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There is no one like Maeda Riku for Oh Sion.
Sion knows that when he sees Riku practicing in front of the mirror in their Music Bank waiting room.
Sion’s heart does a flip when Riku makes eye contact with him, if only for a brief moment before his eyes dart away to focus on whatever their manager is telling him, one hand pulling his AirPods out of his left ear to hear better, the other still holding his phone, one of their practice videos probably playing.
It’s really so cute when Riku claims Sion is the most handsome hyung in the world so brazenly in front of cameras, in front of production crews and staff, complete strangers but still can’t hold eye contact with him for more than a second when they’re in public.
Sion can’t lie— there are times where he’d want to just go up to Riku and smother him in pecks all over his face in front of everyone, mid-way filming, in the middle of doing their makeup, basically anytime, just to see his reaction.
Will Riku finally be able to look him in the eye? Sion chuckles lightly to himself—catches Ryo giving him an odd look from across him— of course not, Riku would probably end up hitting him in the arm and threatening to never let Sion into his room ever again.
Leaning back against the sofa, he spots Daeyoung hunched over his phone as well, earphones plugged in and humming lowly—likely practicing for a cover to send on Bubble. Yushi and Sakuya are at the makeup table, stylists meticulously doing their hair and makeup.
With everyone doing their own thing while the cameras are still off, Sion unlocks his phone and starts to scroll through his gallery to see if there’s anything interesting to send on Bubble. His thumb pauses mid-swipe when he spots a familiar photo—Riku holding up a peace sign in front of the Merlion statue, back when they had a concert stop in Singapore.
Sion still remembers how hot it was, the sun beating down so brightly it made him squint, and Riku muttering under his breath about how he was definitely going to get sunburnt now. Sion had leaned close enough so only Riku could hear and whispered that he would love him no matter how he looked, sunburn or not.
That evening, they’d sat shoulder to shoulder by Riku’s hotel window, the city glowing gold as the sun dipped low, slurping curry noodles from room service containers. The photo after is quieter—just the back of Riku’s silhouette framed against the window, the sky spilling into shades of orange and violet. Sion stares at it longer than he should, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before swiping again.
Sion has mostly been around the world now thanks to all the concerts they’ve done, touched down in countless cities, seen skylines and oceans that still take his breath away. Every place, every memory, means something to him—but all of it becomes sharper, brighter, more alive when Riku is there.
The love songs he sings sound sweeter when he can see Riku jumping away at the end of the stage, the night sky feels wider when Riku is standing beside him, and even the brightest stage lights pale compared to catching Riku’s eyes at the corner of his vision.
Because he really couldn’t give less fucks about what flavor his gelato was unless Riku was the one who picked it out for him, he really couldn’t care less about the food unless Riku was by his side eating to his heart’s content, just like when his cheeks puffed out with kalguksu during their Nopogy filming.
Riku finally takes a seat next to Sion and just like second nature, Sion slips an arm around his shoulders, his hand moving up and down Riku’s arm in a soothing rhythm.
“I can’t wait for our tour to start—especially the Japan leg this time,” Sion says, voice soft but certain.
“This time? Did you not enjoy LOGin?” Riku tilts his head, curiosity laced in his tone.
Sion is nothing if not honest. “You’ll be here this time.”
He catches the subtle flicker of surprise in the way Riku’s eyebrows lift, so he goes on, “It wasn’t the same without you by my side. Every performance felt a little off, like something was missing. Even the photos from those shows—none of them seemed to focus right, not when you weren’t there.”
What Sion doesn’t add is the truth that presses against his tongue—that even the hotel bed had felt emptier, colder, without Riku slipping under the sheets beside him. But he knows now isn’t the moment for confessions like that. He’ll save it for later, when they’re back at the dorms, when Riku comes over after a shower, hair damp, shoulders loose with exhaustion. He’ll save it for when Riku climbs into his bed without a word, and Sion’s room glows red in the soft light, and everything feels whole again.
Sion’s bedroom lights always cast a glow over Riku that makes him look even more ethereal than usual—or no, scratch that. The truth is, Riku looks his best not when he’s dolled up on stage with glittering aegyosal and a sweep of pink blush, but when he’s stretched out across Sion’s bed, hair messy, face soft with sleep.
Sion sleeps easier, too, when he knows that morning will come with Riku bathed in sunlight streaming through the window, the kind of sight that makes the rest of the world feel irrelevant. He swears he’ll keep him here forever if he can, always finding half-baked excuses to call Riku over. And Riku, indulgent as ever, always lets him.
It’s selfish, he knows—but then again, Sion is only human.
Riku shifts in Sion’s arm, leaning in until his temple brushes the edge of Sion’s shoulder. It’s a tiny movement, but deliberate, like the kind of closeness Riku allows only when he’s certain the cameras aren’t rolling yet. Sion can feel the weight of his head settle there, the warmth of him bleeding through the fabric of his jacket.
It’s close—almost too close—and Sion imagines Ryo’s voice in his head, teasing: “Too much PDA, hyung! We’re at work!” He almost laughs at the thought, but then Riku speaks, and the words slip under his skin before he can prepare for them.
“Mmm… I really appreciate you. You know that, right?”
Riku’s voice is low, coated in the easy drawl he uses when he’s tired but happy. His eyes stay on his phone, thumb flicking idly, but the words are heavy, deliberate, like an anchor tossed between them.
Sion’s chest tightens. He can handle stadiums of screaming fans, can perform under blinding lights without missing a beat, but it’s moments like these—the quiet ones—that leave him a little breathless.
Riku’s left hand, the one not occupied with his phone, creeps between them and finds its way to Sion’s thigh, resting there with the same unassuming ease as always. Then his finger moves—soft, slow, drawing a tiny heart just above Sion’s knee. It’s a quick sketch of affection, hidden from everyone but them.
Sion’s lips part, but no sound comes. Instead, a grin spreads across his face, so wide it almost hurts. His ears burn, and his pulse races at the touch.
Forget the eye contact; forget the words. Riku has his own language.
Sion shifts slightly, angling himself so his shoulder fits more firmly beneath Riku’s head. “I know,” he whispers back. “And I appreciate you more.”
Riku pauses mid-scroll. A small, almost invisible smile plays at the corner of his mouth. He glances up—just a flicker of eye contact—but it’s enough.
The room around them is alive with quiet activity. Yushi’s laughter spills from the makeup table, Daeyoung’s humming becomes a soft melody under his breath, stylists murmur directions about angles and lighting.
But for Sion, it all falls away.