Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The dorm had grown quieter than usual, but the silence wasn't peace - it was heavy, like an invisible fog choking the air. The scandal had painted itself across every screen, every feed, every whisper outside their walls. Each time Leo's name appeared, it was paired with venom, accusations, disguised as righteous fury. 

The members had tried everything. Yorch would sit beside him, nudging his shoulder with small jokes, his laughter forced but desperate—like a candle flickering in a storm. Jihoon tried to reason with him, leaving little notes of encouragement on Leo's desk, folded like prayers that hopefully might one day reach him. 

James, the quietest, had become a shield on social media, deleting what he could, defending Leo in spaces where his voice would only get drowned. Woochan—though younger—stayed close, hovering like an anxious younger brother, his presence wordless but full of pleading eyes. Hopeful that his presence will at least bring a little bit of comfort to Leo, someone he considered his own older brother.

But none of it mattered. Leo scrolled endlessly, eyes hollowing with every hateful comment that carved itself into him like shards of glass. His thumbs moved against the screen as if possessed.

Every apology they drafted—both formal statements through the company and shaky, trembling words forced out in videos—collapsed beneath the weight of rage that could never be satisfied. Forgiveness was never offered. Redemption never arrived. Instead, every attempt only fed the fire.

'They hate me. They'll always hate me. No matter what I say... It's never enough.'

Sangwon had watched him from across the room that night, Leo's figure slouched on the bed against the dim light of his phone, face bathed in blue and white glow like a ghost haunting itself. His fingers tapping and scrolling relentlessly through the endless flow of hate and resentment that seems to refuse to stop. 

Sangwon clenched his fists in silence, nails digging crescents into his palms as if pain might anchor him from the helplessness. He wanted to shout, to plead him to stop. To stop caring about whatever nonsense the strangers who don't even know them are spewing online. 

But he can't reach him. 

No matter what he does... 

He can't seem to pull him out.

And that fact made him suffocate even more.

The practice room was even more suffocating. Mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the boys back at themselves—fractured versions of a group trying to hold together something already breaking. Sweat stained the floor, but the exhaustion wasn't from the dance, nor from the intensity of the choreography. It was the exhaustion of hearts crumbling under words they couldn't escape. The music had stopped, yet the ringing of silence felt louder than any beat.

Leo stood in the middle, trembling hands gripping the hem of his shirt. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath jagged, as if his lungs refused to carry the weight of the air. As if the air itself is strangling him. 

The others circled him instinctively, like planets trying to shield their sun from imploding. Sangwon stayed closest, every muscle in his body taut, watching for the inevitable collapse.

"I... I can't do this anymore." The words left Leo in a whisper, but they sliced through the room sharper than a scream. His voice cracked, eyes brimming though no tears had fallen. "Every step we take, every stage we dream of... I felt like I was pulling all of you down with me. My mistake... It's chaining you. You don't deserve this."

"Leo hyung—" Jihoon's voice broke, raw with panic, but Leo shook his head violently, the movement desperate, frantic, like a bird thrashing against its cage.

"No. You don't understand. I've tried. I've apologised until my throat bled. I've worked harder to prove my worth, to atone for what I've done, to ask for forgiveness. And to show that one mistake doesn't define who I am. But they won't stop. And because of me, they won't stop hating you either." His voice wavered, his gaze darting between the members like he was memorising them, burning their faces into the ashes of his guilt. "I can't drag you down anymore. I'm... I'm quitting."

"... I'm quitting... so that my stain won't tarnish the dreams that all of you had been working for"

The air froze. 

Sangwon felt the words like a guillotine blade, severing something deep inside him. His heartbeat thundered, but his body refused to move, as though his foot was chained to the spot he was standing on. 

'No. Not like this. Don't say it like it's mercy when it's destruction.'

James stepped forward, shaking his head so hard his hair clung to the sweat on his forehead. "Don't. Don't do this to yourself, hyung. To us." His voice cracked into silence. Woochan, tears already streaking his face, clutched Leo's sleeve, his hands trembling as if his grip alone could tether him in place. Yorch clenched his jaw, pacing, fists balled like he was searching for a solution that didn't exist.

But Leo only pulled away, every gesture lined with sorrow. Voice on the brink of breaking as he spoke. "I've already discussed with the company. They'll release the statement soon... but I want you guys to hear it from me first."

Sangwon said nothing—he couldn’t. His throat was closing around words that refused to form. He wanted to grab Leo, to shake him, to scream no. But the look in Leo’s eyes—resigned, broken, empty—froze him in place.

Leo bowed then, a deep bow that seemed to carve itself out of his bones. “I’m really sorry for everything.”

The room broke. Woochan sobbed openly. Jihoon turned his back, covering his mouth with his hand to smother the sound tearing from his throat. James sank into the couch at the corner of the practice room, head in his hands. Yorch slammed his fist into the wall, the dull thud echoing like a gunshot. 

And Sangwon—Sangwon stood frozen, his vision blurring as if the mirrors themselves were shattering around him. He had thought that he knew what anguish was before, but watching Leo surrender felt like witnessing the sun extinguish itself before dawn.

The company released the statement days later.

Official. Cold.

“Lee Leo will be withdrawing from the project due to personal reasons.” It was printed on screens, reposted by fans, torn apart by critics. And no apology, no explanation, no truth, could wash away the poison of the scandal.

The hate didn’t slow—it only sharpened.

And Leo’s hope dissolved with it.

The dorm that night was hollowed. Leo's bag sat half-packed, clothes folded with a mechanical precision that betrayed the trembling of his fingers.

One by one, the members came to him—soft goodbyes hidden under forced smiles. Woochan wrapped his arms around him, refusing to let go until Yorch gently pried him away. Jihoon whispered something against his shoulder, words drowned by tears.

James lingered at the door, his hand pressed briefly to Leo's back, like he wanted to say everything but knew nothing would suffice. Yorch gave a sharp nod, eyes glassy but resolute, then stepped away quickly before the cracks in his composure spilt out.

And then there was Sangwon. He stood longer than he should have, his throat a desert, his hands itching to reach out. Leo looked up at him, their eyes locking—an ocean of guilt meeting a storm of anguish. 

Neither spoke. 

Neither dared. 

'If I open my mouth now, I'll fall apart. If I touch him, I'll never let go.' 

And so, silence became their farewell, heavier than any words could bear.

He watches as Leo’s palm brushes the frame of the door—one last touch, one last memory carved into skin. And then he left, the door closing like a coffin lid.

The studio was no longer a sanctuary. It had become a graveyard of empty bottles, shattered dreams, and words that never stopped echoing. The air hung thick with the bitter scent of alcohol—sharp, cloying, heavy—clinging to the walls like mould. 

Where once melodies had been born, silence now reigned, broken only by the occasional thud of an empty bottle rolling against the floor.

The first time Sangwon visited after Leo's withdrawal, he found him hunched over the desk, chin resting against his folded arms, scrolling endlessly through comments. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils glazed, but his fingers moved as though the endless cascade of hate was the only lifeline left. 

Sangwon's chest tightened. He said nothing, hands moving only to place a takeout box beside him. Leo didn't look up. Not even a glance. As if his eyes were glued to the monitor. As if there was some kind of magnetic field keeping his gaze stuck to the screen. 

No words were spoken between them as hours passed in silence. Eventually, Sangwon left, carrying with him the hollow image of a boy whose spirit had dimmed.

The second visit was worse. The screen still glared, but this time, half-emptied bottles littered the desk, their glass necks glistening like soldiers fallen in battle. Leo's laugh startled him—bitter, sharp, jagged. 

"They're poets, aren't they? Look at how creative they get with their hate." His words slurred, but his grip on the bottle was firm, desperate. As if the burn could erase the pain from every hateful word etched into his mind. Sangwon crossed the room quickly, snatching it from him, but Leo only reached for another. His hand trembled, yet his defiance burned through the haze.

"If I can't erase their words, maybe I can drown them."

Sangwon's stomach twisted. He wanted to shout, to shake him, to beg him to stop. But all he could do was sink beside him, clutching the stolen bottle like a useless shield. His own thoughts screamed in silence.

'How much longer can I watch him do this to himself? How much longer until he disappears completely...?'

'...until I lose myself too?'

By the third visit, Leo was sprawled on the couch, an open bottle hanging loosely from his hand, spilling onto the carpet. Another hand gripping onto his phone like it's the only thing he had left as he relentlessly scrolled through the digital hell they specially created for him. His lips moved in whispers, muttering comments aloud, repeating them as though each one was carved onto his tongue.

"Liar. Worthless. Vulgar. Ugly” 

The words fell out like prayers to the god of cruelty. 

Sangwon's chest cracked with every syllable, his knuckles turning white as he dug his nails into his palm. 

'They've made him believe them. They've taken everything from him. And I've just been standing here... watching.' 

He hated the fact that he couldn't do anything to stop them. To stop the source of their seemingly never-ending misery.

With a ragged breath, he let out a sigh as he began to move, attempting to clean up the mess scattered on the floor in the silence of the night, neatly lining the bottles at the corner of the space like gravestones. Each one marking another piece of Leo that he lost.

The fourth visit didn’t just unsettle Sangwon — it splintered something inside him.

Leo wasn’t on the couch, nor hunched at the desk scrolling through the abyss. He was on the floor, knees pulled to his chest like a child trying to fold himself into nothing, head buried deep against them.

Around him, the studio lay like a crime scene: bottles toppled, their contents bleeding into the wood; glass strewn like frozen lightning; and in the middle of it all, Leo, small and shaking.

His phone lay beside him, its screen cracked into a spiderweb of fractures but still glowing, spilling hateful words across his skin like a cruel spotlight.

His hands were cut open from gripping shards, streaks of blood trailing down his wrists like thin red rivers. Yet he did not flinch, did not even blink. He trembled instead — shallow, uneven breaths making his ribs quake — like a marionette whose strings had been slashed, body still moving only because despair demanded it.

Sangwon stopped dead in the doorway, air catching in his lungs as if a fist had closed around his throat. His heart lurched violently against his ribs, a thunderclap inside his chest. He had seen Leo tired, furious, drunk, silent — but never this. Never hollowed out so completely that even his shadow seemed to curl inward.

‘I’m watching him rot alive,’ Sangwon’s mind whispered, but it felt like a scream echoing in his skull.

‘And I can’t—I can’t do nothing anymore.’

The smell of spilt alcohol burned his nose. His throat tightened with a cry he swallowed back, his fists trembling at his sides. His knees almost gave, but he pushed himself forward, crossing the shards with careful, urgent steps, as though any noise might shatter Leo further.

He knelt, reaching out, fingers brushing over Leo’s trembling arm. The skin was cold. Too cold.

Leo didn’t look at him; his eyes stared past, empty and glassy, reflecting nothing but the glow of the shattered screen. When he spoke, his voice was hollow — not even a whisper, but the echo of one.

“If I drink enough…” His lips cracked on the word, “…maybe I won’t hear them anymore.”

The sound hit Sangwon harder than any scream could have. The sentence clawed at his chest, gnawed through his ribs, and burrowed into his heart. He felt it physically — like teeth sinking in — a pain both sharp and endless. His breath hitched, and for a heartbeat, he thought he might crumble right there with him.

He imagined it... himself falling onto the floor beside Leo, burying his face in his hands, letting the same darkness swallow them both.

It would be so easy. So quiet. So final.

But then... the thought of Leo disappearing entirely. Of this figure, shaking and breakable in his arms, vanishing from the world. That image hit him harder than the hate, harder than the despair. It was a vision of a void too large to face.

‘If I crumble...’ Sangwon told himself, the words a frantic drumbeat in his skull, ‘... he will vanish. If I fall now, he will be gone.’

He swallowed back his own tears with a force that hurt his throat, gripping Leo’s shoulders with hands that shook but would not let go.

‘I can’t crumble yet… not now… not when he needs me the most.’

The resolve tasted bitter, like blood between his teeth, but it steadied him. He gathered Leo into his arms, feeling how light he was, how loose his body had become, as though grief had hollowed out his bones. Sangwon’s own knees dug into the shards as he shifted, but he didn’t care — he’d rather bleed than let Leo go.

He pressed his forehead against Leo’s hair, breathing in the scent of alcohol and salt, whispering — not words yet, just sound, a low murmur to tether him back. His hand stroked over Leo’s back in slow circles, smearing blood and tears and spilt liquor together. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered except holding him.

Inside Sangwon, fear and anguish warred with something heavier, more rooted: love. The kind of love that doesn’t flutter but digs in, that anchors even when the storm rips everything else away. And in that moment, on that floor surrounded by broken glass, he swore silently to himself:

If Leo burns, I will be the water.

If Leo drowns, I will be the shore.

If Leo shatters, I will be the hands picking up the pieces, even if they cut me.

He closed his eyes, tightening his hold, and whispered hoarsely against Leo’s hair, “Not like this. Not alone. Not ever.

Each visit had been a cut. Small at first, shallow enough to bear — a tremor here, a bruise there, a word unsaid. But by the fourth, Sangwon had been bleeding on the inside. By the fifth, his restraint was only skin-deep, a thin thread straining over a chasm. Tonight, the thread tore apart.

He stood in the doorway longer than he ever had before. The apartment was no longer just dim — it was cavernous, a hollow chamber filled with ghosts of music and laughter now turned to ash. The air was heavy with the stale sting of spilt alcohol, with silence so sharp it pressed against his lungs like glass, splintering every breath.

His fingers curled around the key still warm from the turn, white-knuckled. He did not move immediately. He let the moment hang over him, heavy as iron, while his eyes adjusted to the fractured world Leo had built inside these four walls. It was all in ruins now: bottles like shattered constellations, notebooks torn apart and left like dead birds on the floor, pages filled with scribbles and loops that went nowhere — frantic maps to nowhere.

And there — at the centre of this quiet apocalypse — sat Leo.

On the couch this time. Not on the floor, not at the desk. Slumped like a man whose bones had given up, head lowered, eyes fixed on nothing. In one hand, a freshly opened bottle of soju, its neck gleaming faintly under the weak light.

This time, he wasn’t scrolling. No blue glow of the phone casting shadows under his eyes. Only the stillness of a body eroding from the inside. Around him, the bottles had spilt out their contents, rivers of liquor tracing crooked paths across the wooden floor like veins, like tributaries feeding some unseen ocean.

Leo’s face had lost its colour. Ghost-pale. Lips cracked and dry as forgotten earth. His eyes swollen, rimmed in furious red, the skin under them shadowed like bruises of grief. The dried tracks of tears ran down cheeks that once burned with music and laughter, streaks like scars carved by invisible claws.

He raised the bottle to his lips, but his hand trembled — not the tremor of nerves but of a man unspooling at the seams. It slipped. The liquor splashed down his shirt in a cold bloom. He didn’t even flinch.

Instead, a laugh escaped him — hoarse, jagged, broken. It wasn’t a laugh, not really, but something left behind when laughter dies: a sound hollow and inhuman, caught somewhere between pain and heartbreak, like a cracked bell ringing in an empty church.

The sound echoed through the studio, sharp and merciless. To Sangwon, it felt like a thousand blades slicing straight through his soul, leaving only ribbons.

His fists clenched at his sides until his nails carved crescents into his palms. His heart hammered in his ears, a violent drumbeat of rage and grief threatening to crack his ribs. He couldn’t bear it any longer.

He crossed the room in a blur, his movements no longer careful but desperate, and wrenched the bottle from Leo’s grasp. Without thinking, he hurled it across the room. The shatter of glass was thunder; shards rained down like murdered stars, fragments of a night sky torn apart.

“Enough!”

The word tore from his throat, raw and frayed, louder than he had ever spoken in his life. It was not just a word but a sound, a breaking — a plea and a curse at once. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, each one searing his lungs like fire drawn in through splinters.

And then — his hands. They seized Leo’s shoulders, fingers digging in as if to carve themselves into his skin, to make him feel. To tether him to life with sheer force. He shook him, desperate, forcing the man — his leader, his brother, his everything — to look up.

Leo’s head lifted slowly, eyes glazed, pupils drowning in alcohol and grief. When they met Sangwon’s, they didn’t spark. They didn’t even flicker. They were voids, two mirrors reflecting nothing but ruin.

Sangwon’s heart broke so violently he swore he could hear it, the sound of splintering wood under too much weight.

This was not Leo. This was a corpse wearing his skin.

And Sangwon knew in that moment — if he didn’t drag him out now, right here, he would lose him.

Not to scandal. Not to hate. Not to the world.

But to himself.

Sangwon leaned closer, eyes burning, breath shaking as the words tore through him. "Do you even realise what you're doing to yourself? To me?"

Leo’s gaze drifted, drowned in liquor and grief, his eyes glassy, pools reflecting nothing but absence. His words slipped out like a wounded breath, delicate and trembling, blurred by the alcohol threading through his veins. “I’m just… giving them what they want,” he whispered, every syllable fragile, as though it might dissolve before reaching the air.

"Isn't this the apology that they want? Isn't this... what... redemption is? To be hated until nothing's left of me...?"

Sangwon's breath hitched. His knees buckled as he lowered himself, kneeling in front of Leo as if the weight in his chest had dragged him down. His fingers still gripped Leo's shoulders, desperate, terrified that if he let go, Leo would just crumble more until there was nothing left for him to salvage.

He draws in closer until his forehead presses against Leo's, his tears spilling freely now, dropping onto his cheeks like raindrops falling to the ground. The tear in his heart was taking his breath away, but he knew that nothing could ever compare to whatever anguish the man in front of him was enduring on his own.

"You think this is redemption? You think destroying yourself will save us?" His voice finally cracked, soft and trembling. Pleading. 

Leo's lips parted as if to argue, but Sangwon went on, words tumbling like broken glass. "I've been here every damn day, Leo. Watching you die a little more each time. Watching you scroll until your eyes go hollow. Watching you drink until you can't stand. Watching you burn yourself alive just to erase their words. And all I could do was sit here—" his voice fractured into a sob, "—watching you bleed and break and collapse, while I... while I stood powerless."

His voice cracked open into a whisper. "Do you even see what that's doing to me? To you...?"

"...To us?"

Leo blinked, his face contorting as tears welled but refused to fall. 

Us. 

The word ‘us’ felt like it was clenching around his neck, strangling him alive.

"I thought... I thought if I carried the hate alone, you'd all be free." His voice trembled, every word dripping with guilt. 

"But I chained you to me instead. I ruined everything, Sangwon. The group. The dream... You." 

Sangwon's grip tightened, trembling as his chest screamed with the force of love and anguish colliding.

'How can he not see? How can he not see he was never the ruin, but the heart, the centre of everything we built?'

"No," Sangwon's voice was a vow, low and raw. "The only thing you ruined... was yourself." He swallowed. "Because you wouldn't let us share the weight. You locked us out, Leo..."

His throat constricted as the truth bled out. "...You locked me out."

His breath fractured, his lips trembled as he felt his heart breaking apart like glass. "And I can't take it anymore. I can't keep watching the person I—" His voice broke into pieces, collapsing into the bitter yet honest confession. "—the person I love destroys himself in slow motion."

Leo froze. His eyes widened, tears finally spilling, cascading down his cheeks like rivers breaking their dam. His voice cracked, shattered. "You... you love me?" The question was broken, trembling, as though the idea itself was a cruel dream. A dream he would not dare to wish for. 

"I always have." Sangwon's chest heaved, every word drenched in honesty, in desperation, in love. 

"And it hurts, Leo. It's heartbreaking to sit in that doorway night after night, watching you tear yourself apart while knowing that nothing I do can ever glue you back together." He paused, breath hitching—like a sob he couldn't quite swallow—as he struggled to utter the words that had been buried deep inside his chest for way too long.

"Do you know how helpless I've felt? How many times I wanted to rip the phone from your hands, to throw every bottle out the window, to scream until you heard me?" His voice rose, but it wasn't anger—just desperation, trembling and thin like a glass on the verge of breaking.

"But I didn't. Because I'm afraid that me doing something, anything... might just break you even more. But I was wrong. I should have dragged you out of the fire right away, even if it meant burning myself with you."

Leo's body convulsed with sobs that erupted like waves crashing after a storm, violent and unrestrained, as his tears finally started to spill after weeks of silence. He lowered his head, burying his face into Sangwon's chest, clutching fistfuls of his shirt as though anchoring himself to the last solid thing in his collapsing world. 

His words tore out between sobs, raw and broken. "I don't know how to stop. Every word... It's inside me. I drink, I scream, I try to burn it all away, but it doesn't leave. I don't even know who I am anymore. I didn't want you to see me like this. I didn't want... I didn't want you to hate me, too."

Sangwon's eyes burned. He reached forward, wrapping his arms around the fragile figure whose face was now buried on his chest. His own tears trickled down onto Leo's damp hair. 

His voice cracked, but his resolve was unshakable. "I could never hate you. I hate the way they've made you believe their hateful words. I hate the way you've buried yourself in it. But you—you, Leo—I love every broken piece. Every scar. Every shadow you carry," He paused. Hands moving, gently rubbing soft circles along Leo's trembling back, pulling him tighter into his embrace. Their bodies clung together like two shattered halves trying to fuse.

Sangwon held him as if he could stitch him back with sheer force, pressing his cheek against Leo's hair, whispering through his sobs, "Because despite all of it, you're still Leo. You're still the boy who stayed up until late, composing those songs we love into perfection out of sheer devotion. The one who laughed so hard that night one night until we got scolded by the manager for being too loud. The one who never hesitates to lend a shoulder whenever we lose our way. You're still him. The Leo I know. The imperfect Leo. The same Leo I've fallen in love with, over and over. And I'll spend every day pulling you out of whatever abyss you're drowning into. Without hesitation. Even if you fight me."

Leo's sobs grew louder, shaking him to his core, his body collapsing under the weight of Sangwon's words, but his grip on the younger man never loosened… as though his entire life depended on him. "I don't know if I can be fixed." His voice was barely a whisper, drowned by his own crying. "I don't know if there's anything left of me worth saving."

Sangwon pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes, his own wet and glistening—with tears, affection and care. His hands moved, cupping Leo's cheeks gently before pressing their forehead together, his tears mixing with Leo's as their breaths trembled in unison.

The tears blurred both of their visions, but Sangwon's voice carried like fire through the storm. "Then let me be the one to decide that. Let me be the one to prove you wrong. Because I swear to you, as long as I'm breathing, you will not face this storm alone. And if you fall, I'll fall with you."

In that small, broken studio, surrounded by shards of glass and rivers of empty bottles, Leo finally broke—not into despair, but into the safety of arms that refused to release him. His wails tore through the silence, ragged and desperate, echoing like prayers from a soul too weary to keep fighting. Yet too alive to let go.

"It's okay, I'm here. I've got you." Sangwon's soft whisper cracked like a vow under the weight of his own trembling breath, each word spilling out from the deepest part of his heart.

Slowly, desperately, he leaned in, kissing away the tears of sorrow on Leo's skin, as though he could swallow away all the pain and agony reflected in them.

Then, with tenderness that wrapped like dawn after a long night, Sangwon drew him close—tight enough to keep him from falling apart, yet gentle enough not to break what was left of him—an embrace that spoke where words failed: You're not alone. Not anymore. And I'm here to stay.

For the first time in endless weeks, he let himself collapse completely—and for the first time, he was caught. Not by guilt, not by hate, but by a love that refused to let him drown.

The silence that followed was fragile, like glass barely set back onto the shelf after a storm. Leo's sobs had softened into fractured breaths, his body no longer convulsing but trembling like a flame fighting not to go out. 

Sangwon remained kneeling on the floor, arms wrapped around him, forehead pressed against Leo's temple as if proximity alone could stitch together the pieces. But his knees ached, and he felt the heavy pull of Leo's exhaustion against him.

Slowly, Sangwon loosened his hold and whispered, voice raw but careful. "Come... let's move."

Leo blinked sluggishly, his lashes wet, his face flushed from crying. His body leaned into Sangwon instinctively, too worn down to resist. Sangwon rose from his knees with a quiet exhale, guiding Leo's arm around his shoulder, helping him up gently from the couch. 

Each step toward the bed felt deliberate, like walking through the aftermath of a battlefield—careful not to disturb the fragile ground. Ignoring whatever mess is left on the floor. 

Leo's legs dragged a little, but Sangwon bore his weight without complaint, steady, unwavering.

When they reached the bed, Sangwon eased Leo down onto the mattress. The sheets were tangled and messy, but they didn't matter. What mattered was the way Sangwon sat beside him, then pulled him close, coaxing Leo's body until it curled toward him, fitting against his chest. Sangwon's arms wrapped around him once more, but this time not in desperation—in quiet insistence, a promise that he wasn't going to let go. Leo buried his face against Sangwon's shirt, the damp heat of his breath soaking through the cotton.

For a while, there were no words, just the rhythm of two chests rising and falling, sometimes uneven, sometimes syncing, as though trying to find each other again. Sangwon's hand moved slowly up and down Leo's back, each stroke deliberate, patient—an anchor tracing invisible circles, wordless assurances carved into skin. 

He pressed a faint kiss on the crown of Leo's head, almost hesitant, as though afraid it would shatter him again. But Leo didn't pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, like a child reaching for comfort he thought he no longer deserved.

'How could anyone hate him this much?' Sangwon thought, his heart twisting. 'How could they not see him the way I do — fragile and fierce, stubborn and gentle all at once? If only I could take it all, burn it myself, and leave him untouched.'

Leo's voice, hoarse and muffled against Sangwon's chest, broke the silence. "I... I don't deserve this."

Sangwon tightened his hold, shutting his eyes briefly as if the words stabbed at him.

"You deserve more than this, Leo. You always have. You think the world only sees your mistakes, but I see everything else. The late nights, the sweat, the way you carry guilt like it's yours alone to bear. Let me share it. Just... let me."

Leo shook his head weakly, but his fingers clutched at Sangwon's shirt, betraying his own denial. His voice cracked, words trembling in the air. "What if I break again? What if I pull you down with me?"

Sangwon shifted, cupping Leo's jaw with one hand, tilting his face up so their eyes met—red-rimmed to red-rimmed, pain mirroring pain.

"Then I'll break with you. And I'll keep breaking, as many times as it takes, if it means I can hold the pieces with you. Don't you get it? I don't want to stand on the outside anymore, just watching you drown."

Leo stared at him, pupils glassy, lips parting as if words wanted to come but couldn't. Instead, he let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, collapsing forward into Sangwon's chest again. 

Sangwon leaned back slowly, guiding them both down onto the bed fully now. He pulled the blanket over them with one hand, the other never leaving Leo's body, fingers curled at his waist as though to ground him in the present. Leo's breath hitched once more, but then... it began to slow. He let out a soft, broken sigh and melted into Sangwon's hold, surrendering for the first time that night.

'Even broken things deserve rest,' Sangwon thought, his own eyes burning though no tears fell. 

'Even shattered glass glints when the light touches it.'

He stayed awake longer, watching Leo's lashes flutter shut, watching his chest rise and fall with a fragile rhythm. There were moments when Leo's grip on his shirt would loosen, then tighten again, as though even in sleep he feared Sangwon might vanish. Each time, Sangwon only tightened his embrace, whispering sweet nothings into the night—not meant to be heard, but meant to exist. 

Meant to fill the air so Leo would never again know silence as abandonment.

And as the hours stretched thin, a faint pale glow began to bleed into the edges of the curtains. Dawn crept slowly, brushing the room with muted gold, fragile but insistent—like a wound daring to scar over. Sangwon bent his head down slightly, pressing one last kiss onto Leo's temple before closing his own eyes at last. 

The night had not fixed everything; it had not erased the hate, or the mistakes, or the shadows that haunted them both. But as Leo slept in his arms, tangled and warm and here, Sangwon felt the faintest glimmer of something stubborn flicker inside him.

Hope—fragile, but alive, like the first light after a storm.

Chapter Text

The first thing Sangwon noticed wasn't the light—it was the weight.

Not the suffocating weight of despair he had carried last night, but a quieter one, soft and grounding. Warmth pressed into his chest, slow breaths fanning against his shirt, an arm hooked loosely across his waist as though someone had unconsciously anchored themselves to him in the dark.

It was Leo.

When his eyes cracked open, the room was still wrapped in a dim hush. Sunlight was leaking timidly through the blinds, thin ribbons stretching across the floor, but most of the room was still cloaked in the grey of early morning.

The night had swallowed them whole, and somehow they had survived it, tangled together in exhaustion and desperation. Now, in the pale prelude of dawn, Leo lay curled against him, his body slack with a sleep that seemed more like collapse.

His hair fell across his brow in untamed strands, damp with the salt of dried tears. His lips were slightly parted, pale. His skin still smelled faintly of alcohol, sharp and sour, but beneath it lingered something uniquely his—a quiet sweetness, the faint trace of the shampoo Sangwon had always associated with late—night rehearsals and hurried showers.

The old studio itself bore witness to their storm. The floor was scattered with empty bottles and crumpled tissues, shadows clinging stubbornly to the corners. The blinds hadn't been pulled all the way shut, so narrow blades of sunlight cut through the dimness, striping the mess in muted gold. Everything was still—almost sacredly so.

Sangwon didn't dare move. His chest ached with the weight of it all—of Leo, of the night before, of the confessions torn out between sobs and silence. He lay there memorising the rhythm of Leo's breathing, shallow but steady. Each inhale, each exhale, felt like proof that he had been able to catch him before he shattered beyond repair.

He's alive. He's still here. And I'm holding him.

Minutes bled together like watercolours, until finally Leo stirred.

It began with a twitch—fingers tightening faintly against Sangwon's shirt, brows knitting together as though even dreams brought him no peace. Then came a soft, broken groan. His head shifted, cheek brushing against Sangwon's chest before tilting away. "...ugh." His voice was hoarse, cracked like glass left too long in the sun. A hand fumbled upward, pressing against his temple. "...My head."

Sangwon exhaled softly, brushing a strand of hair off his damp forehead. "Probably the hangover," he murmured, his voice low and steady, careful not to sound like pity.

"It'll pass. Just breathe."

Leo's lashes fluttered as his eyes cracked open. Groggy, unfocused, he blinked at the ceiling, then turned his head slightly. His gaze found Sangwon—and froze. His lips parted, but no sound came. The air between them seemed to thicken, heavy with the memory of what had been said, screamed, and confessed only hours before.

Sangwon swallowed, offering the smallest, gentlest smile. "...Morning." The word slipped out like an offering, tentative but warm.

Leo blinked once, twice. His throat bobbed as he whispered, barely audible,
"...You stayed."

Sangwon's chest tightened, the kind of ache that came from love that was too big for his body. He lowered his forehead until it pressed against Leo's, eyes slipping shut. "Of course I stayed. You think I could leave you like that?"

Leo's breath hitched, and his face buried into Sangwon's chest, as if he could hide from the world there. His voice was muffled, heavy with shame. "...I was so... ugly last night."

Sangwon kissed the crown of his head, slow and deliberate. "You weren't ugly," he whispered against his hair. "You were hurting. There's a difference."

Silence stretched—but it was not empty. It pulsed, filled with everything unspoken: fear, shame, relief, love. Slowly, hesitantly, Leo tilted his face back up. His eyes were rimmed red, lashes clumped, glassy with a tenderness that looked foreign on him.

"...Do you regret it?" His voice cracked on the last word, as though it hurt to release it.

Sangwon frowned faintly. "Regret what?"

"The thing you said." His lips trembled, the sound barely rising.
"That—that you... love me."
He stuttered, as if the words held more weight than the world itself. The syllables trembled in the air like fragile glass, threatening to break.

Sangwon's reply came almost immediately, without any hint of hesitation. His voice was low but unwavering with certainty. "No. Never. If there's anything to regret, it's for not saying it sooner. I should have. Before last night happened. Before you break."

Leo's breath stuttered. His gaze searched Sangwon's, as though he could peel back the words to find the hidden cracks beneath them. But there was none—only pure determination, sincerity, and unwavering affection—staring back at him like a sunrise.

He then let out a laugh, brittle and hollow. "I wish... I deserve that... Right now... I don't think I do. Love. You.
I don't deserve you."

Sangwon's hand lifted, trembling with purpose, and came to rest against Leo's cheeks, cupping it with tenderness. His thumb swept gently across his skin, a touch both grounding and reverent. His own voice quivered, but not from doubt—from the sheer intensity of holding so much love in a body too small to contain it. "You don't get to decide that." Each of his words burns with truth.
"That choice is mine. And I'm telling you—I love you. Every scar. Every shadow. Every broken edge..." he paused, planting a kiss on Leo's temple.

"... And you deserve this. My love. More than anyone else. You deserve everything. All of me."

Leo swallowed hard, throat tight, his body trembling as though caught between wanting to collapse and wanting to run. His lips parted on a whisper. "... But why? Even though I keep ruining everything?"

Sangwon leaned in until their foreheads pressed against each other, breaths mingling in the sliver of space between them. "Because you're not ruining everything," he muttered—low, but honest. "You're just drowning. And that's okay."

"Because I'll always be here to pull you back out."

What followed was not a tidy resolution but a gentle unravelling. They spoke in fragments about the night before—Leo admitting how the hate in his head had become a constant roar, how he had felt like little more than a ghost dragging everyone else down. Sangwon confesses how helpless it felt, watching from the outside, terrified of losing him to silence, to shadows.

Leo apologised. Over and over, too many times—and each time, Sangwon silenced him with something softer than words: a kiss to his temple, to his knuckles, to the damp strands of hair falling across his brow. "Stop saying sorry," he murmured.

"You don't owe me that. Just... let me in next time."

Somewhere between the heaviness, light flickered. Sangwon teased him gently about his drunken laugh, calling it the ugliest sound he had ever heard. Leo shoved him weakly, muttering a curse, but the corners of his lips curled in the faintest, reallest smile Sangwon had seen in weeks.

And slowly, as the sun climbed higher and spilt gold across the wreckage of the room, the storm of the night before softened. It didn't vanish—it still lingered like damp air after heavy rain - but it had broken.

Wrapped in each other beneath the sheets, sometimes whispering, simply breathing together. What they found was not joy, not yet, but something rarer.

Peace.

The fragile kind, like porcelain balanced on the edge of a shelf.

But peace nonetheless.

The peace that had settled between them did not vanish when silence returned. Instead, it lingered in the air, soft as dust in sunlight, fragile as porcelain, but undeniably there.

Sangwon stayed still, cradling Leo's weight against him, whose face was now buried against his chest. His hand traced absent patterns on Leo's back, a slow rhythm meant to soothe—arcs and circles that could have been letters, words, entire confessions if only they were legible. Leo, still heavy with exhaustion, let his eyes drift closed again. For a moment, Sangwon thought he had fallen asleep. But then a whisper came, small and hoarse. "...This really feels strange."

Sangwon tilted his head slightly, brushing his lips against Leo's hair. "Hmm...? What does?"

"This," Leo murmured. His fingers twitched, curling tighter around Sangwon's shirt.
"Waking up... together. Like last night wasn't just some dream."

Sangwon exhaled, his chest aching with tenderness. "It wasn't a dream. It was messy, and it hurt, but it was real. And I'm still here."

Leo shifted faintly, his cheek brushing against Sangwon's chest. "...I honestly thought I'd wake up, and you'd be gone. That maybe I'd scared you away."

A soft smile touched Sangwon's lips. He leaned down, pressing a light kiss onto Leo's temple. "It'll take more than that to scare me away."

Leo let out a shaky breath, one that trembled on the edge of laughter and sob. His voice muffled as he spoke,
"... Any normal person would've scrambled away with fear... or disgust."

"Well, I'm not one of those 'any normal person' you're referring to... am I?" Sangwon whispered, his tone firm but tender.
"I already chose. To stay. And I'll keep choosing the same. Every time."

Silence lingered after those words—no longer heavy, but hushed with thought. Leo's breathing slowed, finding its rhythm, and when he finally tipped his head back up toward Sagwon, his gaze shimmered—damp yet steadier, the storm within it softened to a quiet tide. He held that stare as though it were language enough, as though gratitude itself could pour through the meeting of their eyes.

There was a visible fatigue in Sangwon's eyes, a quiet weariness, but beneath it, a pulse of tenderness, a glimmer of comfort that reached for him. And in that soft radiance, Leo felt it—the safety, the certainty, the strength to rise against a world of jeers. For as long as those eyes held him, he could bear the weight of every shadow and still walk forward in the light.

The world outside was beginning to wake—faint city sounds bleeding through the thin walls: a car horn, the shuffle of feet on pavement, the clatter of a shop opening its shutters. Morning light spread slowly across the floor, climbing the edges of the bed until it touched their tangled bodies, gilding their exhaustion in quiet gold.

Eventually, Sangwon stirred. He brushed his hand gently along Leo's arm. "Come on. You need water. Something in your stomach."

Leo groaned faintly, face buried back into Sangwon's embrace, like a child refusing to rise. "... Don't wanna move."

Sangwon chuckled softly, the sound low and warm in his chest. "What, you want me to carry you to the kitchen?"

Leo snorted at the tease. More disbelief than feeling flustered.
"As if you could."

A faint, almost imperceptible smile followed from him—small, but real.

"Let me help you up."

With slow, deliberate care, Sangwon helped him rise. Their bodies parted reluctantly, like ivy loosening its grip on stone, unwilling to let go yet yielding to the pull of morning. Leo swayed as he sat upright, knuckle brushing against his tired eyes. "My head feels like it's being split in two," he muttered. Voice hoarse with the weight of last night.

"Well.. that's what you get from drowning yourself in soju and whiskey for days." Sangwon's words carried no edge, only a softened chiding—a remark sharp in truth, yet wrapped in gentleness.

Leo huffed a scoff, a ghost of defiance, but the silence that followed admitted defeat. He had no strength left for denial, and besides, Sangwon was right. He acknowledged it that much.

A steady hand pressed warm against his back, anchoring him as though to remind him he would not fall—not here, not now.

"Come on," Sangwon murmured.
"Let's get you some water. And maybe a painkiller after breakfast for your headache."

And Leo did not protest. He allowed himself to be guided, step by step, out of tangled sheets into the quiet of the kitchen, his weight leaning into Sangwon's shoulder as though gravity had doubled overnight—and Sangwon alone kept him from collapsing beneath it.

The kitchen was cluttered, bottles lined up on the counter like a shameful collection, the air still faintly sour with the memory of alcohol. Sangwon's chest tightened at the sight, but he said nothing. Not now. He guided Leo to sit at the table, then moved to fetch a glass. The sound of running water broke the quiet.

Leo sat slumped, head in his hands.

"I hate this. Me. Like this."

Sangwon set the glass down in front of him, crouched slightly to meet his eyes. "I know. But it won't always be like this. I can assure you that. I won't let it be like this. Not again."

Leo lifted his gaze, tired and doubtful. "How are you so sure?"

"Because I'll drag you out of it, every single time, even if it kills me," Sangwon said simply. His lips curved faintly, not joking but fierce.
"That's a promise, too."

Something flickered in Leo's expression then—something fragile, almost fearful, as though he wanted to believe but didn't dare. Still, he took the glass and sipped slowly. Each swallow seemed like an effort, but Sangwon stayed close, steady as an anchor.

After water came food. Sangwon rummaged through cupboards until he found instant porridge, quick and bland, but something. He moved with a quiet determination, as if each small act—filling a pot, stirring, serving—was another thread pulling Leo back into life.

When he placed the bowl in front of him, Leo stared at it for a long time, unmoving.

"Just try," Sangwon coaxed gently.

"A few bites. That's all."

Leo hesitated, then finally lifted the spoon. The first bite was slow, reluctant. But Sangwon watched, patient, offering no pressure beyond his steady presence. By the fourth spoonful, Leo's shoulders loosened slightly, as though the act itself was proof he was still tethered to the world.

Sangwon sat across from him, chin resting on his hand, watching with a soft intensity. Leo noticed, narrowing his eyes faintly.

"...You're staring."

Sangwon smiled, shrugging. "Just making sure that you're real."

Leo rolled his eyes weakly, but his lips twitched at the edges.

They ate in silence for a while—or rather, Leo ate, and Sangwon waited. The quiet wasn't heavy now; it was companionable, filled with the sound of clinking spoons, the distant hum of traffic.

When the bowl was nearly empty, Leo set the spoon down, exhaling slowly. "... Are you sure... About all of this?" he asked, voice low.

"Which part of all of this are you referring to?" Sangwon straightened his posture, attentive.

Leo's fingers traced aimless circles on the table. "About... about being with me. Even after all those messes..." His eyes lifted, locking onto Sangwon's.

"... you meant it?"

Sangwon's answer was quick, but steady. "Every word."

Leo swallowed, throat tight. "Even knowing I might... fall again? That I might not get better fast, or ever?"

"Especially then." Sangwon leaned forward, resting his hand over Leo's. "You're not just the good parts, Leo. You're everything. And I don't want just pieces of you. I want all of it."

Leo's lips parted, a shuddered breath escaping him. His eyes burned, and for a moment, he couldn't look away. "... You're insane."

"Probably," Sangwon said softly, a faint sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

"But I'm yours."

The silence that followed was thick with something unspeakable—raw, trembling, alive. Leo finally looked down, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. "Then... don't give up on me. Even if I give up on myself."

Sangwon squeezed his hand, firm and certain.

"Never."

And for the first time in weeks, maybe months, Leo believed him.

For a long time, they simply sat there, fingers tangled on the kitchen table, silence speaking louder than any apology or excuse. Outside, sunlight had climbed higher, slipping in through the blinds in fractured gold. The world was wide awake now—but in that kitchen, time moved more slowly, bending itself around their breaths, their fragile attempts at starting over.

When Leo finally pulled his hand back, it wasn't to retreat but to rub at his temple, wincing faintly. "My head's really killing me."

Sangwon's lips curved, half fond, half exasperated. "Hangovers tend to do that." He rose from his chair, moved behind Leo, and without asking, slid his fingers into his hair, massaging his temples gently.

Leo stiffened at first, unused to the tenderness, then melted beneath the careful pressure. His eyes fluttered shut. "...That actually helps."

"Of course it does. I've had practice. Yorch's the king of hangovers after dorm parties."

A faint huff of laughter escaped Leo—small, but precious. The sound tugged something in Sangwon's chest, a reminder of the Leo who used to laugh so easily, before the world caved in.

When the massage eased, Sangwon brushed his hands through Leo's messy hair, smoothing it down with a tenderness that made Leo's throat ache.

"Come on," he murmured. "Let's clean this place up. You'll feel better without all the bottles staring at you."

Leo grimaced, eyes shifting to the empty bottles scattered around the studio. "That's... a lot of bottles."

"Then it'll be faster if we do it together."

The words were simple, but they felt heavier than they should—together. Leo met Sangwon's eyes, and for a moment, something wordless passed between them. Then, slowly, he nodded.

They worked side by side, clearing counters and gathering bottles from all over the studio into trash bags that clinked with shame and finality. Sangwon handled most of it, tossing each empty with a sharp, unhesitating motion, while Leo managed the smaller tasks—wiping surfaces, folding discarded blankets, picking up pieces of glass still glittering faintly in the corners.

It wasn't efficient, not really. They bumped into each other more than once, Sangwon steadying Leo when he swayed, Leo muttering faint curses under his breath as his head throbbed. But Sangwon's quiet hum—tuneless, but soothing—filled the air, and Leo found himself almost comforted by the rhythm of it.

At one point, Leo caught Sangwon trying to balance two bulging trash bags at once, his thin frame wobbling under the weight. "You're going to break your arms," Leo muttered, reaching to grab one.

Sangwon shot him a faint grin. "What, worried about me now?"

Leo rolled his eyes but took the bag anyway. "If you pass out, who's going to make me porridge next time?"

The banter was weak, but it was there - fragile threads weaving their way back into the fabric of what once was. When the last bag was tied, Sangwon leaned against the counter, wiping sweat from his brow. "See? Already feels lighter in here."

Leo scanned the now-cleared studio, the emptiness almost startling. "It feels... less suffocating." His voice was quiet, as if admitting it might shatter the fragile air.

Sangwon stepped closer, brushing his hand briefly over Leo's back. "That's the point. We make space—for air, for light. For you."

Leo's throat tightened. He looked away, pretending to fuss with a rag. "...I don't deserve this."

"You don't get to decide what you deserve anymore," Sangwon said, not unkindly.

"Not when I'm here to remind you."

When the trash was finally out, they collapsed onto the couch, both drained but calmer. The air smelled cleaner now, faintly of detergent, not alcohol. For a moment, they simply sat in the quiet, shoulders brushing, breaths syncing.

It was Leo who broke the silence. "...About last night. About what you said."

Sangwon stilled, his heart stumbling. "Mm?"

Leo's fingers twisted together in his lap. "I don't... know how to take it. You saying you love me. And if you truly meant it."

"I meant it." Sangwon's voice was firm, almost immediate.

Leo's lips parted, but Sangwon reached out, tilting his chin so their eyes met. "I meant it then, I mean it now, and I'll keep meaning it tomorrow. You don't have to say it back—not until you're ready. But don't doubt that it's real."

Leo's chest constricted, his vision blurring faintly. "...It scares me. That you'd tie yourself to someone this broken." Sangwon's thumb brushed over his jaw, soft. "Then let me be scared with you. Let me stand inside the storm instead of watching you drown in it."

Something broke in Leo then, quiet and small, but instead of crumbling, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Sangwon's shoulder. "...I don't want to lose you."

"You won't." Sangwon's arms slid around him, pulling him close. "But we need rules. Boundaries. Or else we'll both burn out."

Leo blinked up at him. "Rules?"

"Yeah." Sangwon's lips curved faintly, though his eyes were serious. "Like... no phones after midnight. I'm tired of seeing you kill yourself scrolling at 3 a.m."

Leo wanted to open his mouth to argue, but Sangwon's pointed look made him sigh. "...Fine. But only if you promise to actually sleep here some nights instead of staying at the dorm."

"That's already the plan," Sangwon murmured. "I'll manage. You're more important."

Leo frowned faintly. "You'll get tired."

"Then I'll rest here," Sangwon said simply. "With you."

The silence stretched, then softened.

"Okay," Leo whispered.

Other rules followed, each born from their fears, their needs:
— Go outside together at least a few times a week, even if just for coffee.
— No more keeping secrets—though Sangwon hesitated, admitting quietly that he still felt like he needed to be the stronger one.
— Always say when things are not okay, even if it feels shameful.

Each rule was spoken like a vow, sealed with a quiet nod, a brush of hands, a promise pressed into the air between them.

By the time the sun had reached its peak, spilling warm light across the floor, the studio felt different. Not healed, not whole—but gentler. Less like a tomb, more like a place where something new could begin.

They ended the morning not with more words, but with the simplest act of all. Sangwon lies back on the couch with Leo curling into his side, their breaths syncing in a fragile rhythm.

Outside, the world spun on, indifferent. But inside, for the first time in a long time, the storm had quieted.

And in the silence, there was something that felt dangerously close to hope.

Healing didn't begin with fireworks. It didn't roar or make grand promises. It came like dawn breaking through thick curtains—quiet, hesitant, almost unnoticeable at first.

For Leo, the first step was food. Something so ordinary, so human, yet for months it had become his battlefield. Every meal felt like swallowing stones. He had grown used to pushing plates away, to saying later when he meant never.

But Sangwon noticed. Sangwon always noticed.

The very next day after their night of collapse and the morning of confession, Sangwon emerged from the tiny kitchen in Leo's apartment with a bowl of handmade porridge, not instant one this time. The steam curls into the air like a gentle offering. He set it down on the table with exaggerated ceremony, as though presenting a gourmet feast.

"Behold," Sangwon said, his voice mock-grave. "The cure to all wounds: rice porridge made with the skill of a master chef."

Leo raised an eyebrow, slouched on the couch. "Master chef? You boiled rice and water."

"Ah," Sangwon countered, pointing at him with the spoon, "but I boiled it with love. That's the secret ingredient."

Leo snorted, trying to suppress a smile. "Love tastes bland."

"Only because you haven't tried mine yet." Sangwon dragged the chair closer and scooped up a spoonful. He blew on it dramatically, making a show of cooling it down. Then he held it out. "Open up."

Leo gave him a flat look. "I'm not a child."

"Then prove it by eating on your own," Sangwon shot back without missing a beat.

For a moment, Leo stared at the spoon as though it were a weapon. The steam carried the faint smell of sesame oil, warm and homely. His chest tightened. He wanted to refuse — to turn his face away, to say he wasn't hungry. That was easier. Safer.

But then he saw the hope shining stubbornly in Sangwon's eyes, soft and relentless like waves eroding stone. Something inside him cracked. With a sigh, he leaned forward, lips parting just enough for the spoon to slip in.

It was warm, unremarkable, and yet when he swallowed, his throat burned with something more than just heat. It felt like swallowing a promise.

"There you go," Sangwon said gently, a smile tugging at his lips. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

Leo rolled his eyes, but his voice came quieter, softer. "It's edible."

"That's the highest compliment I've ever received," Sangwon teased, eyes crinkling. "I'll add it to my résumé: edible cook, professional caretaker, Leo's number one fan."

Despite himself, Leo chuckled—a sound he hadn't made in what felt like forever.

It didn't all happen at once. Some mornings were easier than others. Some days Leo managed a few bites without much resistance; other days he stared at the bowl until the food went cold, guilt gnawing at him as Sangwon patiently reheated it.

There were victories, though, small but glittering. Like the time Sangwon cut up fruit into ridiculous shapes—stars, hearts, even an uneven dinosaur—and plopped them onto a plate.

"What is that supposed to be?" Leo asked, biting back laughter.

"A brontosaurus," Sangwon declared proudly. "Don't insult him, he's sensitive."

"That's not a dinosaur, that's roadkill."

"Well," Sangwon grinned, holding up the piece with chopsticks, "Roadkill tastes like vitamin C. Open up."

Leo laughed so hard he nearly choked on the pineapple slice. And when the laughter died down, he realised something—his chest didn't feel as heavy. Not in that moment.

Sangwon knew progress wasn't measured in empty plates but in the colour returning to Leo's face, in the way his voice stopped rasping as much, in the spark of sarcasm that peeked out when Leo teased him back.

And Leo, though he would never admit it aloud yet, felt something stir too. Eating wasn't just about food anymore. It was about Sangwon sitting across from him, exaggerating every bite of his own meal, puffing out his cheeks like a chipmunk until Leo threatened to take a photo.

It was about not being alone at the table.

It was about letting warmth back in, one spoonful at a time.

If food were a battle, alcohol was a haunting.

Even when he didn't touch it, Leo felt the absence in his bones. His hands trembled sometimes, as if they still reached for bottles no longer there. Restless nights left him pacing the apartment, sweat beading his temples, mind buzzing with cravings.

Nights were the worst.

When the city dulled into quiet, when the neon lights outside flickered and faded, the craving came alive. It gnawed at him like a phantom limb, urging him to pour fire down his throat to numb the voices in his head. He could feel the burn even without the drink—a memory etched so deeply into his nerves that his hands sometimes shook as if holding a bottle that wasn't there.

'Just one sip,' the ghost whispered, oily and sweet. 'Just one to calm it all down.'

Leo knew the lie, but knowing never made it easier. He paced the living room, restless, fingers raking through his hair until his scalp hurt, sweat slicking his palms. His chest tightened as if invisible strings were pulling him back to the liquor cabinet that no longer existed.

And always, Sangwon was there.

He learned the rhythm of Leo's unease. The way his steps quickened just before the cravings hit, the hollow look in his eyes, the tremor in his jaw. Some nights, he would silently rise from the couch, fall into step beside him as they circled the room like two ghosts haunting the same space. No words, only presence—a shadow steadying a shadow.

Other nights, Sangwon would intercept the spiral. He'd grab Leo's wrists gently but firmly, anchoring him. His voice, low and unshaken, cut through the storm:

"Look at me. I'm here."

Leo's gaze always fought at first, slipping away, but eventually his eyes locked onto Sangwon's —and there he found something the alcohol never gave him: unwavering steadiness, quiet defiance against the pull of the ghost.

There were nights when the battle tore Leo apart, when his body shook so hard he collapsed against the couch, nails digging into the fabric as if tearing through it would release the urge. And Sangwon would lower himself onto the floor beside him, wrapping a blanket over his shoulders like armour, murmuring again and again, "You're not weak. You're fighting. That makes you strong."

Sometimes Leo wept into that blanket, not even sure if it was from craving or shame. His tears stained Sangwon's shirt, but the younger boy never flinched. He simply held him tighter, as if he could shield him from the ghost with nothing but his arms.

There were close calls, too. Nights when Leo's hand hovered over his phone, ready to call someone—anyone—who could deliver him the poison he craved. His fingers trembled, hovering on the number, when Sangwon suddenly appeared at the doorway. Breathless, sweaty from running straight after practice, chest heaving.

"Don't," Sangwon said, voice ragged but firm.

"Don't let it win."

The phone slipped from Leo's hand, clattering onto the floor, and he collapsed into Sangwon's arms as if his bones had given way. The ghost howled, but for that night, it did not win.

Each week, the desire's grip loosened—not gone, but quieter. The tremors in his hands grew softer. The nightmares, though still sharp, came less often. He still woke drenched in sweat sometimes, throat burning with the imagined taste of liquor, but when he reached out, Sangwon was always there. A steady weight on the other side of the bed, a warmth that reminded him that there were other kinds of fire that didn't destroy him.

And slowly, painfully, Leo realised: the alcohol had never been his anchor. It had only been an anchor made of stone, pulling him deeper into the sea. But Sangwon—Sangwon was a lighthouse, stubborn and unyielding, even when the waves crashed hardest.

The ghost of desire still lingered, yes. It whispered, it waited. But for the first time, Leo believed he could live with it—not by pretending it didn't exist, but by letting someone else stand between him and its pull.

And every time Sangwon whispered, "You're stronger than you know," the desire receded just a little further, its shadow dimming against the steady flame of presence.

At first, silence filled their days. Leo had forgotten how to talk about himself, how to peel open the layers of thought without choking. His head was heavy with things unsaid, but his mouth refused to let them free.

Sangwon didn't force it. He spoke lightly, filling the air with fragments of his day—how practice went, which member tripped on their own feet, what song was stuck in his head. And sometimes, he read ridiculous tweets aloud, laughter bubbling through his words like spring water, until—almost by accident—Leo found himself smiling, or letting a quiet chuckle slip through, like a crack in the armour.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the door that Leo had bolted shut began to shift. A creak here, a sliver of light there.

It started with the smallest of confessions, ones so delicate they almost felt harmless: how the damp smell of rain reminded him of that holiday they once spent in Busan, the sea air tangled in their hair. How he used to loathe the piano as a child, forced to sit upright on the stool when all he wanted was to be outside running wild. How the echoes of old dreams sometimes still wandered into his sleep—the vivid image of a stage, a crowd, a moment of being alive beneath the lights.

Then, with time, heavier truths began to slip through the cracks, truths that weighed far more than their syllables should allow. He spoke of guilt that clung to his bones, of the unbearable shame of being the first domino to fall and watching the rest topple after him. Of the paralysing fear that, without the crowd, without the applause, he was little more than nothing.

Each word dropped like a stone. But Sangwon caught every single one, never letting them crash to the ground. He didn't always reply—sometimes words felt too small, too brittle for the weight they were meant to carry. Instead, he answered with presence: the firm squeeze of Leo's trembling hand, the steady press of his forehead against Leo's, a whisper that brushed the air between them, fragile but certain. 

I hear you. I'm not leaving.

And somehow, that was enough. More than enough. It was an anchor when Leo felt himself adrift, a warmth against the cold that had taken root in his chest. It was proof, quiet but undeniable, that even shattered things could still be held.

Not every day they shared was dark. 

Some days, when his schedule was empty, Sangwon insisted on sunlight.

"Up. We're leaving."

Leo groaned, burrowing deeper into the sheets. "I don't want—"

"I'm not asking."

And before Leo could string together a proper protest, Sangwon had already tugged a hoodie over his head, practically wrestling him into it, laughter bubbling at Leo's half-hearted complaints. The next thing he knew, he was being herded out the door, his hair still messy, his grumbling drowned out by Sangwon's smug grin.

They made their way to quiet cafés tucked in side streets, the kind where the air was heavy with the scent of roasted beans and soft music trickled through dusty speakers. They always sat side by side, never across—knees brushing, shoulders pressed, sharing a silence that was anything but empty. Sometimes Leo would scowl at the bitter edge of his coffee, only for Sangwon to slide his cup across the table and say, "Try mine," with a smirk, as though he hadn't ordered it sweet on purpose.

At the Han River, they leaned against the railing, tossing breadcrumbs at pigeons and arguing about which bird looked fastest, making ridiculous bets that never mattered.
"That one's clearly a champion," Leo declared.
"That one looks like it's wheezing," Sangwon shot back.
Still, they cheered as though it were an Olympic race, their laughter spilling into the open air.

Bookstores became their sanctuaries, labyrinths of words where Sangwon would pluck the heaviest, most tragic novels from the shelves, clear his throat dramatically, and then read the bleakest lines in the flattest, most monotone voice imaginable. It never failed—Leo would burst into laughter, shoulders shaking until a stern librarian raised an eyebrow at them. He'd stifle his giggles into his sleeve, cheeks flushed, and Sangwon would only grin wider, proud of every stolen laugh.

One golden afternoon, they stumbled upon a Sanrio-themed claw machine, lights blinking like a carnival. Sangwon tapped the glass, pointing at a stuffed Badtz-Maru.
"That one looks like you."

Leo squinted at the plush, unimpressed. "That thing looks like it hasn't slept in three years."

"Exactly."

Leo rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward. When Sangwon actually won the toy after three tries, he shoved it triumphantly into Leo's arms. "Here. Now you can carry yourself around."

Their laughter rang so loud that passersby turned their heads, some smiling, some bemused. Embarrassed, Leo tugged his cap lower, trying to hide the pink dusting his cheeks. But the smile refused to leave his lips, and Sangwon caught it—etched it into memory, the kind of smile he could replay for days.

These small outings became lifelines.
Little pockets of light stitched into their routine, moments where the noise of the world fell away and left only them—bickering, laughing, breathing easier. Each time they returned home, they carried something back with them: a feather of lightness, an unspoken promise, as though even the air had learned how to be gentle.

One evening, Sangwon had just slipped his shoes off by the door, exhaustion weighing down his shoulders from another long practice. He expected to find Leo sprawled on the couch as usual, phone in hand, eyes shadowed by the blue light of the screen. But instead, the air was filled with sound. Hesitant, uneven, yet undeniably musical.

Leo sat at the piano, head bowed, fingers hovering like he was afraid the keys might bite him. The notes he coaxed out were fragile, stuttering — the kind of melody that sounded half-forgotten, like something dug up from a buried part of his soul.

Sangwon froze, watching. For a moment, he didn't want to move, afraid even the scrape of his foot on the floor would break the spell.

"You're playing," he whispered finally, the words slipping out softer than breath.

Leo startled slightly, hands halting mid-air. His eyes darted up, guilty, as though Sangwon had caught him doing something forbidden.
"It's nothing," he murmured, fingers retreating to his lap. "Just... noise."

Sangwon shook his head, stepping closer, his voice firmer. "It's everything."

He sat down on the bench beside Leo, their thighs brushing. The melody had stopped, but the weight of it still lingered in the air. Leo stared at the keys, biting his lip.
"It doesn't sound right anymore," he admitted, voice trembling. "Like I lost whatever I had before."

Sangwon tilted his head, studying him. Then, with exaggerated seriousness, he jabbed at a random key, producing a sharp, ugly clang.
"Better than that," he grinned.

A laugh startled out of Leo before he could stop it—short, sharp, but real. He swatted Sangwon's hand away. "You're ruining it."

"Ruining what? You said it was nothing."

"It's still better than that," Leo shot back, but his lips curved despite himself.

Encouraged, Sangwon leaned in closer, whispering conspiratorially. "Then play something. Show me. Unless..." His eyes narrowed with mock suspicion. "...you've forgotten how."

Leo gasped, feigning offence. "I'll remind you who taught who back then." And before he could talk himself out of it, his fingers pressed down, producing a tentative chord. One chord became two. Two became a phrase. Slowly, shakily, the melody found its legs. Not a song yet, just a fragment, but enough to stir the air with life again. Sangwon listened, rapt. His usual fidgeting stilled, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm. When Leo faltered, he hummed the last note softly, coaxing him forward, filling in the cracks.

Leo's eyes flicked sideways. "You're off-key."

"I'm vibing," Sangwon replied without missing a beat. "There's a difference."

Leo's laugh this time was louder, spilling from his chest before he could swallow it back. He ducked his head, shaking it. "You're impossible."

"And you're playing again," Sangwon countered, triumphant.

The truth settled in then, heavier than either of them expected. Leo stared at his hands, his voice softer. 

"I thought... I thought I wouldn't touch this again. Every time I tried, all I could hear was—" He broke off, jaw tightening.

"Not anymore," Sangwon interrupted gently, covering Leo's trembling hand with his own. "Now it's just us. No one else here. Just you. Just me. Just the music."

Something in Leo cracked open at those words. For the first time in months, the keys no longer felt like knives under his fingers. They felt like home.

So he played again. Messy, uneven, but alive.

Sangwon leaned back, eyes closed, letting the sound wash over him. The melody wasn't polished, but it was raw, honest—a fragile kind of beauty, like a bird learning to fly again after being caged too long.

When Leo finally stopped, Sangwon clapped dramatically. "Encore!"

"Shut up," Leo muttered, though his cheeks flushed pink.

"Fine," Sangwon leaned forward, pressing his temple against Leo's shoulder. "But I'm serious. Don't stop. Even if it's just noise. Even if it's messy. Play. For me. For you."

Leo swallowed, throat tight. "...You'll get tired of listening."

"Never," Sangwon said, so certain it made Leo's chest ache.

And so the nights began to change. The piano no longer sat in silence. Some evenings, Leo would play aimlessly while Sangwon sprawled on the couch, pretending to sleep but always listening. Other nights, Sangwon would join in, tapping random keys just to annoy him, until Leo shoved him away with a smile that reached his eyes.

Music had returned. Not perfect, not polished — but alive.

And with it, Leo returned, too, piece by piece.

But the shadows did not vanish overnight. Healing was not a straight line—it was a winding road, tangled with cracks and sudden descents. Some nights, Leo's walls crumbled under the weight of everything left unsaid, undone, and unforgiven.

There were evenings when Sangwon would find him hunched over his phone, eyes burning red, the light from the screen harsh against his face as he scrolled through venom disguised as words. No matter how many times he swore he would stop, curiosity and hurt clawed their way back in.

"They hate me," Leo would whisper, voice cracking, as if confessing a sin. His hands would shake, not from alcohol anymore, but from the avalanche of memories and self-doubt.

On those nights, Sangwon never scolded. He would simply take the phone from Leo's trembling fingers, set it aside, and sink down beside him. Sometimes he held Leo close, forehead pressed against his temple as if his warmth alone could push the shadows back. Sometimes he spoke, reminding him in patient tones that his worth was not measured by faceless words on a glowing screen. Other times, he just sat in silence, holding his hand until the tremors faded.

But not every night was heavy.

There were nights when laughter filled the room like sunlight spilling through cracks in an old house. Sangwon would stay after practice, carrying takeout bags of Leo's favourite foods, insisting he eat even when Leo mumbled half-hearted refusals. They'd share fried chicken over the coffee table, crumbs gathering between them, Sangwon grinning as he teased Leo for being picky about the sauce.

"Hyung, you can't call yourself an artist and then reject half the flavours of life," Sangwon would say, mock-serious.

"And you can't call yourself a friend if you keep eating my fries," Leo would retort, snatching back the carton, though the curve of his lips betrayed the warmth under the words.

Sometimes, Sangwon would drag Leo out of the apartment for late-night walks, the city lights reflecting off puddles like fallen stars. They wandered down empty streets, breathing in the cool night air. Whenever they visit the convenience stores, Sangwon would pile random snacks into a basket—ramyeon, ice cream, chips—declaring it their "healing menu." Leo would shake his head, pretending to protest, but always paid at the counter with a soft sigh, his eyes gentler than his words.

And sometimes, instead of wandering the city, they stayed in. On one such evening, Sangwon appeared at the door with a mischievous smile and a stack of DVDs he had borrowed from who-knows-where.

"Movie night," he announced, holding them aloft like trophies.

Leo arched a brow. "You know we could just stream them, right?"

"Not the point," Sangwon replied, already kicking off his shoes. 

"This is about the experience."

So they curled up on the couch, lights dimmed, the faint glow of the television flickering across their faces. A blanket ended up draped over both of them, more out of Sangwon's insistence than Leo's. "You're always cold," he said, tugging it higher over Leo's shoulders before leaning in, shoulder pressed deliberately against his.

The first film was some ridiculous romantic comedy, the kind with improbable coincidences and too-perfect endings. Sangwon laughed far too loudly at the cheesy lines, nudging Leo whenever the lead said something embarrassingly sentimental.

"See? That's literally you," he teased when the main character recited an over-the-top confession.

Leo shot him a withering look, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the smallest twitch upward. "If that's me, then you're the one dumb enough to fall for it."

"Who says I haven't already?" Sangwon countered, his voice quieter this time, playful but edged with something real.

Leo froze, the line of his jaw tightening before he scoffed and turned back to the screen. But Sangwon caught the faintest blush rising at the tips of his ears and filed it away triumphantly.

By the second film, Leo had grown too drowsy to maintain his usual sharpness. His head tilted against Sangwon's shoulder, the weight of him steady and warm. Sangwon didn't dare move, not even when his arm began to ache from holding still. Instead, he let the rhythm of Leo's breathing anchor him, the softness of the moment filling all the cracks the shadows had left behind.

And Leo, though he would never admit it out loud, slept more peacefully that night than he had in weeks.

Each night bloomed with new colours, brushed softly by the warmth and solace they found in each other's presence.

And there were late-night dates too, though neither of them dared to name them as such. They'd find themselves in quiet cafes open past midnight, sharing a slice of cake neither really wanted but ordered for the excuse to linger. Or sitting by the river, legs dangling over the edge, Sangwon pointing out constellations he probably made up while Leo pretended not to be amused.

"You're lying," Leo would say when Sangwon claimed a cluster of random stars was the "Phoenix of Healing."

"Prove me wrong," Sangwon would shoot back, lips quirking. And though Leo rolled his eyes, the way he leaned a little closer betrayed the comfort blooming in his chest.

Gradually, Sangwon became less of a visitor and more of a constant. His spare clothes started filling a drawer Leo had once kept empty. His toothbrush sat by Leo's sink, his shoes lined neatly at the door. At first, Sangwon excused it as convenience—"I come here so often, hyung, it's just easier this way." But with each passing week, the truth became undeniable: he was living there now, as much a part of the apartment as the piano in the corner or the coffee mugs in the cupboard.

The dorm saw less and less of him. He still showed up to practices, still joked with the members, but when night fell, his steps carried him back to Leo's. The others noticed, of course, but said little. Maybe they understood, maybe they chose to stay silent out of respect. All Sangwon knew was that when he lay on Leo's couch—or more often, in Leo's bed when the older man let him—he felt exactly where he was meant to be.

And so, the nights unfolded like pages of a book neither of them wanted to end. Some chapters were heavy, ink smudged with tears. Others were light, written in laughter, late-night walks, flirty movie nights, and the quiet rhythm of two hearts rediscovering trust.

Together, they were rewriting what it meant to stay, to heal, to choose each other even in the shadows.

Because no matter how dark the nights became, they always ended with the same truth: Sangwon was there.

And Leo, slowly, was learning that it was enough.

Chapter Text

Time had a cruel way of dimming lights without notice. The company, once buzzing with cameras and schedules and tightly knit rehearsals, began to thin in its attention. At first, it was subtle—less frequent practices, fewer staff buzzing around the practice room. The mirror-lined studio that once reverberated with laughter and exhaustion now echoed hollow with only their breaths, too few voices left to fill the void.

And so Sangwon stopped lingering there. He found himself drifting instead to Leo's studio, where the air still held purpose. What was once a place of refuge became his anchor. 

The dorm bed he once returned to nightly became nothing more than a stale mattress collecting dust; his real rest was now in Leo's dimly lit studio, where wires tangled like veins and unfinished songs waited like ghosts.

Over time, most of his treasured belongings slowly find their way into Leo's space. His books crept onto the shelves, his notebooks scattered on the desk. It was a gradual migration, so slow and unspoken that neither of them realised when it stopped being visiting and started being home.

Leo noticed, of course. He noticed the way Sangwon rarely went back to the dorm anymore, how his laughter was louder here, but his eyes seemed more tired. 

Concern pressed at him, guilt nesting in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to say 'you should rest there, with the others... you shouldn't stay here so much'. But every time he opened his mouth, Sangwon's smile silenced him.

"It's alright. I'd rather be here. With you," Sangwon said once, brushing it off as though it weighed nothing.

But it wasn't anything. In the quiet of his own thoughts, Sangwon admitted it. The company's neglect was like a knife turning slowly in his chest. To see the others slowly forgotten, to watch years of sweat and sacrifice erode under the indifference of people who once promised them the world—it made him feel hollow. Still, he told himself that it was fine. That he wouldn't break.

But he really wasn't alright at all.

And Leo noticed it. 

He saw how Sangwon was breaking even as he tried to hold Leo together. And the guilt always gnawed at him: You started this. You slipped, and now he's bearing the weight too.

So Leo gave what he could. Not grand gestures, not answers to the heaviness Sangwon carried—but the quiet comforts, the small steady things Sangwon had always gifted him first. Arms wrapping around the younger boy when words failed. A chin pressed gently to soft hair, grounding them both. A blanket tugged up over hunched shoulders when the night turned cold, tucked in as though warmth alone could shield him from the storm inside.

And then there was the banter—playful, ridiculous banter that slipped through the cracks like sunlight, carving small beams of light into the dark places they both fought to hide.

When Sangwon scribbled lyrics into his notebook, brow furrowed, Leo would lean in over his shoulder and whisper nonsense lines just to see the crease between his brows vanish.

"What if the chorus is about ramen? Think about it—ramen saves lives."

Sangwon snorted, pushing him away half-heartedly, though laughter trembled at his lips. "Where do you even get these corny ideas?"

"From you, obviously," Leo grinned, and it was worth every shove, every exasperated sigh, just to catch the smile Sangwon tried too hard to suppress.

Other nights, Leo would slip to the piano, the studio dim except for the glow of a single lamp. Sangwon would drift to him without a word, leaning against his shoulder as Leo's fingers pressed tentative chords. Humming rose between them—half-formed melodies, fragments of something real—and though nothing was finished, it didn't matter. The music became their language, a place where the weight lifted, where silence wasn't empty but alive with possibility.

Sometimes they'd both huddle close by the PC, knees brushing, shoulders touching, eyes fixed on the glowing screen. 

They layered beats together, chasing rhythms like fireflies they were terrified to lose. The thrill of creating—of shaping something that belonged only to them—made their exhaustion fade for a while. In those moments, they weren't just trying to survive. They were reaching, building, daring to believe in something brighter.

Maybe that was how they held on—not with promises too heavy to keep, but with these small, ordinary acts of closeness. A shared laugh. A melody hummed into the dark. The warmth of a blanket, the brush of a shoulder. All the little ways Leo told Sangwon, You're not alone. I'm here.

And often, the nights ended not in music but in warmth. Curled on the couch together under a blanket, Sangwon's head tucked under Leo's chin. Or tangled in Leo's bed, their breaths syncing in sleep. Sometimes, when exhaustion claimed them mid-production, they'd wake in the desk chair—Sangwon draped across Leo's lap, a blanket barely clinging to his shoulders, the glow of the computer flickering in front of them like a dying star.

It was domestic in a way neither of them spoke aloud. It felt like living in a secret world that no one else had the key to.

But storms never disappear just because you turn your back.

In December, the message came: a meeting, all remaining members present. The air was suffocating before a word was spoken. They gathered in silence, each boy carrying years of broken dreams on their shoulders. The words official decision sliced the room open.

One admitted defeat through trembling lips. Another masked it with bitterness, though his eyes betrayed him. Some tried to hold back tears, others didn't bother. They were boys who had once believed they'd be men on stage together. Now they were just fragments, scattered.

Sangwon sat through it all, his chest a tightening vice. By the end, his breath felt too heavy for his lungs. As soon as the meeting adjourned, he ran. He didn't go back to the dorm, didn't walk the streets—he ran straight to the only place that still felt like safety.

Leo's studio door swung open, and Sangwon nearly collapsed inside. His chest heaved, his throat raw with words he couldn't swallow.

"They..." His voice cracked, trembling. "It's over. They... have given up on us."

The world stopped. Leo felt it like a fist to the gut. He reached for Sangwon instinctively, pulling him into his warm embrace, steadying him as the younger boy's tears finally broke free.

"I'm sorry," Leo whispered, because what else could he say? 

"This is my fault..."

"No!" Sangwon's voice was sharp, desperate, muffled against Leo's chest. "Don't say that. It's not your fault. It's not..." His words dissolved into sobs, and all Leo could do was hold him tighter, as though he could shield him from the truth.

The next day, the news was official. Trainee A's project is officially cancelled. BigHit confirmed it. Yorch posted it to his personal Instagram, and the world digested their end like it was just another headline.

For Sangwon, it wasn't just news. It was the crumbling of everything he had bled for. Years of practice rooms, sleepless nights, dreams stitched into every lyric, every dance step—gone. Like it had never mattered. Like he had never mattered.

It hollowed him out. He felt helpless, like standing in the wreckage of a dream he had built with his own hands. And yet, even as he unravelled inside, he forced himself to be strong. For Leo. For them both. He couldn't fall now—not after everything.

But Leo saw it. He saw the cracks Sangwon tried to bury, the quiet agony in his eyes, the silence in his smile. Guilt drowned him, a tidal wave he couldn't swim out of. Every time he tried to voice it—this is because of me, you're hurting because of me—Sangwon silenced him with a firm shake of the head.

"No," Sangwon always said, voice soft but unwavering. "You slipped. But you stood back up. You're here. This isn't all on you. It's them. It's the company that abandoned us. It's the world that demanded perfection and refused humanity."

Leo wanted to believe him. But watching Sangwon crumble quietly, holding his pain in silence—he wasn't sure who was saving who anymore.

After the cancellation of their debut project, they were told to empty the dorm.

That day, boxes were stacked against the walls. Suitcases lined up by the door. The once-loud rooms—echoing with laughter, teasing, late-night rambling—had gone hollow. Even the air felt thinner, as though the place exhaled one last sigh with every object carried out of it.

Leo had stayed away, tucked in his studio, unable to face them again. But Sangwon had been there, helping, though his hands trembled each time he folded another shirt, or pulled down another poster, or stripped another bed of its sheets. Every drawer they opened was a memory unearthed, and every empty space left behind was an absence too loud to ignore.

The others moved quietly, as though sound itself was a crime.

Yorch was the first to break. He pressed his face into his sleeve, muffling a sob before dragging his suitcase to the door. James sat still for too long, clutching a notebook full of half-written lyrics, as if leaving meant those words would never belong anywhere again. Jihoon and Woochan tried to busy themselves with cleaning, with folding, with anything—but their hands faltered, their eyes glazed over.

It wasn't just moving out. It was erasure.

When the last of the bags was packed, they all gathered in the middle of the living room. No cameras. No staff. No words rehearsed. Just five boys standing in the ruins of a dream, staring at one another as if hoping someone would wake them from this nightmare.

Sangwon looked at them—his brothers, his family. He saw the grief in their eyes, the shame none of them should have carried, the loss too heavy for their shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Leo's voice cracked in his memory, though Leo wasn't even there. I'm sorry for dragging you down with me.

It was Sangwon who spoke first, his throat raw.
"We did our best. That's all anyone could have asked of us."

No one replied at first. Words felt useless. But then Woochan stepped forward, pulling Sangwon into a tight hug, holding him like he was holding the whole group together one last time. The others followed—arms wrapping around, shoulders pressed close, silent sobs breaking against each other's shirts.

For a moment, they were whole again. For a moment, they were boys with a dream, not casualties of an industry too cruel.

But moments end. Hugs loosen. One by one, they pulled away, each walking out the door with luggage rolling behind them.

The last sound Sangwon heard in that dorm was the soft click of the door shutting. After that, nothing but silence.

When he returned to Leo's studio later that evening, his chest ached with a loneliness he couldn't name.

Leo was there, seated at the piano, unmoving, as though he had been waiting for Sangwon to come back. His fingers hovered over the keys but never pressed down, as though music itself had abandoned him.

Their eyes met. He didn't speak of the dorm, of the farewell, of the fact that four shadows were now gone from his life. 

Leo simply said, in a voice softer than silence. 

"Stay here. With me."

And Sangwon nodded, almost too quickly. Because most of his life was already there anyway—the toothbrush, the notebooks, the shoes by the door, the clothes in the closet. It took only one trip with the last of his belongings for Leo's studio to become his new home, his new refuge, the place where they lived like two shadows holding onto each other.

It wasn't strange. If anything, it was natural. 

Two broken pieces, finding that their jagged edges fit together.

But as time passed, Sangwon began to drift.

At first, it was small things. A longer silence before answering. A smile that looked painted on. His eyes wandered to nowhere while his pen hovered uselessly above his lyrics.

Sometimes he would linger too long in the shower. The water ran hot, steam curling into the air while he pressed his forehead against the tiles, trying to hold himself together. Sometimes he broke apart, silently, fists pressed against his mouth so the sobs wouldn't carry. And afterwards, he would step out with damp hair and a forced grin, as if the water had washed everything away.

He told himself to be strong—for Leo, for them both. But strength, when forced, only deepened the cracks.

And Leo noticed. Of course he did. He watched Sangwon fade, smiles that never reached his eyes, silences that stretched too long, too fragile. He didn't pry, didn't push—but he was there. Quiet arms, steady warmth, wordless shelter offered again and again.

It felt like trying to stitch wounds with trembling hands. They tried to mend each other, but sometimes two broken souls can't make a whole one.

Yet slowly, almost helplessly, they became each other's lifelines.

Clingy, dependent, woven into one another until they forgot where one ended and the other began. They picked up each other's habits like borrowed skin. When one reached for a glass, the other's hand moved too. When one sighed, the other answered with a hum, like an echo that refused to let silence stand alone.

Leo had never bitten his nails before Sangwon. But after watching him gnaw at his fingers—anxious, faraway—he found his own thumb raw and sore, as if he could shoulder the habit for him. Sangwon, who once drowned everything in silence, now muttered fragments under his breath, words spilling like Leo's did when fear pressed too hard on his chest.

It was as though their pain became contagious—sorrows mirrored and magnified, but softened too, because neither had to suffer alone.

They absorbed each other until they blurred. Leo began leaving half-drunk mugs everywhere, coffee cooling beside forgotten books—Sangwon's small chaos made his own. He, who used to collapse anywhere, now refused to sleep until he heard Sangwon's toothbrush click against the sink, the light going dark in the bathroom, the quiet promise of I'm here.

Their gestures became a secret language. When Leo cracked his knuckles, Sangwon's fingers twitched like an answer. When Sangwon rubbed the back of his neck, Leo's hand rose to do the same. A strange choreography born out of exhaustion, out of need: I feel you. I follow. Don't vanish.

And when sadness pressed heavy against their ribs, they didn't ask for words. They simply stayed. Shoulder to shoulder. Heart to heart. Tangled into each other until their breaths fell into sync, two storms trying to find a rhythm that wouldn't tear them apart. Presence became a prayer, a fragile belief that maybe, just maybe, this closeness could hold back the breaking.

But inside Sangwon, the storm only grew louder.

He didn't speak of it. He told himself it was his burden alone. He couldn't hand Leo more weight, not when Leo already staggered beneath his own shadows. Don't add more. Don't let him see how badly you're unravelling.

So he swallowed it. Again and again. 

Until even silence tasted bitter.

But storms never stay silent forever.

That night, it was 3 a.m. when Leo stirred awake. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the city bleeding through the curtains. Beside him, the bed shook softly.

Sangwon was curled in on himself, muffling sobs against the pillow. His shoulders trembled with every breath, the sound so small it might have gone unnoticed—if Leo hadn't grown so attuned to him that even silence could wake him now.

Without hesitation, Leo pulled him close, wrapping him like a shield. His hand stroked through Sangwon's hair, his lips pressed gently against his temple.

"Hey," he whispered, voice rough with sleep and worry. "You're okay. I've got you."

Sangwon only shook his head, choked sobs breaking through. He didn't say what hurt. He didn't need to. Leo already knew—it was everything. The loss. The disbandment. The dream that had turned to ashes.

Sometimes, the nights were worse. Nightmares dragged Sangwon under, leaving him whimpering, sometimes sobbing in his sleep without even realising. 

Leo grew restless in those hours, hyperaware of every twitch, every sharp breath, every shift that might signal distress. He often woke just to watch, hand resting against Sangwon's back to anchor him, whispering quiet words he might never remember come morning.

And when the day came, Sangwon pretended. He smiled, joked, forced a brightness that didn't belong. "I'm just tired," he said whenever Leo asked. "Just mentally exhausted, that's all."

Leo never believed it, but he let it slide—because pushing too hard might break him.

But one night, it went too far.

Sangwon woke from a nightmare, gasping, drenched in sweat. His skin burned to the touch, fever radiating like fire beneath his fragile frame. His lips trembled, his breath shallow, as though his body had finally given out under the weight of everything he had carried alone.

Leo's heart sank.

He pressed a hand to Sangwon's forehead, panic rising at the heat. Without hesitation, he fetched a damp cloth, medicine, water—moving quickly, urgently, his hands shaking as if Sangwon might slip away if he faltered for even a second.

"Shh," he whispered, coaxing him to drink. "I'm here. Just rest, you don't have to hold it in anymore."

Sangwon's eyes fluttered open, glassy, tears spilling before he could stop them. He wanted to say something—to apologise, to explain, to insist he was fine—but his throat closed around the words.

And Leo simply held him. All night. Cradling him as though his arms alone could hold Sangwon together, as though warmth could mend the fractures that words could not.

In the quiet of that fevered night, both of them realised the same thing:
They were each other's only shelter now.
But even shelters crumble under storms too long ignored.

The day after, the sky broke open. Rain fell like threads unravelling the heavens, soft at first, then steady, a curtain of grey draped over the city. The studio windows blurred with droplets that traced downward like weary tears.

Sangwon stirred awake with the weight of fever still clinging to him, his limbs heavy as if the night had anchored chains to his bones. 

Leo was already there, fussing quietly, moving with a gentleness that felt almost sacred. He drew a bath first, filling the tub with warm water, steam curling in the small bathroom. He coaxed Sangwon in, steadying him when his knees trembled. Fingers combed tenderly through damp hair, washing away sweat and fever. The intimacy was quiet, unspoken — Leo moving with care as though Sangwon were made of glass that had already cracked too many times.

Afterwards, he bundled him in a towel, then into warm clothes, his hands lingering at Sangwon's shoulders as though making sure he wouldn't dissolve in front of him.

In the kitchen, Leo moved with an endearing sort of clumsiness, every motion careful, almost stubborn in its determination. He stirred the pot with more heart than skill, coaxing the plain porridge into something warm and comforting. It wasn't perfect—never as rich or delicate as the ones Sangwon had made for him countless times before—but it carried all the weight of his effort, his care.

When it was done, Leo set the bowl gently in front of him, sliding it across the table as if it were something fragile. His voice softened, almost pleading.
"Eat, yeah? Just a little. For me."

And Sangwon did, slowly, spoonful after spoonful, though the weight in his chest was heavier than the fever in his body. Leo watched every bite like it was proof of survival, sliding the medicine to him with water when the bowl was finally empty.

The rain outside kept falling, steady as a heartbeat.

After breakfast, Leo guided him gently to the couch, as though Sangwon's bones might crumble at a touch. He eased him into the cushions, drew a blanket around him like armour against a world too cold, too heavy. When Leo sat beside him, their shoulders touched, and that faint pressure was the only anchor keeping the moment from floating apart.

Outside, the rain softened to a muted pulse, a thousand quiet heartbeats against the glass. The silence it left behind pressed into the room like fog, thick and unyielding.

Sangwon leaned into him, his head slipping to Leo's shoulder, as if gravity had chosen for him. Heat radiated from his fever-bright skin, his breath stuttering in uneven patterns, as though even breathing had become a negotiation. Leo's hand slipped into his hair and stayed there, brushing soft strokes — like the turning of prayer beads, like a promise spoken without sound. I'm here. I won't let go.

Minutes blurred into each other until silence stretched too long and began to ache.

Leo's mind circled itself raw. 

Is this how he felt when I was drowning? 

He remembered the nights Sangwon had held him through sleepless spirals, the way his arms had been a lifeline when he himself had felt lost at sea. And now, watching Sangwon collapse inward, Leo felt that same helplessness sink claws into his chest.

His hand stilled. His voice, when it came, was a quiver of glass.

"You're scaring me."

Sangwon's eyes fluttered open, hazy, as though he'd surfaced from somewhere deep underwater. "Hm?"

"I—I can't just watch this," Leo whispered, words catching. "You're slipping further away every day, and I don't even know how to hold you steady."

Sangwon frowned faintly, the effort pulling at his fever-worn face. His voice was almost nothing. "It's... nothing. Just too many thoughts. I'll be fine."

Leo let out a sound that cracked halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Fine? You can't eat, you shake in your sleep, your body's fighting itself. That isn't fine."

Sangwon's lips parted. "Hyung, please..."

"Please what?" Leo's tone broke, soft but desperate. "Please let you wither in silence while I pretend not to see? Please let me stand here useless, as if I haven't noticed the way you're unravelling?" He swallowed hard. "I can't, Sangwon. I can't."

Sangwon's fingers clenched at the blanket like it might hold him together. His voice was fragile. "I'm—I'm just tired." But the words collapsed under their own hollowness, more ghost than truth.

Leo closed his eyes briefly, pressing a hand over his face. His voice shook when he lowered it. "Why... why won't you trust me with this? When I was breaking, you held me up without question. You never once let me go. Why can't you let me do the same? Didn't we promise? To be honest with each other? To not let the other drift alone?"

The silence after his plea throbbed. Sangwon's lips parted — but nothing came. His eyes filled with tears, his throat locking. Fever blurred the world into haze, and all the words he wanted to say tangled into knots he couldn't untie.

Because how could he tell Leo the truth? That his collapse wasn't only fever, but the emptiness left behind when Trainee A disbanded — when years of sweat and sacrifice crumbled overnight. That he had trained until his body bled, carried hope through sleepless nights, only to watch his dream shatter at the very moment it was within reach.

That every day since, he had felt hollowed, as though standing in the ruins of something sacred.

And worst of all — he couldn't say aloud the cruellest truth: the group had begun to fracture after Leo left. It wasn't Leo's fault — Sangwon knew that with every piece of him — but he couldn't let the guilt plant roots in Leo's chest, not after everything he'd already endured. Not after the hate, the breaking, the way Leo had clawed his way back into light.

So Sangwon swallowed it all. His grief. His rage. His loss. And instead, he whispered the only thing he could force out.

"I don't know what's happening to me. I wake up and the world feels... wrong. I touch things, I move through the day, but it's like everything is just smoke, slipping through my hands. Nothing feels real anymore."

His vision wavered, the room tilting. "Sometimes it feels like I'm already gone and I'm just... watching from the outside." His hands trembled as he clutched his arms. "I don't know how to fix it. I don't even know if there is a way."

Tears came hot and sudden, burning through the fever haze. He pressed his fists against his eyes, but his voice still shook. "I'm scared, Leo. I don't even understand what's wrong with me, and I'm terrified I'll never find my way back. It feels like I'm wandering aimlessly. Like I've lost my way."

Leo's chest cracked open at the confession. He reached for him instinctively, but Sangwon recoiled — not in anger, but as though even touch might scorch him. He curled tighter into himself, body shuddering, whispering hoarse, "Don't. Please... not right now."

Leo froze mid-motion, his hand suspended in the air before he let it fall. The rejection wasn't a wall of anger but a fragile plea, and it left him trembling, caught between the ache to hold him and the fear of breaking him further.

"I just want to be there for you... Like the way you were there for me," he whispered, voice thick with grief and defeat. "But every time I try, you close the door. And I... I don't know how to reach you anymore."

Sangwon let out a fragile laugh that splintered into sobs. "Neither do I," he admitted, his hands covering his face as though to hide from his own unravelling. His crying filled the room, uneven and fever-frayed, like someone gasping for air underwater.

"I don't know how to let you in either."

Leo stood frozen at those words, helpless, fists trembling at his sides. His heart was fracturing with every sound. He wanted to cross that fragile distance, but the air between them had turned heavy with fear and fever, a gulf he couldn't force himself across.

At last, his voice broke into a whisper with a faint hint of suffocation in between. 

"I can't... I—I need some air."

The words trembled out as if asking permission from the silence. He rose slowly, moving with the care of someone afraid a single wrong step might shatter everything. He pulled his jacket draped on the couch, hands unsteady, and slipped out the door.

The sound it made when it closed wasn't harsh, but it reverberated like the sealing of a wound that refused to heal.

The rain thickened again, tracing slow rivers down the window.

Sangwon sat motionless, staring at the door until his vision blurred with tears. The room felt distant, dissolving at its edges.

At last, he curled onto his side, clutching the blanket Leo had draped around him earlier. It still held the faint warmth of his touch, the trace of his scent — a fragile ghost of comfort — and it undid him completely.

He pressed his face into the fabric and wept until the fever swallowed the sound, until exhaustion dragged him into sleep. Not the gentle kind, but the drowning, dreamless kind that steals even the outline of light.

When Leo finally came back, the day was bleeding quietly into dusk. The rain had stopped, leaving streaks of silver light dripping down the windows. The air smelled faintly of wet concrete and cold tea — and regret.

The first thing he saw was Sangwon, still on the couch, small beneath the crumpled blanket. He now lies curled on the couch, his face half-hidden against the cushion, his lashes damp and clumped together, his breathing uneven. The fever had left him flushed, soft in a way that made Leo's heart twist painfully.

Finally, his knees gave before his pride did. He lowered himself to the floor in front of the couch, the movement slow, deliberate, like approaching something sacred. His voice came out as a breath more than a sound.

"Hey," he whispered. "I'm home."

Sangwon stirred at the sound, blinking himself back from whatever half-sleep he'd slipped into. His eyes were puffy, confused, glimmering in the dimness. "Leo...?" His voice cracked, a fragile thread. He shifted upright, the blanket sliding off his shoulders.

"Yeah," Leo murmured, reaching up instinctively to brush a strand of hair from Sangwon's forehead. "I came back."

"You left," Sangwon said softly — not an accusation, just a quiet truth that still trembled in the space between them.

"I know," Leo breathed, his own voice fraying. "I shouldn't have. I just—" He exhaled, the sound catching in his chest, shoulders trembling like they were carrying too much. "I was scared, too. I didn't know what to do, and I didn't want to say the wrong thing. So I ran. Like an idiot."

Sangwon blinked, eyes shining, pulling the blanket closer like it could shield him from the weight of his own words. "You weren't an idiot. I just..." His gaze slipped away, somewhere down at his knees. "I didn't mean to make you feel helpless. I wasn't trying to push you away. I just... I didn't know how to explain what's happening in my head without sounding pathetic."

Leo eased himself onto the couch beside him, the movement careful, like he might break something if he rushed. "You could never sound pathetic to me," he said, low and steady.

Sangwon gave a small, broken laugh, the sound catching in his throat. "You say that now. But I didn't want to become someone you had to take care of again. You just got better, Leo. You've finally been doing well, and I didn't want to drag you back into that kind of heaviness."

Leo stared at him, the words striking deeper than he'd prepared for. His hands curled against his knees, but his voice was soft, almost wounded. "You think I'd ever see you like that? Like you're some kind of burden?"

Sangwon hesitated, then whispered, "Didn't you?"

That cracked something open in Leo's chest. "No," he said, voice trembling. "God, no. Sangwon, you're—" He took a shaky breath. "You're the reason I learned how to breathe again. You're the reason I even wanted to get better. If you think I'd leave because you're struggling—" He broke off, hand tightening in the blanket. "That's what hurts. That you thought I would."

Sangwon turned toward him, eyes glassy. "Then why did you leave earlier?"

The question landed like a soft punch. Leo's throat closed up. "Because seeing you like that reminded me of... me. Of how bad I got. And it scared me. I didn't know how to be strong enough for both of us." His voice cracked. "And then I realised — I don't need to be strong. I just need to be here."

Sangwon's lips trembled, and before Leo could say another word, Sangwon leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Leo's shoulder. "You're an idiot," he whispered, voice muffled by fabric. "But you came back, so I forgive you."

Leo laughed, breath shaky with relief and defeat at the same time. 

"Yeah. I'm way too attached to leave you for too long anyway." 

He wrapped his arms around Sangwon, pulling him in until there was no space left between them. Sangwon melted against him like it was second nature — warm, pliant, still feverish. He'd always loved being pampered, though he'd never say it out loud. The way he nestled closer now, seeking the comfort of Leo's touch, said enough.

They stayed like that for a while — tangled up in quiet apologies and steady breaths. Eventually, Sangwon spoke again, voice small but steady.

"I should've told you earlier," Sangwon whispered. "About the anxiety, the nights I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking it would pass... but it didn't. And I just kept pretending."

Leo's arms tightened around him, steady and grounding. "You don't have to do that with me, you know," he murmured, voice low and certain.

"Not ever."

Sangwon swallowed, the weight of the words sinking deep. His fingers curled weakly into Leo's shirt as if to anchor himself. "...I'll try," he whispered, the confession trembling at the edges. 

Leo's chest ached, but he only pulled him closer, pressing his chin lightly against Sangwon's hair. The silence that followed was different this time—no longer heavy, but warm, like something fragile being mended.

Then, after a beat, Leo tilted his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "But next time, maybe give me a little warning before you collapse on me like last night," he said softly, teasing just enough to lighten the air. "I swear, I nearly had a heart attack."

Sangwon let out a low, breathy laugh. "Fine. I'll try to... schedule it ahead of time."

Leo huffed, half serious, half joking. "Good. I'll pencil it into my calendar."

Their laughter slipped out quietly, unhurried, the kind that lingered like the air after rain—soft, healing, familiar.

When it faded, the silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore. It was easy, like slipping back into a song they both already knew by heart. Leo's thumb brushed gently along Sangwon's cheek, his smile tugging crookedly, full of warmth he didn't need to put into words.

"When you're better," he murmured, "I'm taking you back with me. To Australia. To my home. I'll show you the lake where I used to skip rocks and lose every single one of them. And the diner that still plays the same terrible 80s playlist. You'll hate it."

Sangwon huffed a small laugh against him. "Then you'll come to mine. I'll drag you to the old bakery that still remembers my order — they make these red bean buns that taste like childhood. You'll love it."

"Love it?" Leo raised a brow. "Please. I'll be stuck there for hours while you get all misty-eyed over bread."

Sangwon swatted weakly at his chest. "Excuse you, I'm always emotional. It's part of my charm."

"Mm." Leo leaned closer to kiss his temple, smiling against his skin. "The dramatic whining is questionable, but yeah... definitely your best part."

By the time the clock crept past six, their stomachs both grumbled — breaking the peace with something hilariously human.

"You hungry?" Leo asked, grinning.

Sangwon nodded, yawning. His eyes are still glossy but lighter now. 

"Sleepy and starving."

They settled on ordering takeout — noodles and dumplings from their usual spot — then sank back onto the couch, a movie now humming quietly in the background. Something melancholy that Leo had clicked on without much thought, and by now, already regretted.

Halfway through, a soft sniffle slipped past the film's dialogue. Leo glanced sideways to find Sangwon now curled up beside him, knees drawn close, the blanket bunched beneath his chin. His eyes shimmered, glassy with unshed tears, and the tip of his nose was flushed pink — pitiful and endearing all at once.

"Are you seriously crying again?" Leo teased, laughter tugging at his mouth.

"It's sad!" Sangwon protested, slightly whining through the tears. "And I'm still a little feverish, so I'm extra... emotionally available."

Leo snorted, leaning just close enough to brush his thumb over Sangwon's damp cheek. "Emotionally available? You mean dramatic?"

Sangwon narrowed his eyes, though the pout stayed. "You like it, though. Admit it."

Leo grinned, tilting closer until their shoulders pressed, foreheads brushing in a quiet nudge. "Maybe I do. Especially when you look cute and teary like this."

"Pathetic, but adorable," he added with a smirk.

Sangwon gasped in mock offence, giving Leo's arm a weak shove. "Excuse me? Pathetic?"

"Mm-hm." Leo's grin softened into something steadier, quieter. "Pathetic, sentimental, dramatic... and completely mine."

The last two words came out soft, almost careless — but they lingered, heavy, settling in the silence like something far too real to laugh off.

Sangwon froze. His gaze darted away instantly, as if the words themselves burned to look at. His breath stuttered, barely audible, but Leo felt it ripple through the narrow space between their shoulders. The blanket slipped from his fingers, his hands retreating clumsily into its folds, fidgeting there as though he couldn't decide what to do with them.

He curled tighter into himself, knees pressing closer to his chest, his chin ducking down as if he could fold small enough to vanish. Colour rushed into his face in a flood — high across his cheeks, blooming scarlet at his ears. His lashes fluttered hard, betraying the storm inside him, while his eyes — wide, frantic, uncertain — flicked to Leo and back again, unable to linger without giving too much away.

Leo watched it all unravel. The halting breaths, the restless fingers twisting at the blanket, the way his lips parted once, twice, before closing again without a word. And instead of chasing, he only let a smile ghost over his mouth — soft, knowing and maddeningly steady.

"Mm," he hummed, turning lazily back toward the screen, though his arm slid across the back of the couch, his hand brushing Sangwon's shoulder before resting there. "Didn't think I'd make you blush that hard."

Sangwon groaned into the blanket, trying to bury his entire face, but his ears betrayed him, glowing bright as lanterns. "You're the worst," he mumbled, the words muffled, shaky.

Leo's chuckle was low, teasing, but warm. "Maybe. But you didn't deny it."

Sangwon peeked out at him, wide-eyed and pink-faced, exasperation sparking against something softer — something that ached to be hidden. His chest felt too full, his heart stumbling clumsily in his ribcage. He wanted to argue, to throw back a quip, but all that came was a weak shove against Leo's arm as he muttered, "Just... watch the movie."

Leo leaned back into the couch again without protest, though the curve of his smirk refused to fade. He didn't press, didn't try to put a name to the fragile, unnamed thing strung between them. Instead, he let Sangwon curl in closer slowly, content with the unspoken confession already painted across his flushed cheeks. 

It struck him as almost amusing — how the boy who had declared his love so boldly just days ago could now be undone by a few careless words of his.

Utterly adorable — and maybe Leo's favourite contradiction.

When the food finally arrived, they ate together under the soft amber light — quiet, laughing between bites, shoulders brushing now and then. The storm had passed outside, but somehow, the one between them had too.

After the dishes were done and the takeout boxes stacked neatly on the counter, the house felt quieter — not empty, but calm in the kind of way that follows a storm's retreat. The rain had started again, but softer now, like the world was humming itself to sleep.

A random movie hummed faintly in the background, some indie film about strangers finding solace in each other. Neither of them was really watching this time.

Leo sat comfortably against the couch, head tipped back into the cushions, while Sangwon lay stretched out along its length, cocooned in the blanket with his head resting on Leo's lap. His dark hair fell in a tousled curtain over Leo's thighs, shifting lightly with each small movement. 

Every slow breath Sangwon released seemed to seep through the fabric of Leo's shirt, warm and steady, a quiet reminder that the fever had finally broken. What remained was a boy loose-limbed and drowsy, softened at the edges, as though all the sharpness had been smoothed into something fragile and calm.

It was peaceful.

Almost too peaceful.

Until Sangwon stirred.

"You know," he murmured, voice roughened but still playful, "this is kind of funny."

Leo glanced down at him, one brow arched. "Funny?"

Sangwon's lips pulled into a faint, crooked smile. "A month ago, I was the one forcing you to eat, dragging you outside, babysitting you through meltdowns... and now look at us." His hand shifted weakly from beneath the blanket, gesturing at himself before flopping back down. "Tables turned."

Leo's mouth curved. "So what—you're saying I'm the better nurse?"

"I'm saying we're both disasters," Sangwon shot back, eyes glinting with tired mischief. "Perfectly timed, too. When one breaks, the other patches him up. It's like... a relay of falling apart."

A low laugh rumbled from Leo's chest, warm and unhurried. His hand drifted into Sangwon's hair, fingers combing lazily through the strands.

"That's depressing."

"It's ironic," Sangwon corrected, his voice muffled as he burrowed closer, cheek pressing more firmly into Leo's thigh. His lashes fluttered faintly, brushing the fabric of Leo's jeans. "And kind of poetic. A little sad, a little stupid."

His voice softened, quieter now, but no less sincere. "But it works. Somehow."

Leo brushed a thumb across Sangwon's hairline, sweeping back the damp fringe. "You don't mind it?" he asked, tone light but tinged with concern.

Sangwon shook his head. "No. I think it's... fair. You caught me when I slipped, I caught you when you did. Guess this is what balance looks like."

Leo smiled, leaning back against the couch once more. "Then maybe we're not disasters after all."

Sangwon chuckled, eyes closing. "Don't push it. We're just disasters who know how to take turns."

They both laughed at that — quiet, real laughter that eased the last of the day's heaviness.

After a while, the film ended, its credits rolling to the sound of soft piano music. Leo didn't bother turning it off. He just watched Sangwon breathe, watched the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket. The fever flush had faded to something gentler, and the shadows under his eyes looked lighter somehow.

Sangwon peeked up at him through half-open eyes. "You're staring again," he teased softly.

"Can't help it," Leo replied. "You look too peaceful. It's suspicious."

"Maybe I'm dead," Sangwon mumbled, eyes closing again. "That would explain why it's quiet for once."

Leo snorted, flicking his forehead. "You're impossible."

Sangwon smiled sleepily. "And yet you stay."

Leo's voice softened. "Always."

The word lingered in the air, sinking deep into the hush that followed. Sangwon reached up lazily, fingers brushing Leo's jaw before falling away.

They sat like that for a long time — rain whispering against glass, the dim light washing everything in gold. It was the kind of silence that didn't demand anything, that only existed to hold what was fragile.

Leo drifted somewhere between thought and silence, the hush of the room wrapping around him like a tide. His fingers moved without command, threading through Sangwon's hair in slow, absent motions — a quiet ritual, as if soothing away shadows he couldn't name.

By the time the clock slipped past midnight, Sangwon had grown utterly weightless against him, head pillowed in his lap, one hand still caught in the fold of his shirt. Even in sleep, he clung to him, fragile as a child reaching for something that might vanish.

His breaths were steady but uneven, each exhale broken by the smallest hitch — the kind that only came when he had surrendered fully, when dreams carried him further than waking ever could. That delicate rhythm anchored Leo to the moment, like the pull of a tide reminding him he was still here, still holding him.

For a while, Leo could do nothing but watch. The lamplight spilt over Sangwon like melted gold, softening the sharp edges of his face, smoothing away the furrows carved by fatigue and fever. In that fragile glow, he looked almost otherworldly — stripped of every defence, every mask, until only what was tender remained.

Vulnerable. Trusting.

It hit him then — hard — how much Sangwon had given him without ever asking for anything in return. How much of himself he had burned away just to keep Leo's light flickering when it threatened to go out. And now, here he was, curled up small, letting Leo hold him as if the world wouldn't swallow him whole if Leo dared to let go.

Leo reached over to turn off the TV, the living room fading into soft darkness. Then, carefully, he shifted, sliding an arm under Sangwon's knees, the other behind his back, and lifted him. Sangwon stirred faintly, mumbling something incoherent into Leo's chest, then went slack again, head tucked beneath Leo's chin.

The weight was nothing compared to the weight he had carried before — the silence, the helplessness, the nights he'd drowned alone. This weight was grounding. Precious. A reminder that he wasn't the only one who needed saving.

In the bedroom, he eased Sangwon onto the bed and pulled the blanket over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. He was about to step back when a weak tug at his sleeve stopped him. Even in sleep, Sangwon's fingers clung to him.

Leo's chest ached. He leaned close, whispering, steady and low, "I'm right here."

So he stayed. Climbing onto the bed without hesitation, he let Sangwon curl into his chest, one leg hooking over his hip like it had always belonged there. And Leo wrapped his arms around him, holding on just as tightly.

Lying there, Leo felt the heaviness in his own body, the exhaustion of everything — the fight, the storm of emotions, the relief that Sangwon was still here. But beneath it, something steadier hummed: a promise he hadn't said aloud, but knew he would keep. 

That he'd stay. That he wouldn't let Sangwon fall the way he once had.

His arms tightened instinctively, his chin resting on Sangwon's hair. As his eyes drifted shut, Leo thought of how strange it was — how a month ago he had been the one in ruins, and now he was the one holding. How fragile it all felt, yet how deeply right everything fits.

Sleep came slowly but gently, carrying him under with Sangwon's breathing steady against his heart. For a moment, he didn't feel like he was falling.

He felt like he was home.

Chapter Text

The morning came softly—like the tide rolling in after a storm, gentle but persistent, washing over what was left of the night before. Pale light unfurled through the thin curtains, brushing the room in muted gold. The world outside had begun to stir—faint sounds of traffic, a bark echoing from the street below—but inside, everything lingered in the hush that follows ruin.

Between the tangled sheets and the slow warmth of two bodies pressed close, time felt suspended—breathing, but barely.

Sangwon stirred first. His lashes caught the sunlight when his eyes fluttered open, his cheek still resting against Leo's chest. For a long, fragile moment, he didn't move. He only listened—the quiet thrum of Leo's heartbeat beneath his ear, slow and steady, each beat a reminder that he was still here, still breathing, still human.

Leo's arm had found him sometime in the night, draped over his waist with instinct more than intention, fingers curled loosely into the fabric of Sangwon's shirt. Even in sleep, it was as if he needed to keep touching something real—to keep from dissolving.

Sangwon tilted his head slightly. Leo's hair was a tousled halo against the pillow, half-shadowed by the morning light. His mouth parted faintly on every exhale, and without the sharp tension that so often haunted his face, he looked younger—peaceful in a way Sangwon hadn't seen in months. There was a gentleness there, raw and almost boyish, and the sight made something inside Sangwon ache.

He remembered other nights, other versions of this closeness—Leo curled up and unreachable, his own hands shaking as he tried to pull him out of the dark with soft words and stubborn care. Back then, he'd teased him, called him hopeless, even joked about charging "emotional babysitting fees."

And yet here they were—the roles reversed, the lines blurred. Sangwon tucked safely in Leo's arms like the world had folded in on itself and given them this brief, impossible reprieve.

A quiet laugh slipped from his chest, low and tired. "We really are disasters, huh?"

The sound stirred Leo. His brows twitched, a soft groan escaping as he shifted, his arm instinctively tightening around Sangwon. "Stay," he muttered, voice hoarse with sleep.

Sangwon smiled faintly. "You're awake."

"Barely."

"Then sleep."

Leo made a low hum of protest, nuzzling into the crook of Sangwon's neck. "You talk too much for someone telling me to sleep."

Sangwon rolled his eyes. "You're still holding me hostage."

"Shh," Leo mumbled, voice muffled against his skin. "Can't help it. You're warm."

The heat rose in Sangwon's cheeks before he could stop it. "I'm not your personal heater."

Leo's lips curved against his throat, completely ignoring his complaint. "You smell nice."

Sangwon let out a small scoff, though his tone softened. "You're impossible."

"And yet," Leo murmured, "you're still here."

The words landed heavier than a whisper had any right to. Sangwon didn't reply; he only let his fingers wander, tracing small circles along Leo's forearm, grounding himself in the steady rhythm of Leo's pulse. For a while, silence filled the space between them—not empty, but alive, breathing with all the things neither dared to say aloud.

The light climbed higher across the bed, gilding their tangled limbs. Eventually, Sangwon stirred. "Hyung. It's morning."

Leo made a small sound, half sigh, half growl. "Define morning."

"Almost nine."

"That's early."

"For normal people."

Leo cracked one eye open, lips twitching. "I'm not normal people."

"No," Sangwon muttered, "you're a cat."

That earned him a slow grin. "I prefer lion."

Sangwon tried to sit up, but Leo only tightened his hold, dragging him back down until their legs tangled again. "You're worse than gravity."

Leo's chuckle rumbled against his chest. "Maybe I'm your gravity."

"You're delusional," Sangwon said, shoving at his shoulder. "Get up before I revoke your pillow privileges."

Leo burrowed further in. "No."

"Leo."

"Saving you from making bad life choices," Leo mumbled. "Like leaving this bed."

"Your logic is absurd."

"Your logic is boring."

Sangwon groaned. "You're infuriating sometimes."

Leo's mouth quirked, sleep still thick in his voice. "And you love it."

"Unfortunately."

Leo's grin widened. "Tragic for you, really."

Sangwon's hand stilled mid-push, caught between exasperation and amusement. "You're lucky I don't throw you off this bed."

Leo shifted, voice dipping softer. "You wouldn't."

"And how are you so sure?"

Leo opened one eye again, gaze warm, sleepy. "Because I make you laugh."

Sangwon rolled his eyes but couldn't stop the curve of his lips. "Barely."

"Still counts."

Their laughter tangled softly in the morning air, spilling warmth into corners that had once known only silence.

"Hyung, seriously. We need to eat," Sangwon said, finally untangling himself and swinging his legs off the bed.

"Betrayal," Leo mumbled into the pillow.

Sangwon smirked over his shoulder. "We're eating out. Come on."

Leo peeked one eye open again, squinting at the sunlight. "You're cruel."

"You love me."

Leo's lips twitched. "Debatable."

"And yet," Sangwon said, "you're not denying it."

Leo propped himself up on one elbow, hair a dishevelled mess, eyes still soft with sleep. "You're asking the guy who'd rather chew the bedsheet than face a café full of strangers at 10 a.m.?"

Sangwon snorted. "It's breakfast, not battle."

"Strangers expect conversation. Waiters expect decisions. Terrifying."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're smiling though."

"I'm smiling at how dramatic you are."

Leo grinned, lazy and unbothered. "Still a smile."

He caught Sangwon watching him a second too long, the sunlight catching on the line of his jaw, and his grin turned wicked. "Besides, you're the one who cried into my shirt yesterday."

Sangwon froze, his face heating instantly. "Wow. Low blow."

"Cute, though."

Before he could blink, a pillow flew across the room, thudding squarely against Leo's face.

He caught it with a laugh, hugging it to his chest. "Violence as affection. Got it."

"Keep talking and you'll find out just how affectionate I can get."

Leo's laughter filled the room—hoarse but alive, threaded with something lighter than before.

Sangwon shook his head, hiding his own smile as he moved toward the closet. "Someone has to make sure you don't starve."

"My knight in shining pyjamas," Leo declared solemnly, hand pressed to his chest.

"Keep it up, and you're paying."

"Worth it." His tone softened; beneath the teasing, it trembled slightly—like truth trying to disguise itself as humour.

Sangwon paused mid-motion, something tugging in his chest. He didn't turn. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"Maybe," Leo said quietly. "But you still stay."

The words landed like a heartbeat too loud in the quiet. Sangwon swallowed, turning back toward him with a soft scoff to disguise the ache in his throat. "You really need to shower."

"Bath me," Leo said instantly.

Sangwon blinked. "...Excuse me?"

Leo tilted his head, a lazy grin tugging at his lips. "You heard me."

"You can't be serious."

"Dead serious. You'd do great."

"Try me and I'll throw this hanger next."

Leo chuckled, the sound low and rich. "Love makes people violent. Beautiful, really."

"Love makes people tolerate you," Sangwon muttered, though laughter threaded his voice.

Their laughter overlapped again, bright and fragile, filling the air until even the ghosts of last night seemed to ease their hold.

"Forget it," Sangwon said finally, grabbing a towel. "I'm showering first."

"Wait—" Leo sat up abruptly, wild hair falling into his face.

Sangwon turned, wary. "What now?"

"Never mind," Leo said, eyes glinting. "I'll go first."

"What? You just—"

Too late. Leo was already darting off the bed, nearly tripping on the blanket. "Can't risk you seeing me like this. Gotta maintain the illusion."

Sangwon stared after him, half in disbelief. "The illusion died months ago!"

Leo's muffled laugh echoed from behind the bathroom door, followed by the hiss of running water.

Sangwon exhaled, sinking back onto the edge of the bed. The sheets still carried Leo's warmth, sunlight spilling across them like gold dust.

For a moment, he just sat there—listening to the rhythm of water, to Leo's off-key humming leaking faintly through the door. The sound was messy, imperfect, unmistakably alive.

Sangwon leaned back, tilting his head toward the ceiling. The light brushed over his face, soft and weightless. It was strange how quiet healing could sound—just two breaths in sync, water running behind a door, the smell of laundry detergent and sunlight.

He smiled faintly to himself. The ache was still there, but smaller now. Manageable.

When Leo finally emerged, hair damp and clinging to his temples, the air around him smelled faintly of soap and morning. His shirt clung a little to his shoulders; his grin was reckless and unguarded.

"You're up," Sangwon said, trying not to smile.

"Tragically," Leo sighed. "You're next."

Sangwon stood, brushing past him to grab a change of clothes. "Don't use all the hot water next time."

Leo leaned against the wall, watching him go. "You look better," he said quietly.

Sangwon paused mid-step. "Do I?"

Leo nodded. "Like yourself again."

The words caught him off guard. For a second, he didn't know what to do with them. So he said nothing, only slipped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

When he came out later, Leo was sitting on the floor, scrolling absently through his phone, sunlight pooling at his feet. He looked up, and for a heartbeat, neither of them said anything. The silence was comfortable now—soft where it used to be sharp.

"Ready?" Sangwon asked.

Leo pushed himself up, stretching with a groan. "As I'll ever be."

They stepped out together, the door clicking shut behind them. The hallway smelled faintly of someone else's breakfast—coffee, eggs, something sweet. Leo walked beside him, hands shoved in his pockets, their shoulders brushing once, then twice, as they fell into step.

Outside, the city was already alive—cars glinting in the sunlight, air warm with the promise of noon. Leo squinted at the brightness. "Remind me why we're doing this again?"

"Because you'll complain about being hungry in ten minutes," Sangwon replied.

"Statistically true," Leo admitted. "Still cruel."

They crossed the street together, and Sangwon caught their reflection in a shop window—two figures walking side by side, close but not quite touching, framed by morning light. Something about the sight made his chest tighten in quiet, unfamiliar peace.

For once, it didn't feel like running or surviving. It felt like the beginning.

Leo glanced over, catching the small smile tugging at Sangwon's mouth. "What?"

"Nothing," Sangwon said, shaking his head. "You're just less unbearable in daylight."

"Rude," Leo said, bumping his shoulder lightly. "You love me."

Sangwon didn't deny it this time. "Unfortunately."

Leo grinned, wide and bright, the kind of grin that reached his eyes and stayed.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of the bakery down the block—fresh bread, warmth, something simple and good. Sangwon's stomach growled; Leo's laughter followed instantly.

They turned the corner together, sunlight spilling over their backs. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Sangwon didn't feel like he was bracing for impact.

The ache was still there—but it pulsed in rhythm with something gentler now. Something alive.

The kind of morning that didn't ask for forgiveness.
Only the courage to stay.

The café sat on a corner where the sunlight always seemed to linger longer than it should, the kind of place that smelled like warmth even from outside. When they pushed open the door, a small brass bell above it chimed, delicate and bright, carrying the faint chill of the morning in with them.

The scent of coffee grounds and buttered pastries wrapped around them instantly — rich, grounding, the kind of smell that felt older than memory. The low hum of conversation, the faint hiss of milk steaming — it all stitched together into something gentle, unhurried. A place untouched by the storms that had shaken them.

Leo's shoulder brushed Sangwon's as they stepped inside, and for a moment, Sangwon felt the warmth of it sink straight through him.

They slid into a booth by the window. The glass was sun-warmed, light spilling over the table and pooling on Sangwon's sleeve. Outside, the city kept moving — buses groaning, people crossing streets — but in here, time slowed, softened, until all that remained was the sound of their breathing and the quiet pulse of music playing from an old speaker behind the counter.

Leo stretched out under the table until his knees bumped against Sangwon's.

"Seriously?" Sangwon said without looking up.

Leo leaned back, utterly unbothered, a faint grin curling at the edge of his mouth. "Your legs are short. That's not my fault."

Sangwon's sigh came out halfway between disbelief and laughter. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," Leo murmured, grin widening, "you're still here."

The waiter came, dropping off their drinks and plates — pancakes drowning in syrup for Leo, eggs and toast for Sangwon. Steam curled from their mugs, soft and fragrant. The air felt warmer now.

Leo's fork hovered mid-air, syrup dripping as he caught Sangwon's brief glance toward his plate.

"Don't even think about it," Sangwon warned.

Leo tilted his head, mock-serious. "If you don't eat this, I'll have to make airplane noises."

"You wouldn't."

"Bzzzz," Leo hummed, leaning in with the fork like a kid launching a spoonful of trouble.

Sangwon batted his hand away, but in the same motion, stole a bite. He chewed with exaggerated indifference. "Pathetic."

"Adorable," Leo countered, smug.

"You keep saying that like I won't pour this coffee on your lap."

Leo's grin turned wolfish. "Then I'll just take off my pants. Problem solved."

Sangwon choked mid-sip, coughing as he covered his mouth. "You're—unbelievable."

"And yet," Leo repeated softly, eyes glinting, "you're still here."

The line hung there — a thread pulled straight from the morning they'd shared, warm and dangerous in its simplicity.

For a while, their laughter filled the space between them, easy and unforced. The rhythm of it made Sangwon forget, just for a moment — forget the ache that had clung to his chest since the night before, forget how fragile he'd felt when his tears had soaked into Leo's shirt.

But silence has a way of finding its way back. It always does.

Sangwon fiddled with the corner of his napkin, eyes tracing the condensation slipping down his glass. "About yesterday..." His voice was barely louder than the jazz threading through the café.

Leo's smile faded, his gaze immediately sharpening into something gentle. "Mm?"

"I—" Sangwon hesitated. The words caught somewhere between his ribs. "Sorry. For breaking down like that."

Leo didn't even blink. "Don't apologise."

Sangwon gave a small, shaky laugh. "Funny, isn't it? Just a month ago, you were the one falling apart, and I was the one holding you together. Dragging you out of bed, forcing you to eat, talking until you stopped staring at the ceiling like it was going to swallow you whole. And now..." His voice faltered, his mouth twisting faintly. "Now it's your turn."

Leo leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his expression steady — anchored. "Yeah. That's what this is, right? We take turns. One of us breaks, the other holds on. That's how we don't fall apart completely."

The words lodged deep in Sangwon's chest, heavy and warm at once. He blinked hard, throat tight.

"We're really disasters," he murmured, a faint smile flickering through the exhaustion. "A pair of disasters trying to fix each other with duct tape."

Leo's grin returned, small but genuine. "Then I'll buy out the hardware store."

It shouldn't have hit as hard as it did, but Sangwon's chest stung with something that wasn't quite pain.

He let out a breath that trembled. "So... what now?" His eyes dropped to his plate. "There's no debut. No music. Just... us. What are we supposed to do now?"

For a moment, the café's sounds blurred together — the clink of a spoon, the hiss of the espresso machine, the muted chatter from another booth. The silence between them stretched, long but not empty.

Sangwon was the first to fill it. "I've been thinking," he said slowly, like every word needed to be coaxed into being. "Maybe I'll try modelling. It's not music, but... it's something. A way to keep moving, I guess."

Leo studied him for a long moment, eyes softer than his words. "You'd kill it. You already look like you belong in a magazine."

Sangwon snorted, though the faintest flush touched his ears. "Flattery won't save you from finishing those pancakes alone."

"I didn't say it for that." Leo's voice gentled, the teasing slipping away. "I meant it."

Something in the sincerity made Sangwon look down again, pretending to adjust his fork. "And you? What about you?"

Leo's fingers stilled against the table. The easy rhythm between them faltered.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly. "The hate's still loud. Too loud. Every time I check my phone, it's like standing in the middle of a crowd that wants me gone. I can't put myself back out there. Not yet."

Sangwon's heart twisted. He wanted to reach across the table, to still Leo's fidgeting hands, but he didn't. He only watched, listening to the tremor in Leo's voice that he almost managed to hide.

"I thought about going back to Australia," Leo said after a pause. "Haven't been home in years. My mom's been calling more lately — she doesn't say it, but I can hear it. The worry. The fear." He gave a hollow laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. "And honestly? I'm scared too. Of breaking again."

The words sank like stones in Sangwon's stomach, pulling heavy. "So... you're leaving?"

"Not yet." The reply came fast — too fast. Leo leaned forward, his voice urgent, raw. "Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Just... someday. Later. I don't know when. But eventually. For a while."

Sangwon nodded, though his fingers twisted together in his lap, white at the knuckles. The thought of the apartment without Leo — the bed cold, the laughter gone, the quiet too loud — made his breath catch.

But then Leo smiled — that same crooked, boyish thing that never failed to undo him. "Besides," he said lightly, "how could I leave you? You'd starve without me."

Sangwon blinked, torn between relief and disbelief. "Excuse me? I'm the one keeping you alive."

Leo shrugged, grin widening. "Details." His voice dropped lower, sincerity flickering beneath the teasing. "Doesn't matter. Point is — I'm not going anywhere yet."

The words lingered — not a promise, not quite. But close enough that Sangwon let himself breathe again.

He exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth softening. "You're still annoying."

Leo's grin brightened. "And yet—"

"Don't." Sangwon pointed his fork at him.

"—you're still here," Leo finished anyway, eyes crinkling.

Sangwon rolled his eyes, but this time, when he smiled, it didn't hurt.

Outside, the sun had shifted higher, spilling gold through the café windows, catching in the strands of Leo's hair. The hum of the city waited beyond the glass, patient and wide and alive.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Sangwon didn't flinch at the thought of what came next.

The ache was still there — small, stubborn — but quieter now.

Something had eased.

The morning didn't ache anymore. It breathed.

And for now, that was enough.

They didn't linger in the café for long.

The plates were left with syrup stains and faint coffee rings, their seats still warm when they rose. The door chimed softly behind them, the quiet murmur of conversation fading into the hum of the city outside.

The afternoon light had shifted — warmer now, thicker, spilling like honey across the street. It caught on windshields and windows, turned the air to gold, and for a fleeting second, the whole city seemed to glitter.

They fell into step without meaning to. The world moved around them — horns in the distance, the low tangle of strangers' voices, the scuff of shoes against uneven pavement — but for them, everything had narrowed to the slow sync of their strides and the brief brush of shoulders that came and went like breath.

Leo shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing sideways. "So... modelling, huh?"

Sangwon let out a soft laugh, a small puff of air that caught the sunlight. "Don't make it sound like I'm about to walk Milan. I just... need to move again. Find something that keeps me from standing still."

Leo hummed, considering that. "Still," he said after a beat, his mouth curving, "you'd kill it."

Sangwon shot him a look. "That's twice today. You planning to start a fan club?"

Leo leaned in slightly, as if confiding a secret. "Maybe. Though I think I deserve a private performance first."

Sangwon blinked, wary. "Private performance?"

"Yeah." Leo's grin grew. "You, my kitchen, an apron. Maybe holding a frying pan. I can see the headlines already."

Sangwon burst into laughter, shoving him with his shoulder. "You're unbelievable. Who even thinks of that?"

"Me," Leo said proudly, straightening. "Creative genius. It's a burden."

"Burden to everyone else, maybe."

Sangwon gave him another push, but lighter this time, and their laughter slipped easily between the sounds of the street.

"Besides," Sangwon said after a moment, "I'd rather cook than pose with food. At least then you wouldn't starve."

"See," Leo replied, half laughing, half serious, "that's exactly why I can't stay away too long."

Sangwon frowned slightly, glancing at him. "What do you mean?"

Leo exhaled, gaze flicking down to the pavement as if the cracks there could hold the words steady. "If I do go back to Australia... it won't be forever. The longest I could last away from you would be, what—three months? Two weeks, maybe. A week if I'm honest. I'd lose it otherwise."

The words settled between them, fragile and heavy all at once.

Sangwon's lips parted, something unspoken catching behind them. He masked it with a quiet scoff. "You make it sound like I'm some kind of addiction."

Leo's voice softened. "Maybe you are."

That earned him a faint flush, quick and bright across Sangwon's cheeks. He turned away, eyes on the street, muttering, "Idiot."

Leo's grin returned — gentler this time, touched with something fond.

They walked in silence for a while, the quiet stretching but never straining. A breeze stirred, lifting Sangwon's hair, carrying with it the faint scent of roasted beans and car exhaust and spring.

"Besides modelling," Sangwon said suddenly, tone lighter, "maybe I'll try something else. DJing. Or being a barista. Something small."

Leo's laugh came soft, low. "You, as a barista? I'd pay to see it. You'd glare at every customer who asks for extra foam."

"You just want free coffee."

"Obviously."

Sangwon rolled his eyes. "Figures. You'd find a way to mooch off me even then."

"I'd tip," Leo said quickly, placing a hand on his chest in mock sincerity. "Generously. With love notes written on napkins."

That earned him a laugh — real, unguarded — spilling out of Sangwon before he could stop it.

The sound hit Leo like sunlight after rain. It was ridiculous how much he'd missed it, how much he needed it — that laugh that made everything feel less like an ending and more like something worth starting over for.

He thought, not for the first time, how do I leave without leaving half of myself behind?

Sangwon noticed the sudden quiet. "Don't look so serious," he said gently. "You'll wrinkle faster."

Leo blinked, then snorted. "That's rich coming from the guy who cries at commercials."

"That was one time."

"Three," Leo countered instantly. "And one of them was for cat food."

"It was emotional," Sangwon argued, horrified by his own defence, and Leo nearly doubled over laughing.

Their laughter wove through the street, brushing past the rush of the world around them. The sound wasn't loud, but it felt steady — something alive where everything else had felt uncertain.

When it faded, the silence that followed was full — not empty this time, but resting.

Sangwon kicked a stray pebble, watching it skitter down the pavement. "Do you think we'll ever get it back?" he asked quietly. "The dream. The music. All of it."

Leo was quiet for a while, long enough for the question to sink in. His voice, when it came, was rough around the edges. "I don't know. Maybe not the same way. But... maybe that's okay. Maybe we'll find something else. Different dreams. Smaller ones. Doesn't mean they'll matter less."

Sangwon looked at him — really looked — like he was trying to memorise the steadiness in Leo's face, the way sunlight caught in his eyes. "You really think so?"

Leo nodded once. "I do. And besides," his grin crept back, "I can't let you become a model-slash-barista-slash-DJ without me there to keep your ego in check."

Sangwon's lips twitched. "Who says I'd let you?"

"Exactly."

Leo nudged his shoulder lightly, and the contact lingered a moment longer than it should have — grounding, quiet, real.

The city carried on around them — fast, restless, full of people who didn't know them, who wouldn't remember them — but their pace stayed unhurried. The afternoon sun wrapped around their laughter and shadows like a promise too fragile to name.

And though the horizon ahead was uncertain — fractured dreams, possible distance, questions without answers — in that golden stretch of street, something simple held.

Something that whispered that maybe, even if the music never returned, even if the world moved on without them, this — this fragile warmth, this small, ordinary walk beside each other — might be enough to begin again.

Evening found them by the river.

The city had begun to soften — its edges blurred by distance and dusk, the hum of traffic dimming into a low, steady rhythm. Streetlights flickered awake one by one, their reflections stretching like ribbons across the slow-moving water. The air carried the faint scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen, cool and clean.

Leo sat cross-legged on the low stone ledge, a paper cup of tea balanced between his palms. Sangwon stood beside him at first, watching the sky bleed from gold to violet before sinking into the kind of blue that only shows up at the edge of night.

When he finally sat down, their knees brushed, and neither moved away.

“You always pick places near water,” Leo said after a while, voice low, almost lost to the sound of it lapping against the shore.

Sangwon’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “It’s quiet here.”

Leo tilted his head. “You like quiet?”

“I like it when it doesn’t feel empty.”

That pulled a faint smile from Leo — the kind that didn’t reach his eyes, but wanted to. “That’s rare.”

Sangwon turned his cup in his hands, watching the ripples break the reflections. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It stretched between them like a thread — fragile, shimmering, alive.

A group of cyclists passed on the path behind them, the click of their gears fading quickly into the distance. Somewhere across the river, someone was playing a guitar, the melody thin and uneven but strangely comforting.

Leo nudged Sangwon’s knee lightly with his own. “You thinking again?”

Sangwon huffed a quiet laugh. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

“Depends on the thoughts.”

“They’re boring.”

“Liar.”

Sangwon smiled faintly into his tea. “You always call me that.”

“That’s because you always lie.”

“I don’t.”

Leo gave a soft hum, noncommittal. “Then tell me what you’re thinking about.”

Sangwon looked out at the water again. “That I wish this day didn’t have to end,” he admitted after a moment. “That I wish things were... simpler. Easier to hold onto.”

Leo’s throat worked, but he said nothing. His fingers tightened around the paper cup until it creased slightly.

“And,” Sangwon added, his tone deliberately lighter, “that you should stop drinking my tea.”

Leo blinked, caught mid-sip, and grinned. “You weren’t drinking it.”

“I was letting it cool.”

“Ah. Tragic misunderstanding.”

“Menace.”

“Charming,” Leo corrected easily, and that drew the smallest, reluctant smile from Sangwon — the kind that cracked something inside Leo every single time.

They stayed there a while longer, trading quiet remarks that didn’t really matter. The kind of talk that fills the gaps not because there’s something to say, but because silence between them had started to mean too much.

Eventually, Leo leaned back on his palms, stretching his legs out. The air was cooler now, the wind tugging gently at his hair. “You ever think about what we are?” he asked suddenly.

Sangwon looked at him, startled. “What do you mean?”

Leo didn’t meet his gaze. His voice stayed careful, measured. “You and me. This.”

Sangwon blinked. “We’re... us.”

Leo laughed softly, but it came out thin. “That’s not an answer.”

Sangwon tilted his head, studying him. “You want a label?”

Leo hesitated. His mouth opened, then closed again. “No,” he said finally, but the word sounded unsure. “I just—sometimes I wonder if it’s okay that we never said it.”

Sangwon’s tone was quiet. “Maybe saying it would make it real.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Not if you’re scared of what comes after.”

That made Leo glance up. For a moment, all the teasing, all the easy playfulness in him went still. The air between them felt thin — like one wrong word could shatter it.

Sangwon turned his gaze back to the water. His voice, when it came, was softer. “You don’t have to say it, you know. I already know.”

Leo’s heart stuttered in his chest. “You do?”

Sangwon’s lips twitched faintly, not quite a smile. “You’re not subtle.”

Leo huffed a breath of laughter, but it came out rough. “Maybe I wanted to make sure.”

“Then you should’ve said it,” Sangwon said simply.

Leo’s pulse jumped. “Would it have changed anything?”

Sangwon looked at him then — really looked. His expression was unreadable, but there was a kind of quiet knowing in it. “Maybe. Or maybe not. But at least it would’ve been real.”

Leo swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the curve of Sangwon’s jaw, the faint tiredness still lingering beneath his eyes, the small smudge of syrup he hadn’t noticed earlier near his sleeve. He wanted to reach out and wipe it away, but his hands stayed where they were — curled against the stone, useless and shaking.

Sangwon turned away first, taking another sip of tea that had gone cold. “You always hesitate,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Even when you mean it.”

Leo’s mouth opened — the confession right there, burning behind his teeth — but he let it die on his tongue.

Because he was scared.
Because he’d already broken too many things by naming them.
Because the moment they had now felt too fragile to risk.

Instead, he said lightly, “Maybe I just like keeping you guessing.”

Sangwon looked back at him, half amused, half exasperated. “You’re terrible at pretending.”

“Not true. I’m very mysterious.”

“Transparent,” Sangwon countered, but there was no bite in it. His voice was warm now, tired and fond.

They both laughed quietly, the sound blending with the wind.

Leo shifted closer, close enough that their shoulders brushed. He didn’t pull away this time. “You know,” he said, low, “for someone who complains about me being clingy, you don’t move either.”

Sangwon gave him a sidelong glance, lips curving. “That’s because you’re a space heater.”

Leo chuckled, leaning in just enough for his breath to touch Sangwon’s cheek. “And yet you’re not moving away.”

“Don’t push it,” Sangwon warned, though his voice had softened.

They stayed like that — not quite touching, not quite apart — as the river darkened into glass and the city lights flickered brighter above them.

Somewhere nearby, a street musician started singing. The melody was off-key but gentle, threading through the hum of the evening like a heartbeat.

Leo watched the reflection of Sangwon’s face in the water — how the light played against the quiet curve of his mouth, how his eyes seemed to hold both exhaustion and something impossibly tender.

He wanted to reach out again.
He wanted to say it.
But instead, he asked, “You cold?”

“A little.”

Leo hesitated, then shrugged off his jacket and draped it over Sangwon’s shoulders before he could protest.

Sangwon sighed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Comfortable, though,” Leo said, grin returning, softer this time. “Admit it.”

Sangwon gave a small huff, pretending to look away. “I’ll allow it. For now.”

They both smiled into the quiet.

The song down the river ended. The air grew still.

Sangwon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice so quiet it almost disappeared into the dark. “You know,” he said, “for all the chaos... I don’t hate where we are. It’s not what we planned, but... maybe it’s what we needed.”

Leo looked at him, eyes tracing the faint smile ghosting across Sangwon’s face. “You think so?”

“Yeah.”

The wind tugged at Sangwon’s hair, the fabric of Leo’s jacket shifting over his shoulders. “It’s not perfect,” he added. “But it’s ours.”

Leo’s chest tightened. He wanted to answer — to say me too, to say I love you, to say I’m sorry for being too afraid — but the words stayed where they always did: caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat.

Instead, he said quietly, “Then let’s keep it.”

Sangwon’s lips curved. “Until you leave?”

“Until I come back.”

The answer hung there — not a promise, not yet, but close.

For a long while, they simply sat side by side, voices soft and unhurried, letting the quiet rhythm of the city ripple against the dark water before them. Occasionally, their shoulders brushed, a spark of warmth against the cool night air, and once or twice, their laughter slipped gently into the hush, drifting like light across the water.

When the night deepened and the air grew colder, Sangwon finally stood, stretching with a soft groan. Leo followed, their shadows stretching long behind them as they turned toward the streetlights.

Neither said it — the thing hovering between them — but both felt it, quiet and steady and real.

They walked until the hum of the river softened into the quieter rhythm of the city — clinking dishes from late cafés, the whisper of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from strangers wandering past. Hunger began to prick at them only when the neon glow of a tiny noodle shop spilt its warm light across the wet sidewalk.

“Dinner?” Sangwon asked, half-turning, eyes gleaming in the soft glow.

Leo’s lips curved into a smile. “You read my mind.”

The shop was nearly empty, the kind of place that smelled like steam and broth, warm and comforting. The owner greeted them with a tired nod, eyes still on the counter, leaving them to settle into a corner booth. Their knees brushed under the table, small sparks of warmth that made both of them grin quietly to themselves.

Bowls of ramyun arrived, steam curling lazily upward, carrying the scent of soy and garlic. For a while, neither spoke, letting the quiet rhythm of chopsticks against ceramic and the gentle hiss of boiling water fill the space.

Leo deliberately slurped his noodles a little too loudly, just enough to make Sangwon lift his gaze.

“You eat like a child,” Sangwon muttered, trying to sound stern but failing as the corners of his mouth twitched.

Leo grinned, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “You like it.”

Sangwon rolled his eyes, but the twitch of a smile betrayed him. “Keep telling yourself that.”

When Leo reached over to steal half of Sangwon’s perfectly marinated egg, Sangwon didn’t stop him — only nudged his foot under the table in playful retaliation, a tiny war waged in silence.

They lingered over the bowls, laughter mingling with the steam, until the clock ticked past nine.

Finally, satisfied and a little reluctant to leave the warmth behind, they stood, settling the bill and stepping back into the night. The city wrapped around them like a soft blanket, and together, they wandered onward, the quiet glow of streetlights guiding their way home.

The walk home was slower now — the kind that stretched time thin, turning every step into something unspoken. Their pace fell into rhythm without effort, each stride syncing with the other until it felt less like walking and more like moving through a shared quiet. The city had begun to wind down, its sounds softening into a distant hum. Streetlights glowed like halos in the mist, their amber reflections shimmering across the slick pavement. Puddles pooled along the curb, catching the lights and the moon in broken mirrors.

Sangwon’s hands were tucked into the pockets of Leo’s jacket again, the fabric too long for him, the sleeves grazing his fingers. Now and then, their arms brushed — a light, passing touch — but Leo didn’t shift away. If anything, he leaned closer, as though drawn by gravity he didn’t care to resist.

“You’re walking too fast again,” Leo murmured, his voice quiet, threaded with something that wasn’t quite complaint.

Sangwon glanced at him, lips twitching. “You’re just slow.”

Leo’s hand drifted toward him — a brush at first, then a gentle slide down Sangwon’s wrist until their fingers found each other. The contact was small, almost nothing, but it felt heavier than words. “Maybe I just want a reason to hold on.”

Sangwon’s tone softened, though he didn’t look at him. “You could’ve just asked.”

Leo smiled, his thumb tracing small, thoughtless circles against Sangwon’s knuckles. “Didn’t want to risk rejection.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Leo said, a smile hidden in his voice, “you’re still here.”

Sangwon’s fingers tightened around his — the faintest squeeze, deliberate and grounding. “Maybe I’m just patient.”

“Or soft-hearted.”

“Don’t push it.”

But he didn’t let go.

The night stretched around them — silver mist curling through the lamplight, the soft rhythm of their footsteps echoing off the wet pavement. Their joined hands swung lazily between them, brushing against their sides in an easy, unhurried rhythm.

Neither spoke again until their building came into view, a quiet silhouette against the dim glow of the city. The rain had eased to a fine drizzle, catching in their hair and glinting faintly under the lights.

Sangwon slowed near the steps, eyes lifting to the faint glow spilling from their windows above. “Feels like today lasted forever,” he murmured.

Leo leaned in, his breath warm against Sangwon’s ear. “In a good way or a bad way?”

Sangwon turned his head slightly — close enough that their noses nearly brushed. His smile was small, tired, but real. “Ask me tomorrow.”

Leo’s laugh was soft, a breath more than a sound. “Tomorrow, then.”

They reached the door, and as Leo stepped forward to slide his key into the lock, he shifted just enough to close the space between them and the door, lightly pressing Sangwon back with his shoulder. Sangwon blinked, caught off guard, heat rising to his cheeks, but didn’t move away. Leo’s hand hovered near the edge of Sangwon’s arm as he fumbled with the key—a careless, almost protective motion. Sangwon’s breath hitched; he shuffled slightly, unsure whether to step back or lean in, heart thudding in a way that made his limbs feel heavy. The warmth of Leo pressed close, grounding and overwhelming at once, before the moment dissolved as the door swung open.

Inside, the apartment was dim and hushed, the air faintly sweet with the scent of tea and rain. The quiet pressed around them, comfortable and close.

Sangwon shrugged out of the jacket, draping it over the back of the couch, though his fingers lingered on the fabric a heartbeat too long, betraying his scattered thoughts. Leo slipped off his shoes and stepped closer, eyes soft and steady. Without thinking, he reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair from Sangwon’s forehead. Sangwon froze, a faint shiver running through him, and blinked up, caught somewhere between irritation and something warmer, his chest tightening with embarrassment and a strange, sweet ache.

"Your hair's a mess," Leo murmured.

Sangwon’s mouth curved, teasing despite the fluster. "Whose fault is that?" His voice was lower, gentler than the words themselves.

Leo’s fingers lingered, tracing the line of his jaw, deliberate and slow. "You make it look good."

Sangwon let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. "You really can’t stop, can you?"

"Nope," Leo replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"You're hopeless."

Leo smiled softly. "You keep me that way."

Sangwon shook his head, but didn’t move away. Neither did Leo. For a long moment, the quiet settled around them, warm and steady—never heavy, just full. Leo’s hand drifted down, brushing the curve of Sangwon’s shoulder before skimming the inside of his wrist, a touch that felt more like a question than a statement.

Finally, Sangwon let out an exasperated huff, cheeks warm, and jabbed a finger toward the bathroom. "Go shower first—now," he demanded, his voice stammering a little, flustered under Leo’s gaze.

Leo’s grin widened, clearly amused, and he took a teasing step forward. "Trying to get rid of me?"

Sangwon’s eyes darted away, hands fidgeting. "I—I just… don’t want you falling asleep on the couch before you shower."

Leo's laugh was low and teasing. "You'd carry me to bed anyway."

"Don’t even think about it," Sangwon muttered, though his voice betrayed him.

"I might," Leo said with a shrug, still smiling.

"Go shower, hyung," Sangwon said again, quieter this time, almost breathless.

Leo froze mid-step. The sound of it, soft and familiar, settled somewhere deep in his chest. He didn’t tease. He just smiled.

When the sound of running water began to echo through the apartment, Sangwon moved quietly through the dim space — collecting empty cups, folding Leo’s jacket with absent care, cracking open the window just enough for some air to drift in. The night breeze brushed cool fingers against his skin, carrying the hush of distant thunder. For a while, he simply stood there, letting the quiet breathe around him, before sinking onto the couch, lost in the rhythm of the wind.

A few minutes later, Leo appeared — hair damp, an old shirt clinging faintly to his arms, soft fabric darkened where it met his skin. Sangwon looked up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Your turn,” Leo murmured, voice low and warm from the steam.

Sangwon rose, passing close enough for their shoulders to graze — a fleeting brush that lingered like static.

“Don’t fall asleep on the couch," he said quietly.

“No promises,” Leo answered, his grin easy and tired.

The shower was brief. The water ran hot against Sangwon’s chilled skin, washing away the weight of the day. When he stepped out, the air was threaded with the clean scent of soap and rain — the kind of stillness that felt almost like peace.

Leo had, predictably, dozed off on the couch — half-sprawled, one arm draped across his eyes, his breathing slow and even. Sangwon paused, his gaze tracing the lines of his face — the softened jaw, the small crease between his brows, the damp curls that fell messily over his forehead.

Something in him ached — quiet, patient, fond.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Leo’s face, his fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long. Then, gently, he turned off the lamp, the room sinking into soft shadow.

“Come on,” he murmured, coaxing Leo upright.

Leo blinked groggily, half-protesting, but let himself be pulled to his feet.

Between laughter and mumbled complaints, Sangwon guided him down the short hall to the bedroom.

By the time they slipped beneath the covers, the rain outside had settled into rhythm — soft, even, and endlessly familiar.

Leo’s arm found its way around Sangwon’s waist, fingers curling loosely into the fabric of his shirt.

This time, Sangwon didn’t tease. He only reached up, covering Leo’s hand with his own.

Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

And for that night, in the quiet of each other’s arms, it was enough.

Chapter Text

The last morning of the year unfolded in muted tones.
Outside, the city was still — pale under a sky undecided between light and cloud. A breath of cold air slipped through the cracked window, stirring the curtains and carrying the faint metallic scent of rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

Inside, the apartment felt like a pocket of warmth hidden from the rest of the world. The heater hummed; blankets lay in soft disarray; and in the stillness between those quiet heartbeats, Sangwon stirred.

For a moment, he didn't move. His cheek rested against the solid warmth of Leo’s chest, fingers curled loosely at the hem of his shirt. Their legs were a tangle under the blanket, a quiet mess of comfort that neither of them had bothered to fix. Leo's arm was draped around his waist, fingers unconsciously tracing small, slow circles against his side, even in sleep.

Sangwon could feel the steady rhythm of Leo's heartbeat beneath his ear—a sound that had, over time, become a strange kind of anchor.

The morning was soft — barely alive, as if holding its breath.
He stayed there for a long while, breathing in the fragile quiet, letting its warmth sink into his bones.

When Leo stirred, the morning broke its silence — a low groan, a half-formed sound caught between dream and waking.

“Morning,” Sangwon whispered.
“You said you’d wake up early today,” he added when Leo only hummed.

“That was last night,” Leo mumbled. “Different person now.”

“You promised to make breakfast.”
“I promised porridge,” Leo corrected. “Didn’t say when.”

Sangwon’s shoulders shook with quiet laughter. “You’re lucky I don’t hold grudges.”

“I’m lucky for a lot of things,” Leo murmured, his voice still muffled by skin and warmth. "This included."

Sangwon rolled his eyes but stayed where he was, letting Leo’s fingers linger a moment longer before finally moving. "You know," he said, "you're going to have to let go if you actually want to cook."

"I don't," Leo muttered. "Cooking is overrated."

"Then I'll make it."

Leo cracked one eye open, catching the faint outline of Sangwon's face in the pale morning light. "You're serious?"

"I don't trust you near the stove unsupervised."

"I made porridge before."

"You made something before."

Leo grinned faintly. "It cured your fever."

"It nearly caused another one."

Leo's laugh was sleepy and warm. "You're harsh in the morning."

"I'm honest."

"Same thing."

Sangwon huffed a quiet laugh and finally pulled away, the absence of warmth immediate and sharp. He slipped out of bed, his feet brushing against the cold floor, and stretched with a soft groan. Behind him, Leo watched through half-lidded eyes, smiling faintly at the sight—Sangwon's hair slightly dishevelled, the hem of his shirt brushing against his thigh, the morning light drawing soft edges around him.

"Stop staring," Sangwon said without turning.

"I'm admiring."

"Creepy."

"Romantic."

Sangwon turned his head just enough to give him a look. "Hopeless."

Leo grinned, unbothered. "You say that like it's new."

The kitchen met them with a faint chill and the ghost of last night’s tea—sweet, herbal, and just shy of forgotten.

Sangwon padded across the tiles first, flicking on the light. The glow was soft, golden, barely awake. He moved with quiet purpose, filling a pot with water while Leo lingered near the counter, hair tousled, sweater slipping off one shoulder.

“You’re supposed to be helping,” Sangwon murmured, testing the tap’s temperature.

“I am,” Leo replied, voice still thick with sleep. “Helping spiritually.”

A glance over the shoulder. “How convenient.”

Sangwon reached for the rice, measuring it by habit. “Try not to burn anything this time.”

Leo straightened just enough to look wounded. “I only burned it once.”

“You set off the smoke alarm.”

“That’s called proof of enthusiasm.”

“That’s called a fire hazard.”

Leo grinned, pushing himself upright and wandering closer. “Guess that means I’m banned from cooking alone.”

Sangwon’s brow arched. “That’s the general idea.”

“Then I’ll just have to cook with you.”

He said it too smoothly, too quickly. The words skimmed across the air like a pebble tossed into still water.

Sangwon hesitated, spoon midair. “You planned that.”

“Obviously.”

He huffed out a laugh, the corners of his mouth betraying him. “You’re impossible.”

Leo’s grin tilted. “And yet, you haven’t thrown me out.”

Sangwon brushed past him to grab the sesame oil, their shoulders grazing. “Don’t tempt me.”

Leo leaned into the space he left behind. “You wouldn’t dare.”

The stove came alive with a low flame. Steam began to curl from the pot, carrying the warm scent of rice. Leo stirred lazily, the ladle moving in easy circles while Sangwon’s knife whispered through scallions in crisp, rhythmic strokes.

After a while, Sangwon spoke without looking up. “You’ve improved.”

Leo perked up. “Was that a compliment?”

“A reluctant one.”

He beamed. “I’ll take it. Frame it, even.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“I’d never,” he said—too innocently to be true. He dipped the spoon, blew gently, and held it out. “Taste test.”

Sangwon leaned forward, lips brushing the steam before tasting. It was a little thick, uneven—but warm, familiar. “Edible.”

Leo gasped theatrically. “High praise!”

“Barely passing.”

“I’ll take it,” he said, and his smile reached his eyes.

When they finally sat down, the world outside still wore its winter hush. Their bowls steamed, the air fogging faintly between them.

Leo took a bite too soon and immediately hissed, fanning his mouth as if he’d been betrayed by the universe itself.

“You never learn,” Sangwon teased, laughter caught at the edges of his voice. He tried to hide it behind his spoon, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him anyway.

“I live dangerously.”

“By burning your tongue?”

Leo’s eyes lifted — calm, certain, and just a little too knowing. “By following you.”

The words struck like flint, setting the quiet between them alight. Sangwon froze, spoon halfway to his lips. For a moment, the world narrowed to the curve of Leo’s smile and the gentle steam that framed his face like mist.

“W–what?” The question slipped out, a stutter wrapped in disbelief.

Leo leaned back slightly, feigning innocence, but his voice was smooth. “I said I follow where the danger is.” His gaze didn’t waver. “And somehow, that’s always you.”

Sangwon blinked, caught entirely off guard. His breath stumbled; his pulse raced ahead of him. Heat climbed from his neck to his cheeks, betraying him with every second that passed. He tried to look away, tried to find safety in the bowl before him, but his hand shook slightly when he lifted the spoon.

“Eat your porridge,” he muttered, attempting composure but failing miserably. His voice came out softer than he intended — too soft, too intimate.

Leo chuckled, low and pleased, the sound curling around Sangwon like a slow-moving flame. “You’re blushing,” he murmured, tone teasing but tender.

“I—am not.”

“You are.”

Sangwon refused to meet his gaze, busying himself with stirring the already-perfect porridge, ears bright red now.

"You're annoying."

Leo smiled, leaning forward slightly, his voice dipping to something teasing but gentle. “The kind of annoying that you love, though.”

Sangwon’s hand paused midair. He didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched — and Leo knew he’d won.

After breakfast, the world seemed to exhale.

The small apartment hummed with leftover warmth — the kind that lingers after laughter and clinking spoons and soft collisions in a narrow kitchen. Steam still curled from their mugs on the table, fading into the pale wash of winter light.

Sangwon drifted toward the bookshelf, fingers grazing the spines as though reacquainting himself with a row of old friends. The covers were worn, corners frayed — years of mornings like this hidden in paper.

Behind him, Leo had already surrendered to the couch. He sprawled across it with practised ease, hair still mussed, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. One leg dangled off the edge, swinging idly.

“You really plan to read?” Leo’s voice came lazy, still wrapped in sleep.

Sangwon hummed. “The year ends tonight. I should end it properly.”

“With books?”

“With peace.”

Leo cracked one eye open. “Peace is overrated.”

“Only to people who cause chaos.”

Leo grinned. “So… you’re calling me interesting.”

Sangwon smiled faintly, running his thumb along a book spine. “You’re certainly something.”

“That sounds suspiciously like affection.”

“That sounds like pity.”

Leo chuckled, stretching, the hem of his sweater lifting just enough for skin to flash in the light. “You wound me, chef.”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely.”

Sangwon turned, holding his chosen book. “You could always read, too. Heal through literature.”

“I could,” Leo said, eyes sparkling, “but then who’d keep you entertained?”

Sangwon arched a brow. “I didn’t realise I required entertainment.”

“You don’t,” Leo said, voice dipping lower. “You just prefer mine.”

The line hung there — warm, teasing, too honest to be harmless. Sangwon pretended to ignore it, but his mouth twitched despite him. He crossed the room and stopped beside the couch. “Move over.”

Leo looked up, feigning surprise. “Joining me? How forward.”

“The light’s better here.”

“Sure it is.”

Still, he shifted — barely. Enough for Sangwon to sit, but close enough that their knees brushed.

Sangwon opened his book, but Leo’s gaze lingered, studying him in that unguarded, wordless way that made Sangwon’s pulse misbehave.

“Stop staring,” Sangwon said softly, eyes on the page.

“I’m admiring,” Leo murmured.

“Staring with extra steps.”

“Flattering with extra effort,” Leo countered.

Sangwon turned a page. “You’re impossible.”

Leo tilted his head, his grin small, familiar. “And you love it.”

Sangwon looked up then — not fast, not defensive, just quiet. His eyes met Leo’s, and for a moment, the world stilled around that look.

“I do,” he said, simply.

Leo blinked, startled by the honesty. “That was… dangerously straightforward.”

“New year, new me,” Sangwon said, returning to his book, though his ears were pink.

Leo laughed softly, the sound blooming like sunlight. “If that’s the new you, I approve.”

“Of course you do.”

“Say it again.”

“Say what?”

“That you love me.”

Sangwon glanced sideways, smirking. “You’ll survive on once.”

Leo leaned closer, voice barely a whisper. “You sure?”

Sangwon didn’t move away this time. “Positive.”

Leo made a soft noise — part laugh, part sigh — then reached out, tugging gently at Sangwon’s sleeve. His fingers brushed the inside of his wrist before falling away.

“Just checking,” he said, eyes softer now.

“You’re checking too often,” Sangwon murmured, but his tone had melted.

“Can’t help it,” Leo replied. “I like being sure of things.”

Sangwon’s lips curved. “And yet you’re the most uncertain person I know.”

“That’s why I keep you around.”

“Oh?”

“To remind me what steady looks like,” Leo said.

Sangwon blinked, heart catching on the edges of the words. “You say that like I’m not a mess too.”

“You are,” Leo said easily. “But you’re a beautiful kind of mess. The kind that makes me want to stay.”

Sangwon turned a page, but his hands had gone still. “You’re getting sentimental.”

“It’s the lighting,” Leo teased. “Makes me poetic.”

Sangwon smiled. “Or maybe it’s the company.”

Leo froze, then laughed, eyes crinkling. “You’re learning to flirt. I’m so proud.”

“I’m adapting,” Sangwon said dryly.

“Evolving.”

“Reacting,” he corrected.

Leo nudged him lightly with his knee. “Whatever it is, it looks good on you.”

Sangwon didn’t respond right away. He just leaned back into the couch, the edge of his shoulder brushing Leo’s. It was subtle — a silent answer, an invitation that didn’t need naming.

For a while, the room filled with the soft rhythm of pages turning, the faint hum of a heater, the uneven cadence of their breathing.

Outside, the day stretched toward its quiet end — golden, slow, endless.

Leo shifted, resting his head against Sangwon’s shoulder. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Sangwon turned a page, pretending to read. “You’re heavy.”

“Translation: you don’t mind.”

“Translation: you talk too much.”

“Still not a no.”

Sangwon sighed — the kind that wasn’t really exasperation — and reached up to brush Leo’s hair from his forehead. “If you drool, you’re banned from my pillow tonight.”

Leo’s laugh came muffled against his sleeve. “You’re assuming I’d leave room for you on it.”

Sangwon smiled. “You never do.”

“See? You love it.”

Sangwon looked at him then, really looked — the sunlight tangled in his hair, his sleepy grin, his unguarded eyes. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t hide the way his heart softened.

“I do,” he whispered.

This time, Leo didn’t ask him to repeat it.

He just smiled — slow, content — and reached for Sangwon’s hand, threading their fingers together.

The book slid shut, forgotten on Sangwon’s lap.

Outside, the light kept changing — gold into silver, day into something softer.

Inside, the world stayed warm.

Evening came gently, the sky ripening from pale silver to that bruised shade of blue that always seemed to linger too long before night.
The apartment breathed with it — soft light spilling through the curtains, the hum of the heater, the faint clatter of dishes being rearranged. Then came the familiar music of the kitchen: oil hissing in the pan, the rhythmic thud of a knife meeting the board, the rustle of sleeves pushed to the elbow.

Sangwon moved like he belonged to this space — quiet precision in every motion, grace disguised as routine. He didn’t rush, didn’t fumble; his hands seemed to know the language of heat and flavor instinctively.

Leo sat on the counter, legs swinging, his back against the cupboard door.
He looked utterly unbothered — sweater half-tucked, hair still refusing to obey gravity, eyes following every small, deliberate movement like a cat watching something glitter.

“You cook when you’re thinking too much,” Leo said suddenly, breaking the rhythm.

Sangwon’s knife paused mid-air. “Maybe I’m just hungry.”

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s usually true.”

Leo grinned. “And yet, somehow, the food always tastes like you’re trying to process your emotions through it.”

Sangwon shot him a look over his shoulder. “You’re very dramatic for someone who can’t even dice an onion.”

“I have other talents,” Leo said, feigning offence.

“Like sitting still and talking?”

“Multitasking,” Leo corrected, leaning forward with a smirk. “I’m observing.”

“You’re nosy.”

Leo tilted his head. “And yet, you don’t tell me to stop.”

Sangwon turned back to the stove, stirring the pan with studied calm — though a faint, reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.
“Maybe I like the noise,” he said softly.

Leo’s grin widened, that dangerous kind of pleased. “See? Progress.”

Sangwon laughed under his breath — brief, quiet, the kind of sound that warmed more than it should have.
He reached for a dish towel, and when he turned again, Leo was already reaching out, snagging the edge of his sleeve.

“What now?” Sangwon asked, amused.

Leo tugged gently, just enough to pull him closer. “You have something on your cheek.”

Sangwon blinked. “I do?”

“Yeah,” Leo said, his tone suspiciously casual — then, instead of brushing it away, he leaned forward, thumb grazing Sangwon’s cheek with deliberate slowness. “There.”

Sangwon’s breath caught — just slightly. “You could’ve said that instead of—”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Leo said, grinning.

Sangwon rolled his eyes, but his voice was softer now. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Big word,” Leo teased. “Say it again.”

“Maybe later. When you deserve it.”

“I always do.”

They ate dinner at the table, the lights low, shadows swaying gently on the walls.
Between them, the air carried the warmth of garlic and sesame oil and something else — a quiet ease that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. Leo kept stealing glances between bites, and Sangwon pretended not to notice, though every time their eyes met, his heartbeat betrayed him.

Afterwards, Sangwon stood by the window, mug in hand. The glass was cool beneath his fingers. Outside, the city blinked alive — streetlights flickering on, slow and deliberate, as if the world itself was preparing for something.

“You should get ready,” he said eventually.

Leo, sprawled on the couch again, tilted his head. “For what?”

“For tonight.”

“Still with the mystery?”

Sangwon nodded once, eyes still on the window. “Dress warm.”

Leo groaned theatrically. “You’re dragging me out again? It’s freezing.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

“You said that last time. I followed you to a book fair.”

“And you got free coffee,” Sangwon replied without missing a beat.

Leo gasped, clutching his chest. “Trauma and caffeine are not equivalent!”

Sangwon smiled over his shoulder. “You’ll thank me later.”

“I doubt that.”

“Then I’ll enjoy being right,” Sangwon murmured, turning back to the view.

Leo’s grin faltered for a second — not in disappointment, but in that way he sometimes looked at Sangwon when words failed him. The light from the window traced the line of Sangwon’s jaw, his calm profile, the faint curl of his mouth.

“You really don’t take no for an answer, do you?” Leo said softly.

“Not when I know what’s good for you.”

Leo stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. “And what if I already have what’s good for me?”

Sangwon turned to meet his gaze — eyes steady, the kind of quiet that could undo someone if they weren’t careful.
“Then,” he said gently, “you’ll still want to come with me.”

The words landed in the space between them, warm and weightless all at once.
Leo stepped closer, just close enough for their shoulders to almost touch. “You’re lucky I like dramatic people.”

Sangwon smiled. “You’re lucky I feed you.”

“Ah, so that’s your strategy,” Leo said, voice lowering into a grin. “Win me over with carbs and emotional manipulation.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

Leo laughed, a low, delighted sound. “You’re dangerous when you’re smug.”

“Good thing you like danger.”

“I love it,” Leo said, the honesty slipping out before he could dress it up.

Sangwon’s expression softened, a flicker of surprise and fondness passing through. He reached up, tugging lightly at Leo’s scarf. “Then wear this. It’s cold.”

Leo blinked down at him. “You’re fussing.”

“I’m ensuring your survival.”

“Romantic.”

Sangwon smiled. “Functional.”

Leo leaned in until their foreheads almost touched — close enough that his breath fogged Sangwon’s glasses. “You really don’t know how to make anything not sound poetic, do you?”

Sangwon’s voice was a whisper. “You make it easy.”

For a second, neither of them moved. The city outside kept breathing, indifferent and alive, but in that tiny apartment, time folded in on itself — just the warmth of two people learning, slowly, what it meant to stay.

Leo pulled back first, grinning again to break the spell. “Fine. Midnight. But if this ends with frostbite or poetry readings, I’m suing.”

Sangwon chuckled, reaching for his coat. “You’ll be fine. You have me.”

Leo’s voice softened. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s why I’m coming.”

The clock ticked on somewhere behind them, gentle and steady.
Outside, the city waited under its veil of cold — lights trembling faintly like stars trying not to fall.
Inside, their laughter and quiet footsteps filled the space between seconds, pulling the last hours of the year toward whatever warmth was waiting next.

By the time they stepped outside, night had already unfurled itself across Seoul like a silk sheet — cool, shimmering, alive.
The city glowed softly under its own breath; buildings shimmered in reflected light, and the faint hum of distant traffic trembled like a heartbeat beneath the cold. The air carried a metallic sharpness, the kind that bit gently at their cheeks and turned every exhale into pale smoke that lingered only for a heartbeat before vanishing.

Sangwon adjusted his scarf as they walked, gloved fingers tugging it higher. The wool had absorbed his scent — faint traces of soap and sesame oil and something warm that Leo could never quite name. The sound of their boots scuffing against damp pavement was steady, easy. Above them, the city glittered like someone had shaken a jar of stars and scattered them over the skyline.

Leo shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. “You always walk like you’re late to something,” he muttered, voice muffled by his scarf.

“Maybe I am,” Sangwon said without slowing down. “Midnight doesn’t wait.”

“You could try letting it catch up for once,” Leo countered, grinning.

“Time doesn’t chase people who dawdle.”

Leo made a mock gasp. “Are you calling me lazy?”

“I’m calling you predictable.”

“Rude and accurate,” Leo said, quickening his pace to fall in step beside him. “You’d miss me if I didn’t keep up, though.”

Sangwon arched a brow. “Would I?”

Leo smiled, teeth flashing white in the lamplight. “You’d notice the silence.”

Sangwon’s laugh was quiet — the kind that dissolved into the night like steam from a mug. “You’re too self-assured.”

“And yet, here you are,” Leo said softly, “walking next to me.”

The words lingered, threaded with something gentler than teasing. The wind rose, tugging at Sangwon’s scarf until it brushed against Leo’s coat. He reached out instinctively, fingers brushing over the fabric to fix it.

“You’ll freeze,” he murmured.

Sangwon glanced at him sidelong. “You sound like my grandmother.”

“She sounds wise.”

“She’d say you talk too much.”

Leo’s grin widened. “She sounds perfect.”

Sangwon huffed out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Then, when the wind shifted again, Leo’s hand didn’t quite make it back to his pocket — it drifted instead toward Sangwon’s coat pocket, slipping in casually as if it belonged there.

Sangwon’s step faltered, just slightly. “What are you doing?”

“Conserving heat,” Leo said smoothly.

“You’re stealing it.”

“Same thing.”

“Not scientifically.”

“Emotionally,” Leo corrected, grinning.

Sangwon tried for a glare but failed, the corner of his mouth curving upward. “You’re impossible.”

Leo leaned closer, his voice a whisper that warmed the cold air between them. “You like impossible.”

“I tolerate impossible,” Sangwon murmured, though he didn’t move his hand away when Leo’s fingers brushed against his.

“Then you tolerate me beautifully,” Leo said.

Sangwon’s answer was nothing more than a quiet hum, but when their fingers intertwined, his grip held steady — a small, deliberate confession disguised as comfort.

The subway to Jamsil was alive with the pulse of the city.
Bright scarves and paper hats, laughter that rang off metal walls, the faint scent of roasted chestnuts clinging to people’s coats. Families huddled close with sparklers still unlit, teenagers waved lightsticks like miniature stars, and old couples leaned against one another in soft, wordless rhythm.

Sangwon stood near the door, one hand gripping the cold metal bar. The train swayed gently, lights flickering across his face in gold and shadow. Leo stood behind him — close enough to feel the subtle movement of Sangwon’s breath, to see the tiny cloud it made against the glass.

Every time the train jolted, Sangwon leaned into him — instinctively, lightly. At first, it was for balance; after a while, neither of them bothered pretending.

Leo’s voice was a murmur near his ear. “You’re quiet.”

Sangwon tilted his head slightly, not looking back. “You say that like it’s new.”

“You usually talk more when you’re nervous.”

“Maybe I’m not nervous.”

Leo smiled, his breath grazing Sangwon’s neck. “Maybe I make you nervous.”

Sangwon’s lips curved. “You make me tired.”

“Same thing.”

Sangwon gave him a side-eye that was more fond than annoyed. “You’ve got a very selective dictionary.”

“I like to edit the language of love,” Leo said.

“You’ve edited out logic.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

The train slowed as it entered the next tunnel, lights flickering briefly into darkness. For a moment, it was just the hum of wheels on rails, the press of people, and the quiet pulse of their breathing — steady, shared.

Leo leaned in closer, close enough that his nose brushed the edge of Sangwon’s hair. “You’re warm,” he whispered.

Sangwon didn’t turn. “You’re clingy.”

“I’m efficient.”

“Meaning?”

“Using you as a heater.”

Sangwon’s laugh came out softer than he meant it to — low, warm, almost tender. “You’re insufferable.”

Leo grinned, the sound of it lighting the air between them. “You love that about me.”

Sangwon’s reply was quiet, almost lost under the roar of the train. “I do.”

Leo blinked, caught off guard, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. When the train slowed into the next station and the lights steadied again, Sangwon’s reflection in the window looked calm — but his ears were red.

Leo smiled to himself, voice barely audible. “You’re lucky the train’s loud.”

Sangwon looked at him through the glass, their eyes meeting in the reflection. “You’d get an answer either way.”

Leo tilted his head. “And what would that answer be?”

Sangwon’s lips curved — slow, secret, beautiful. “Get off before you miss our stop.”

The doors opened with a hiss, cold air rushing in. Leo followed him into the night without another word, heart thudding like it was keeping time with the city itself.

Outside, Seoul stretched wide and glittering before them — bridges strung with lights, skyscrapers shimmering like constellations, the faint murmur of laughter rising from somewhere distant.
And beneath it all, the two of them walked side by side — fingers brushing, breaths mixing in the cold, carrying the quiet pulse of something beginning, just as the year was about to end.

The tower rose before them like a blade of glass piercing the night. Even from a distance, it seemed unreal — its mirrored skin catching the light of the city until it looked less like a building and more like a living thing, breathing, pulsing. Crowds pressed along the lakeside, their voices a low hum beneath the cold air, the kind of human murmur that blurred into the city's heartbeat.

Sangwon stopped walking first. The wind curled his breath into white ribbons that vanished almost as soon as they formed. His scarf had come half undone again, and Leo reached out wordlessly to fix it, fingers brushing against his neck. The touch was brief, almost clumsy, but Sangwon still felt it linger — a ghost of warmth against his skin.

"It's taller than I remember," Sangwon said, tilting his head back. The tower's reflection rippled faintly across the dark water, breaking apart with every gust.

Leo smiled faintly. "You said that last time."

"And it's still true."

"You like repeating yourself."

"You like pretending you're not staring."

Leo blinked — caught, again. For a heartbeat, the air between them stilled. He looked away first, pretending to scan the skyline. "Old habits die hard."

"Break them," Sangwon murmured, not unkindly.

Leo's chest tightened. "You make it sound easy."

"It's not." Sangwon's breath trembled on the edge of a smile. "But I'm still here. And so are you."

And something in Leo ached at that — at the quiet certainty in those words. Still here. How many times had he been the one falling apart, and Sangwon the one steady enough to stay?

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

They found a quiet spot near the railing where the lake mirrored the tower — glass and water folding into one another until it felt like standing inside a reflection. The city shimmered in layers: gold, silver, and shadow. Around them, laughter rose and fell like distant waves — strangers counting down the seconds to another year, someone strumming an out-of-tune guitar. But for them, the noise existed only at the edge of hearing. Between them, there was only the hum of winter and the steady rhythm of closeness.

Leo leaned against the railing, his shoulder brushing Sangwon’s. “You think everyone’s here for the fireworks?”

“Mostly,” Sangwon said, eyes fixed on the trembling water.

“And the rest?”

A soft smile ghosted his lips. “The rest are here to remember how to hope.”

The words slipped through Leo like a quiet ache. He turned, watching him instead of the skyline — the faint redness on Sangwon’s nose, the small furrow between his brows, the way his breath trembled into the cold as if afraid to disturb the moment.

“And you?” Leo asked, voice barely above the wind. “What are you here for?”

Sangwon’s answer came after a long breath. “To make sure you don’t fall asleep before midnight.”

Leo laughed softly, the sound rough but fond. “Too late. You already made me soft.”

“Then maybe I’ve done enough.”

“Not even close.”

The words lingered between them — teasing, but threaded with warmth that neither tried to hide. Something in Sangwon fluttered then, faint and unsteady, the kind of feeling that starts at the ribs and grows until it aches to contain. He wanted to say something light, to turn it into a joke, but his tongue stilled. Instead, he stayed close — close enough to feel Leo’s warmth bleeding through his coat, close enough for the world to fade into the hush of their breathing.

When the countdown began, it rolled through the crowd like thunder.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

The air shimmered with anticipation. Sangwon’s hand found Leo’s — not by thought, but instinct. Their palms met, a quiet fit that spoke of years rather than seconds.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

The tower’s reflection flickered across the water, gilding Sangwon’s eyes with gold and light. Leo didn’t look up at the fireworks. He watched him instead — the curve of his mouth, the faint tremor of his lashes, the way he always seemed caught between being here and somewhere far away.

Four.

Three.

Two.

Leo’s thumb brushed across Sangwon’s knuckles, a silent promise he didn’t yet know how to voice.

One.

The sky bloomed open — gold bleeding into crimson, bursting into fragile beauty. The air roared with awe and laughter, but Sangwon heard none of it. Only the sound of his breath — uneven, trembling. He looked up, his eyes reflecting the burning sky.

It’s over, he thought. And we’re still here.

He didn’t realise he was crying until Leo’s thumb brushed his cheek.

“Hey,” Leo whispered, voice hovering between concern and wonder.

Sangwon laughed softly, the sound unsteady and raw. “We made it,” he breathed. “Hyung, we actually made it.”

Leo froze at that — we made it — the words sinking deep. He wanted to believe them. He wanted them to mean peace. But what he felt was the ache of survival — the bruised relief that comes after too much breaking.

The fireworks faded into a low hum above them. The crowd’s voices blurred into nothing. 

Sangwon’s breath hitched, thin and uneven, and something in him cracked — not loud, but deep. When he spoke, his voice came soft and trembling, spilling like water through a break in the dam.

“I didn’t think we’d make it this far,” he whispered, the words breaking softly against the night. “After everything. After you started to sink…”
A breath of laughter escaped him then — thin, fragile, half-a-sob. “You were right there, but it felt like you were slipping through my fingers. Like every time I reached, the distance just grew. I kept trying to hold on, but I didn’t even know if I ever really touched you anymore—if you could still feel me at all.”

Leo’s throat constricted. “You did,” he said, voice breaking but sure. “You reached me. You pulled me back before I was gone.”

Sangwon’s fingers curled into his sleeve, desperate, trembling. “And then I fell apart,” he said. “And you stayed.” His eyes glistened — fragile, fierce. “You didn’t let go.”

Leo’s voice cracked. “Because you didn’t either. You didn't leave when I was drowning.”

Sangwon turned to him, eyes rimmed red, their glow soft as candlelight. “How could I?” he breathed. “When I loved you with everything I had left to give?”

The words hung between them, fragile and infinite.

Leo went still, the world narrowing to the sound of Sangwon’s heartbeat. The word love from Sangwon had never sounded like this — not tender, not grand — but real. Bruised, quiet, utterly alive.

He looked at him then — really looked — and it felt like seeing him for the first time. Sangwon wasn’t unshaken anymore; he was human and hurting and beautiful in it.

Sangwon held his gaze, voice quivering but certain. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to tell you that?”

His breath wavered. “It wasn’t one moment — it was everything. You. From the start.”

Leo’s breath hitched. His pulse thudded against his ribs.

“I’ve said it before,” Sangwon murmured. “But maybe not in the way it really lived inside me. Back then, they were just words. This—” He gestured faintly between them. “This is what I meant.”

He looked down at the water, watching the city lights splinter and shimmer. When he looked back up, his smile trembled. “It wasn’t a spark,” he said softly. “It was every small, ordinary thing you made extraordinary.”

He drew a slow breath, eyes shining. “You never noticed, did you? How it started. How you made it impossible for me not to love you.”

His voice thinned, trembling with memory. “It wasn’t one moment. It was a thousand small ones. Back when we were just trainees, living on borrowed dreams. You carried everyone — loud, reckless, pretending it didn’t hurt. And I believed you. Everyone did.”

He smiled faintly, thumb brushing over Leo’s knuckles. “But I saw it too — the cracks you hid. The nights you stayed behind after practice, headphones on, eyes burning from exhaustion. I’d keep running the choreography, just to stay close. You’d look up sometimes, give me that crooked smile, like I was doing something right.”

He swallowed, voice trembling. “Do you know how much that meant? You didn’t even have to speak. You were just there — head bent over your laptop, hoodie slipping off your shoulder, tapping your foot to the beat like the world wasn’t breaking us.”

Leo’s breath shook. He could hear it now — the hum of old speakers, the smell of sweat and coffee, Sangwon’s footsteps echoing beside him.

Sangwon’s lips quirked, a small, aching smile. “Sometimes you’d fall asleep like that,” he said softly. “Music still playing. And I’d just… watch. You looked so peaceful.”

He hesitated, voice breaking into tenderness. “Maybe that’s when it started — that quiet wanting. Wanting to be near you. Wanting to stay.”

The words cracked something open inside him. “And the more I saw you, the more I fell. Every time you comforted someone else while you were drowning. Every time you smiled like it didn’t hurt. Every time you looked at the world, like it was still worth loving. I fell, Leo. I fell so hard I didn’t even notice until it hurt.”

He reached out, fingertips grazing Leo’s cheek. “You were full of light then. And even when it dimmed, I loved you for the shadows too.”

Leo’s voice wavered. “And still, I hurt you.”

Sangwon shook his head. “No. You made me feel.”

The words landed heavily.

“Even while you were breaking,” Sangwon whispered, “you were kind — still trying to protect everyone, even me. I loved that. Even when it hurt.”

The silence between them grew thick, trembling with everything unspoken.

Leo’s voice came rough, low. “You shouldn’t love me like that.”

“And yet I do,” Sangwon said simply. “I love every imperfect part of you. Even the ones that don’t love themselves. Even the pieces you hide.” His laugh cracked softly. “I see you, Leo. And I still choose you.”

Leo’s breath trembled. He lifted a shaking hand to Sangwon’s jaw. “I was scared,” he confessed. “Not of you. Of losing this. Of naming it and watching it fall apart.”

Sangwon leaned into the touch. “You can’t break something that’s already real.”

Leo’s lips parted, eyes burning. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For being a coward. For making you wait.”

Sangwon’s hands found his. “You don’t have to apologise,” he said. “Love isn’t about timing. It’s about staying — even when it hurts.”

He smiled softly. “And I’ll keep waiting. For as long as it takes.”

Leo’s throat closed. The warmth of Sangwon’s palms felt like forgiveness.

When he looked down, Sangwon was holding something small between his fingers — a bracelet. Handmade, imperfect, beautiful. Earthy beads in soft browns and greens, threaded with a tiny clover charm and a dull gold medallion. It caught the tower’s light and shimmered faintly.

“I made it for you,” Sangwon said quietly.

Leo blinked. “You… made that?”

Sangwon nodded. “It’s nothing much. I started over every time I felt like I was losing you. I guess this one survived.”

The world blurred — the fireworks, the crowd, everything.

Sangwon took Leo’s hand, tracing the lines in his palm like they meant something sacred. “It’s not forever,” he whispered. “It’s just to remind you that I’m here. Even if everything changes again.”

Leo didn’t speak. He let Sangwon fasten it around his wrist, his hands shaking. The cool beads pressed against his skin, heavier than glass should be.

“It’s beautiful,” Leo said hoarsely.

“It’s just thread and glass.”

“It’s you,” Leo murmured. “That’s why.”

Sangwon faltered, his laugh breaking halfway through. Leo reached out, pulling him close until their foreheads touched.

“Thank you,” Leo whispered. “For staying.”

Sangwon’s tears fell freely now. “You were never something to deserve, Leo,” he said softly. “You were something to love.”

Leo’s breath shuddered. “I don’t know how to love without breaking things.”

“You won’t,” Sangwon whispered. “Even if you tried.”

Leo laughed weakly through his tears. “How can you believe that?”

Sangwon smiled, trembling. “Because even when you’re broken, you’re gentle. That’s how I fell. For the parts you thought were unlovable. For the pieces that still tried.”

He breathed out. “You don’t even see how easy you are to love.”

Leo’s laugh came out like a sob. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is,” Sangwon said, brushing away his tears. “You just make it complicated.”

Leo’s voice cracked. “I don’t deserve the way you love me.”

“Maybe not,” Sangwon said gently, smiling through his tears. “But you don’t have to.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fireworks had long gone quiet, leaving only the soft hiss of smoke curling through the night air. Around them, the crowd began to dissolve — laughter trailing away into distant streets, the echo of celebration fading into something softer, almost lonely.

Sangwon still stood close enough for Leo to feel the warmth radiating from him, faint but steady, like the last ember refusing to die. His hand lingered on Leo’s cheek, thumb tracing a line that felt both like comfort and affection.

Leo wanted to speak — to tell him me too, to confess everything that burned behind his ribs — but the words tangled somewhere deep in his chest. He could feel them clawing to escape, but they refused to come out right. Not tonight. Not when Sangwon looked at him like that — tender, unguarded, already forgiving.

So instead, he laughed quietly, just enough to keep his voice steady. “You always make things sound easy.”

Sangwon tilted his head, eyes crinkling faintly. “It’s only easy when it’s real.”

Leo swallowed hard. He wanted to ask — and is this? — but the answer was already written in the way Sangwon looked at him. Of course it was. That was what made it hurt.

The silence stretched, gentle but heavy. The bracelet glimmered faintly around Leo’s wrist, catching the last flicker of light from the tower above.

“Keep it,” Sangwon said softly. “Even if it breaks someday.”

Leo met his eyes, searching. “Will it?”

Sangwon smiled, small and wistful. “Everything does. But that’s okay.”

He stepped back slightly, the distance between them just enough to let the cold slip in again. The wind carried the faint scent of smoke and rain, brushing against their faces like a reminder that the night was ending — that this, whatever this was, existed only in the fragile space between one year and the next.

Leo looked down at the bracelet again — uneven beads, clover charm turning slowly against his skin. It wasn’t perfect, but it was alive with the warmth of Sangwon’s hands, the quiet care threaded into every knot.

“I’ll take care of it,” Leo said softly.

Sangwon’s eyes softened. “Take care of yourself, too.”

Leo tried to smile, but it trembled. “Only if you do the same.”

“Then we’re even.”

He said it with that faint teasing lilt, but there was something else under it — something like ache, something like an ending.

Leo wanted to reach for him again, to close the space between them, but Sangwon turned toward the lake instead, gaze distant, lips parted as if he was listening to something only he could hear. The fireworks’ echo was gone now. The world had gone still — as if holding its breath for them.

Sangwon’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “You know what I wished for?”

Leo shook his head.

“For this,” Sangwon said. “Just… for this moment to last a little longer.”

The words settled into Leo’s chest like a weight he couldn’t set down. He didn’t say anything — couldn’t. He just watched Sangwon, eyes bright beneath the fading lights, and thought, Me too.

But he didn’t say it. He let the moment stay untouched — beautiful in its incompleteness, safe in its silence.

Sangwon finally turned back to him, eyes red but steady, and smiled — that same small, defiant smile that had always undone Leo a little. “Let’s go home,” he said softly.

Leo nodded. “Yeah.”

They started walking, steps slow and easy, the sound of their boots soft against the pavement. Sangwon’s shoulder brushed against his now and then, and each time, Leo felt the ache swell a little deeper — that quiet wish that maybe, just maybe, he’d said something when it still mattered.

The tower light dimmed behind them. The bracelet caught it one last time, glinting faintly like the echo of a promise neither of them could name.

And as they disappeared into the thinning crowd — fingers brushing but never quite holding — Leo realised that sometimes love didn’t end in confession or closure.
Sometimes it just stayed — quiet, unspoken, alive — lingering like smoke in the cold night air, beautiful because it could never last.

The apartment greeted them in silence. Only the soft hum of the heater filled the space, the air faintly scented with tea leaves and rain-soaked air that clung to their clothes. The world outside still flickered with remnants of celebration — distant laughter, faint music bleeding through the walls — but here, it was quiet. Gentle.

Leo dropped his keys onto the counter and stood there for a moment, the weight of everything pressing softly against his chest. Sangwon moved past him, wordless, shedding his coat and tossing it onto the couch. He turned on a single lamp — the one by the window — and its golden glow spilt across the room, warm and forgiving.

When he turned back, Leo was still by the doorway, shoes half-off, eyes glassy and far away.

“Hey,” Sangwon said softly, and that was enough. Leo’s gaze snapped to him, and something in him crumbled — that fragile composure he’d been holding all night. He crossed the room in three unsteady steps and wrapped his arms around Sangwon, pulling him in until there was no space left to hide in.

Sangwon didn’t hesitate. His arms came up immediately, circling Leo’s shoulders, his fingers pressing lightly against the back of his neck. The warmth of him — the steady rhythm of his breath, the quiet tremor still lingering beneath his skin — it grounded them both.

Neither spoke. They just stood there, two hearts beating against the quiet, until the world narrowed to the sound of rain against the glass.

Eventually, Sangwon murmured against Leo’s shoulder, “You’re shaking.”

Leo laughed faintly, the sound unsteady. “Yeah. Guess I forgot how to breathe.”

“Then start again,” Sangwon said, pulling back just enough to cup his cheek. His thumb brushed lightly across Leo’s skin, tracing the damp path where tears had dried. “You’re allowed to breathe now.”

Leo closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. “You make it sound easy.”

“It isn’t,” Sangwon whispered. “But I’ll help.”

He smiled faintly, and that alone made Leo’s throat tighten. There was something unbearably human in the sight — the way Sangwon’s eyes looked tired but soft, the way his lips trembled when he tried to hold back the emotion that was still spilling out of him.

Leo brushed his thumb along Sangwon’s jaw. “You always say the right things.”

“That’s because I mean them.”

Their laughter mingled quietly — low, rough, and fleeting — before dissolving into something gentler.

Sangwon tugged Leo toward the couch. “Come. You look like you’ll fall over any second.”

Leo followed without protest. They sank into the cushions, the lamplight pooling around them like liquid amber. Sangwon curled into one side, drawing his knees up, while Leo rested an arm along the back of the couch, fingers idly playing with Sangwon’s hair.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them was full — not the kind that waited for words, but the kind that said we’re safe now.

Leo’s voice came first, soft and low. “Do you ever think about how close we came to losing this?”

Sangwon tilted his head, eyes still half-lidded. “Every day.”

“I don’t think I could survive it again,” Leo admitted. “Not the silence. Not watching you disappear like I did.”

Sangwon shifted closer, pressing a hand to Leo’s chest. “You won’t have to. Not anymore.”

Leo’s heart stuttered under his palm. “Promise?”

Sangwon smiled, faint and small. “I already did.” His thumb brushed against the bracelet on Leo’s wrist — the small beads catching the light. “That’s what this means.”

Leo stared down at it, the knot glinting faintly in the lamplight. “It’s strange,” he murmured. “I’ve worn a lot of things in my life— rings, chains, everything — but this feels heavier than all of them.”

Sangwon laughed softly. “It’s just a bunch of beads.”

“It’s you,” Leo corrected. “That’s what makes it heavy.”

The words silenced Sangwon for a long moment. He didn’t look away, though — didn’t flinch from the tenderness in Leo’s gaze. Instead, he leaned in until their foreheads brushed, their breaths meeting in the narrow space between them.

“You’re going to make me cry again,” Sangwon murmured, his voice breaking just slightly.

Leo smiled, though his own eyes were already wet. “Then we’ll cry together.”

And they did. Quietly, wordlessly — laughter slipping through tears, the kind that comes only after surviving something heavy. Sangwon pressed his face into Leo’s neck, the warmth of his breath sinking through fabric and skin. Leo’s hand came up instinctively, cupping the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair with slow, steady motions.

“I used to think love was supposed to be clean,” Sangwon whispered after a while. “That it should be easy, full of beautiful words and clear moments. But it’s not. It’s messy. It’s crying on New Year’s under fireworks. It’s fighting and coming back. It’s...” His voice faltered, trembling. “It’s this. Just this.”

Leo’s hand tightened gently in his hair. “Then I’ll take messy,” he whispered. “If it means you.”

That broke Sangwon’s composure all over again. His laugh came out half-sobbed, muffled against Leo’s shoulder. “You’re going to ruin me.”

“Already did,” Leo murmured with a weak smile. “Guess we’re even.”

They stayed like that, the room growing softer around them — the heater humming, the rain slowing to a whisper. Eventually, Leo shifted, coaxing Sangwon up.

“Bed,” he said gently. “You’re falling asleep on me.”

Sangwon blinked groggily. “You’re the one who’s shaking.”

Leo chuckled, wiping a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand. “We’ll argue about it tomorrow.”

He stood, tugging Sangwon with him. Their fingers stayed interlaced as they crossed the small hallway. The bedroom was dim, the sheets still rumpled from mornings they’d left in a hurry, from nights that ended too late. Leo sat on the edge of the bed, pulling Sangwon close until he was standing between his knees.

“You tired?” Leo asked quietly.

Sangwon nodded, his fingers playing with the hem of Leo’s shirt. “Exhausted. But it feels like a good kind of tired.”

“The kind you earn,” Leo said softly.

Sangwon smiled, faint and sleepy. “The kind you share.”

Leo leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his wrist — right over the bracelet he had tied there. “I’ll keep this safe. I promise,” he whispered.

“You better,” Sangwon murmured, brushing his thumb across Leo’s jaw. “Or I’ll make you another one.”

“Good,” Leo said, tugging him closer until their foreheads met again. “Then I’ll have two reasons to stay.”

Sangwon laughed quietly, that small, beautiful sound that Leo wanted to bottle and keep forever. He climbed into bed first, the blankets pooling around him as Leo joined a moment later. They found each other easily — Sangwon’s head on Leo’s chest, Leo’s arm curled protectively around his waist.

The lamp still glowed faintly across the room, casting them in honeyed light.

Leo stared at the ceiling for a long while, his hand tracing lazy circles against Sangwon’s back. “You know,” he said softly, “for someone who thought love had to be said, you were right. It’s in the way you stay. In the way you wait.”

Sangwon hummed, eyes half-closed. “And in the way you hold on,” he mumbled sleepily.

Leo smiled, pressing a kiss to his hair. “Yeah. That too.”

The rain had stopped outside, leaving only the faint sound of dripping eaves and the whisper of fabric as they shifted closer. Sangwon’s breathing slowed, soft and steady, syncing with Leo’s heartbeat.

Leo let his eyes drift shut, his thumb brushing over the bracelet once more — a silent promise, small and unspoken but real.

And in that quiet, he realised something simple and devastatingly human:
Love didn’t need grand gestures or perfect words.
It only needed two people still trying.

Two hearts that kept finding each other —
even when it hurt,
even when it was hard,
even when they were scared.

That night, they finally rested.
Not because the world was fixed,
But because, for once, they didn’t have to face it alone.

And somewhere between the soft hush of sleep and the echo of fireworks still lingering in the distance, Leo whispered — too quiet for even himself to hear —

“I’ll work harder — until I can say it back the way you deserve to hear it.”