something open. Xinlong’s sobs turned ragged, hiccupping like he was drowning. Jiahao’s breath stuttered, his lips trembling as he pressed their joined hands to his forehead. Junseo choked out something broken that didn’t even sound like words, just a plea twisted raw.
And Yumeki held them tighter.
Just like before.
Junseo had been sitting on the practice room floor, head bowed, script trembling in his hands. Being leader had crushed him that week—the stares of the trainees, the doubt in his own chest, the way every mistake felt like proof he wasn’t enough. He’d tried to swallow it, to play strong, but Yumeki had noticed. Yumeki always noticed.
“Junseo,” Yumeki had said, crouching in front of him, voice quiet enough the others couldn’t hear. “Do you know why they chose you as leader?”
Junseo shook his head, blinking fast, shame burning in his eyes.
“Because you care more than anyone,” Yumeki said, no hesitation. “You’ll tear yourself apart before you let your team fall. That’s strength, Junseo. Not weakness.”
Junseo had cried then, silent tears slipping down his cheeks, and Yumeki had pulled him into a hug right there on the scuffed wooden floor. Warm. Steady. Anchoring.
Junseo had thought, I can’t do this. Yumeki had whispered back, Yes, you can. I’ll help you every step.
And somehow, he’d believed him.
Now, backstage, Junseo shook against him the same way. And Yumeki was still there, steady as ever, one arm tight around his broad shoulders.
“You’re not weak for crying,” Yumeki whispered into his hair. “You never were.”
Junseo’s answering sob was sharp enough to split the air.
---
Jiahao always been the quiet one, the one who tucked himself at the edges, convincing himself he wasn’t worthy of the center. The coaches’ sighs had cut deep, his own doubt deeper.
But Yumeki had been the first to clap, loud and firm. “That was great, Jiahao. Let’s try again.”
The trainers had blinked, thrown off. Jiahao had flushed, embarrassed.
Yumeki had crossed the room, eyes bright, smile wide. “You sound amazing. You just need to believe it too.” His hand had squeezed Jiahao’s shoulder, grounding. “I believe it. Every time.”
And that had been enough to keep Jiahao from shattering.
Now, backstage, Jiahao clung to Yumeki’s hand like that memory all over again.
“I can’t—” Jiahao’s voice cracked, muffled against their joined hands. “I can’t do this without you. You’re the only reason I—”
Yumeki squeezed tighter, pressing their foreheads together. “You can. You always could. I just reminded you.”
Jiahao’s breath broke into another sob.
---
Xinlong had been shaking before their Brat Attitude Killing Part evaluation, knees knocking together under the baggy pants they’d been given. He’d been good—everyone knew he was good—but nerves wrapped around his throat like barbed wire.
Yumeki had slid beside him, their pinkies brushing. “Scary?”
Xinlong had nodded, eyes wide.
“Good,” Yumeki had said with a grin, soft but mischievous. “Means you care. Means it matters. We’ll do it scared together, okay?”
And Xinlong, trembling, had laughed for the first time that day. Because Yumeki had turned terror into something almost beautiful.
Now, backstage, Xinlong’s entire body trembled against him again.
“Don’t leave me,” Xinlong begged, voice cracking open, desperate. “Don’t—please, Yumeki, I can’t—”
Yumeki kissed his temple, gentle, sure. “I’m here. Always.”
Xinlong sobbed harder, clutching fistfuls of Yumeki’s shirt like he’d vanish if he let go.
The three of them wept like children. And Yumeki, their sun, wrapped around them like he could hold the universe still. His arms pulled tighter, encompassing all three, his chin resting on Junseo’s head, his lips brushing Jiahao’s knuckles, his other hand stroking through Xinlong’s damp hair.
It should have been impossible, carrying so much grief at once. But Yumeki had been doing it all along. For three months, he’d carried their breakdowns, their insecurities, their fears, and still smiled bright enough to keep them alive.
Now, even stripped of debut, he didn’t falter.
“You love me,” Yumeki whispered, not a question, not a boast, just a truth laid bare. “And I love you. That doesn’t end here.”
Their sobs swelled. Junseo’s shoulders shook like he’d split in half. Jiahao buried his face in Yumeki’s chest, shaking his head. Xinlong choked on a broken laugh, clinging tighter.
“You’re my brightest light,” Yumeki said softly, stroking them like fragile glass. “My strongest teammates. My family. Debut doesn’t change that. Nothing ever will.”
The words sank deep, echoing in every crack of their hearts.
And the three of them—Xinlong, Jiahao, Junseo—fell in love all over again. Not the kind of love the cameras could sell, not the polished dream of idols on posters. But the raw, unshakable kind. The kind forged in practice rooms at 2am, in whispered encouragement, in trembling hands held steady.
They pressed closer, as if Yumeki’s heartbeat could replace their own. As if his arms could protect them from a future they no longer wanted to face alone.
And Yumeki—always Yumeki—held them all.
---
The hotel room was quiet after lights out, but in Yumeki’s room it was anything but. The four of them were crammed together on one bed like they hadn’t just cried their eyes out in the green room earlier. Junseo was sprawled half across Yumeki’s chest, Xinlong tucked against his side, and Jiahao had taken the prime spot of curling into Yumeki’s stomach like a cat who knew exactly what he was worth.
The air still felt heavy with everything they’d just gone through, but softer now—like the storm had passed, leaving only the warmth of belonging behind.
Junseo was the first to break the silence, his voice muffled against Yumeki’s shirt.
“I’m gonna be the kind of leader people don’t forget. Not because I boss them around but—because they know I’d never leave them behind. That’s what you taught me, hyung —Yumeki Hyung. I wanna… carry that.”
Yumeki’s fingers threaded through his hair, the proudest smile tugging at his lips.
“You already are that kind of leader, Junseo. You don’t even realize how much you hold everyone together just by being you.”
Junseo blinked hard, but it didn’t stop the stupid grin stretching across his face.
Jiahao shifted, cheeks burning even in the dim light. His words came out shy, but determined.
“I… I’ll show everyone what I can do. No more hiding, no more thinking I’m not enough. I wanna shine so bright that people can’t look away. And when they do see me… I want them to know I was never just background.”
Yumeki leaned down, kissing the top of his head without thinking twice.
“That’s my boy. You’ve always had that fire—now you’re finally letting it burn. I can’t wait for the world to see.”
Jiahao ducked further into his chest, muttering something about cheesy compliments, but the way his trembling hand clung to Yumeki’s sleeve betrayed him.
Then Xinlong, who had been quiet all night, lifted his gaze. His eyes were still swollen from crying, but the softness there was unwavering.
“I’ll protect you guys. No matter what. Doesn’t matter if I’m scared, doesn’t matter if the stage is too big or if people doubt me—I’ll stand tall. Because… because that’s what Yumeki showed me. That love means you fight, even when your knees are shaking.”
Yumeki’s chest squeezed so tight it hurt. He wrapped his arms wider, pulling all three of them closer until they were tangled in one giant hug. His voice shook with how much he meant it:
“You’re gonna be incredible. All of you. And no matter how high you go, no matter how far you run—I’ll always be proud. Always.”
The three of them melted into him like gravity had chosen Yumeki as their center. Warm breaths mingled, tears dried against skin, and for a moment the future didn’t feel scary at all. It felt bright, golden, reachable.
They stayed like that for a long time, bodies pressed close, hearts syncing up in the dark. And if the three of them whispered their quiet confessions—words of love they weren’t ready to name yet—Yumeki only smiled against their hair, holding them tighter, as if he’d already known all along.