Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

*****

Hot July sun spreads fingers of warmth across Jiwoong’s shoulders as he locks the creaky old door of the library. He has to jiggle the key a few times, the dented and rusted bit of metal a relic of the past, probably a holdover from the 1800’s when the town library was first built. 

Their small town doesn’t much like change, though, and so Jiwoong struggles with the lock a few seconds more before it finally clicks into place. He flips the little sign over to read ‘out to lunch’ and then turns, wrapping his soft cardigan a little tighter round his body despite the hazy warmth of the day. The library’s cool, dusty chill still lingers in him, his hands and bones colder than he’d like. He blinks as he steps off the little porch into a world of green and blue, squinting up at the sun through his wire-rim glasses, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass and orange tiger lilies. 

July is always a busy time for their small town, tourists and adventurers alike flocking to the fuzzy green mountains and clear rivers of this state. Jiwoong blinks owlishly at a pack of bicyclers whizzing past, speeding down the one Main Street of the tiny town in neon shirts and compression shorts, ridiculous sunglasses wrapped around their thin, flushed faces. 

He has to wait several minutes for them to be gone and then a few minutes more while cars roll by, windows down as families out for the day enjoy the beautiful weather. Their little town is practically buzzing with life in a way it never does during the colder months and though Jiwoong is thankful for the money these tourists bring in, still he can’t help but dislike them a little. 

There’s something distasteful about the tourists and their bright, wide eyes, their brand-new hiking shoes and colorful backpacks and the way they spread out across the town green as if they own it. Jiwoong knows he shouldn’t, but he turns his nose up at them just a bit, speaks eagerly with the other residents of the cooler, quieter months to come. 

At last he is able to cross the street, looking both ways— left towards the Brambleberry Inn and town cafe, the covered porch booming with a lunchtime crowd, and right towards quiet old homes and the large, green and white retirement house with a wraparound porch. That porch, as it always is on sunny days, is full of elderly men and women in steadily rocking chairs. 

The square green that lies at the heart of their tiny town and around which every building is arranged is large and emerald green, stately oak trees and maples that will turn gorgeously red-yellow in the fall casting dappled shadows across the grass. At the very center stands a monument to some old war, a white stone pillar engraved with the names of young men who lived here long before Jiwoong was born. 

He passes several benches as he heads to the far right corner of the green where a row of colorful tents and tables are set up, cars parked all along the edge of the grass. The summer air smells of green things and possibility, a perfectly blue sky above him brighter and more hopeful than any robin’s egg. 

A yellow flag snaps in the breeze, printed with artistic sketches of vegetables and cheese and berry pints.

Jiwoong can’t help the tiny sparks of excitement in his chest as he passes the painted yellow and blue sign, familiar after so many weeks, that proudly announces; Peachem Farmers Market, Fridays noon - 4 pm. 

The Farmer’s Market is another relic of days gone by that their town insists on holding onto but, unlike the rusty key, Jiwoong doesn’t mind this particular tradition. In fact, ever since a certain farmer with a face like a blooming sunflower began to show up to sell his vegetables, it’s become the highlight of Jiwoong’s week.

His hands are a little damp with sweat, but he wraps his cardigan more firmly around himself, half-wishing for the cool protection of his books and studious quiet of the library even as he weaves through several browsing people. 

Old Mrs. Brown waves to him, a basket of bright carrots looped over one of her arms, and Jiwoong smiles in return but then turns towards the nearest stand, hoping to avoid a conversation. She likes to discuss different fertilizers for her garden a little too much. 

Blue paper pints of shiny blueberries and ruby red raspberries are laid out in neat rows on a checked tablecloth, little jars of wildflower honey and jams that proudly declare themselves to be organic and all natural stacked beside the berries. Jiwoong glances his fingertips over the small jars, trying to remember if he needs more honey for his morning mint tea. 

“Hi Jiwoong,” Robert, the owner of the nearby berry farm greets him, smiling broadly. He’s a little wrinkled and stooped with age but Jiwoong’s seen him out mulching the berry bushes in April, the old man stronger than most teenagers. “Looking for some new honey to try?” 

“Not today,” Jiwoong replies with a smile, tuning out the family of tourists who have sidled up to the table and are exclaiming over the honey straws. “The last jar I bought from you—“ 

“Oh, the wild clover.” 

“Mm, yes. The wild clover is so good but I just have a little every day.” 

Robert nods, seemingly satisfied. “Did it help your allergies?” 

Jiwoong, a little pink in the cheeks and itching to move down the line of stalls to the person he really wants to see, nods distractedly. “Yes, it was very helpful. Thank you again for recommending it.”

Thankfully before Robert can delve deeper into friendly but inane conversation, the mother of the family asks excitedly about growing berries without pesticides and Jiwoong is able to escape. He wanders down the line of stalls, smiling at townspeople and sellers alike, waving at his mailman and greeting several children scampering around. 

The green is the heart of Peachem in every season, the place around which all life in their small town rumbles on and the best place for celebrations or gatherings or announcements, the living breathing center of the people who choose to live here.

In summer children play tag and old men walk their dogs and the whole town gathers around the gazebo for concerts, golden fireflies drifting among lawn chairs and picnic blankets during muggy evenings. Fall brings brilliant foliage and leaf-peepers from out of state, the smell of smoke in the air and pumpkins fat on doorsteps and the Harvest Festival. During winter the green is blanketed in a thick layer of white, though children are quick to build snowmen and lay down for snow angels, a Christmas tree wrapped in lights presiding over it all from the shelter of the gazebo and illuminating the heart of the town.

And in the spring, though here in Peachem that season is little more than mud and bare trees and rain, the square slowly transforms back to emerald after a long season of rest.

As the town’s sole librarian, he’s come to know the people in this little community very well, because at some point during the endless white winters they always find their way into his library. He recognizes the older women who hold a monthly book club in his library and bring him rhubarb pie, he says hello to the teachers from the elementary school who come to him for classroom reading recommendations, and he exclaims over the beautiful weather with the owner of the Books and Bakery store whose collection rivals his own. 

Jiwoong has settled into Peachem very well and, now that he feels at home in this pretty little town, he can’t help but think over the gossipy old women who always ask him when he’s going to find that special someone and settle down. 

Jiwoong thinks he’s already found that special someone. Actually, he’s almost entirely sure of it. He’s had that moment, that fireworks-in-the-sky butterflies-in-his-stomach golden-bells-ringing and heart-stopping, sweeping romantic music moment.

Jiwoong has found his person but now— now he just has to build up the courage to ask him on a date, ask him to move in, ask him to marry Jiwoong and adopt lots of babies with him. 

As he meanders down the row of stalls and stops to have casual little conversations about happy but meaningless topics, Jiwoong’s heart flutters in his chest like a monarch butterfly. He thinks he could identify the bright yellow tent at the very end of the row in his sleep and he has to keep rubbing his hands on his chinos as he approaches, too nervous not to fidget. 

He’s worn his prettiest lavender sweater today and his glasses are polished to a high shine so really— what else can Jiwoong do? Helplessly, hopefully, he steps under the buttery yellow awning and prepares to face the light of the sun turned human. 

“Jiwoong!” His favorite farmer exclaims and when Jiwoong blinks he decides that Seok Matthew is trying to kill him because the younger man is dressed in adorable jean overalls and a striped t-shirt and an actual, for real, straw hat. “Hello!” 

“Hi,” Jiwoong sighs, his mouth automatically turning up in a smile. He can’t do this. He really, really can’t be expected to withstand the beauty that is Seok Matthew in these clothes. It’s just too much for any person to bear. 

Matthew, freckles scattered across his round cheeks like stars and ashy hair limned in golden sunlight, grins at him. He is so beautiful and so lovely and Jiwoong wants to marry him in a September wedding and then wake him up with pancakes in bed for the rest of their lives.

“So, Jiwoong, what can I get for you today? Your favorite?” 

You, Jiwoong thinks helplessly, all I want is you. You’re my favorite.

“Yes please,” he says instead, leaning his hip against the table and ignoring the neat baskets of beautifully grown vegetables and boxes of fresh berries set next to bunches of scallions and carrots. “My favorite. I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

Matthew does an adorable nose scrunch thing that makes Jiwoong want to kiss him all the more and says, giggling, “without my vegetables, you mean.”

“Mmhm,” Jiwoong agrees easily, though he hadn’t misspoken. Matthew has been his favorite person, his favorite thing in the world, since he first showed up at the farmer’s market in early June. 

“Well, you’re my favorite customer,” Matthew confesses, leaning towards Jiwoong like this is a huge secret. Up close the tiny golden hoop in his ear shines, delicate and pretty. Jiwoong wants to bite it. “But don’t tell anyone!” 

I’m his favorite, Jiwoong thinks and, ridiculously, blushes. He wants to be Matthew’s favorite in everything, always. He likes this pedestal the farmer’s put him on, wants to stay up here among the fluffy clouds and singing cherubs. 

“Okay,” Jiwoong whispers in return, winking at Matthew and leaning in too just so he can watch rose gently flush the farmer’s cheeks. “It’ll be our secret.” 

He watches Matthew with hearts in his eyes as the younger man inspects the zucchinis in a basket and chooses the largest, fattest, greenest one. Sparks glance off their fingers when Matthew hands the vegetable to him, a tingle zinging through Jiwoong. 

“Perfect,” Jiwoong murmurs, cradling the zucchini against his chest like a baby and thinking about raising children with Matthew. His strong, lovely, talented farmer who could feed him so well and make all of his romance book fantasies come true. “It looks so good.” 

“Thank you! I think so too.” Matthew agrees, a dimple appearing in one of his round cheeks. “Speaking of looking good— do you like my overalls?” 

The farmer tucks his thumbs beneath the denim shoulder straps and strikes a pose, the straw edges of his hat ruffled by a breeze that smells of bee balm and love. 

Jiwoong wants to marry him. Jiwoong wants to build a home with him and jointly file his taxes with Matthew and bring him pitchers of lemonade while he works out in the fields.

“Yes,” Jiwoong breathes and maybe there’s a little too much adoration seeping into his voice because Matthew’s pretty fox eyes crinkle, pleased. “They’re so nice. Very— very farmer.” 

“I agree,” Matthew says, nodding seriously. “I want to be very farmer. I have to blend in so they don’t notice I have no idea what I’m doing and kick me out, you know?” By the end of his sentence he’s leaned back into Jiwoong, conspiratorial, so that their breaths are shared. 

This is the closest we’ve ever been to kissing, Jiwoong thinks, and then he realizes what Matthew said and then realizes it was a joke and he laughs. 

Matthew giggles along with him and there’s a feeling between them like thick golden honey dripping from a silver spoon, lines of sweetness connecting their hearts.

“They’d never kick you out,” Jiwoong assures, taking in every inch of Matthew’s happy face and crinkled eyes and sweet dimples. “You grow the best vegetables in the whole town and also, what would I do without you?” 

Matthew makes a face but doesn’t lean away, close enough that Jiwoong can smell sunshine and hay and the honest, delicious musk of sweat. He wants to lick the younger man a little. 

“Actually, you never told me what you do with all that zucchini,” Mathhew asks curiously. “You’re my best customer but I don’t know why… although maybe it’s just because I’m so cute?”

Jiwoong readjusts the heavy zucchini in his arms, thoughts racing for an explanation when in reality he hates the vegetable and struggles with finding ways to eat his weekly purchase.

He misses the hopeful look Matthew shoots at him. 

“Lots of different things,” Jiwoong settles on, winking at Matthew and trying to seem mysterious and sexy and like good future-boyfriend-material. There’s no way he’s admitting to the farmer that actually he just piles the zucchini into the fridge and tries to ignore them because he has no idea how to eat them.

“But what do you make with it,” Matthew presses and he lifts his hand up, resting his fingertips ever so lightly on Jiwoong’s arm. 

Even through his cardigan and white linen shirt, Jiwoong feels that touch like a lick of flame and he is done. Obliterated, gone, completely head over heels. “Please tell me? I’m such a bad cook, I always need help with meal ideas!” 

I can cook for you, Jiwoong almost blurts, biting down on the tip of his tongue to stop the words. I’ll pack you lunches with cute notes and make your favorite dinner and bake cupcakes for you whenever you want.

“Well…” he hedges, his brain a hazy mess because Matthew is touching him and fluttering his eyelashes and biting his full, red lower lip. 

“Jiwoon-hyung,” Matthew pouts, though they hardly ever use Korean honorifics between themselves, “please cook for me?”

Jiwoong feels so flushed that it’s like a bad sunburn, the tops of his cheeks and bridge of his nose on fire. He’s helpless against Matthew’s sparkling brown eyes and squishy cheeks and adorable begging face. And even if he wasn’t already completely in love with the farmer, he’d have fallen just now. 

“Okay,” Jiwoong agrees without thinking, entranced by Matthew’s fluttering lashes and the swell of his muscles under his overalls. He can still feel, like a brand, where the younger man’s fingers rest on his arm. “I can cook for you. Whatever—whatever you’d like.”

His throat is very dry. He can hear the sound of rushing waves, a beating drum, and it takes a moment for him to realize it’s just his racing heart, blood flowing quickly through his veins. He’s so, so overheated— global warming truly is taking a toll on the environment.

Matthew beams at him, bouncing on his toes and clapping his small hands together. He’s so cute that Jiwoong lets out a tiny strangled sound, something tight in his chest because he needs to sweep his farmer up in a hug but he can’t yet.

“I can’t wait!” Matthew exclaims, smile curving across his golden face and turning his eyes to sparkling gems, brighter than fireflies. “How’s next Friday afternoon? You’re normally free for lunch, right?”

A warm breeze curls around them, fluttering the edges of the farmer’s tents and making the bright emerald leaves of the trees overhead whisper. The tiger lilies lining the steps to Jiwoong’s library, across the green, sway, puffy clouds floating gently across the brilliant blue sky. 

It is a perfect summer’s day and Jiwoong is entirely, completely, wholeheartedly in love. 

“Me too,” he finds himself saying, tipping his head a little because looking at Matthew full on is more than he can handle for an extended time. Like this he can dart glances at the farmer, taking in little bits and pieces of him; the corner of his mouth, his lashes, the freckle high on his cheekbone, the soft curl of hair against his neck.

Matthew is still beaming at him, brilliant against the blue sky and green grass. “Well then maybe you should take two zucchinis,” he suggests, loading another enormous vegetable into Jiwoong’s arms before the librarian can think of an excuse. “There! Now you have enough to make me a whole meal.”

Jiwoong struggles for a moment, working to balance the new weight, truly feeling as if he’s cradling a baby in each arm as he blinks at Matthew, speechless. His farmer is so crafty, so devious, so sly, but also so cute.

“Mm,” he agrees, words escaping him because of the way Matthew’s biceps are bulging as he rearranges the rest of the vegetables and berries on the table, many zucchinis still left for sale. His head is hazy, tongue too large in his mouth, every scent and color so much brighter than ever before.

Matthew is so pretty. So pretty and so adorable and Jiwoong would be the best husband for him, would buy him flowers and massage his shoulders after a long day in the fields and carry him up to their bed.

Matthew opens his mouth, eyes twinkling, but that same tourist family from before suddenly appears, the little boys asking for berries while their mom follows after them. Matthew is quickly distracted, beaming down at the children and offering to help them decide which healthy snack they want, their mom asking more questions about organic farming.

Jiwoong, who already feels like his skin is burning, waves goodbye to his farmer over the children’s head and only stumbles a little when Matthew blows him a kiss goodbye, sharp eyes crinkled in the happiest smile. The librarian is quite proud of himself for managing to turn and walk away, holding his head high despite the enormous zucchinis in his arms.

Back in the cool shadows of his library, Jiwoong inhales the comforting scents of paper and dust and blue iris lotion, allowing himself to finally fall into a puddle. He thinks about Matthew’s hand on his arm, Matthew’s smile, Matthew’s overalls and freckles and earring and kicks his feet, just a little.

Jiwoong is so in love with the farmer that his love burns in his chest like a sun, a constant sphere of golden sparks and swooping butterflies that only grows whenever he gets to see or speak with the younger man. He hopes, someday, that he’ll be able to pour all his love for Matthew out into pretty words and kisses and matching bands on their fingers.

A bit of Jiwoong’s elation dies down when he accidentally looks over at the zucchinis, large and green and slightly prickly. Their cut stems weep clear liquid and, if he inhales, he can smell sun-hot earth and summer on them.

They look delicious but Jiwoong knows the truth— zucchinis have no flavor and no structural integrity and turn into tasteless, bland mush the moment they’re cooked.

And now Jiwoong has to make something delicious with the vegetables, something that will convince Matthew to marry him and make the farmer finally realize they’re meant to be together. He is so, so fucked.

*****

Jiwoong walks to his little room in a house one block away from the town green slowly, carefully, cradling the enormous zucchinis in his arms while also balancing his heavy tote bag. After his conversation with Matthew at the market he’d scoured the library for as many cookbooks as he could feasibly carry, flipping through the pages frantically in search of the perfect recipe.

July’s sun has finally faded, sinking below the steep green mountains that cradle their small town and the winding, silver ribbon of a river. Now hazy purple and pink and lilac have crept over the sky, early stars twinkling down at Jiwoong while he takes his shoes off on the creaky front porch of their house and clatters up the stairs to his room, happy to be home.

He drops his heavy bag and lays the zucchinis on his bed, the vegetables incongruous with his lavender sprig sheets and pastel posters and the many crystals lined up on his windowsill. In the mornings, when sunlight streams through the window, the crystals sparkle and throw little fractals of light across the floorboards.

Jiwoong can hear, faintly, someone cooking in the kitchen downstairs.

He lives with two roommates, brothers named Hanbin and Yujin, who rent his room out to him and occasionally share their food if he looks particularly pathetic. Yujin is still in high school, adorable and shy until he’s inviting Jiwoong to binge watch all the Harry Potter movies. Hanbin works at the local elementary school as a kindergarten teacher and so the house is always filled with craft supplies and strangely shaped macaroni and colorful, illegible cards from tiny children.

Jiwoong loves it here. He feels at home, at last, as if he’s found his place in the world where he’s meant to be, where he’s meant to build memories and continue living and someday grow old. Peachem is a tiny, sleepy sort of town full of people who have known each other for generations, and yet it’s exactly as if he belongs.

Jiwoong loves his little town and the community that opened to him so easily. He loves his library and the mountains he hikes sometimes and the root beer floats he buys from the cafe. He loves the Harvest Fair and the vibrant green of nature, loves his roommates and his cozy little room and the slow rhythm of changing seasons here.

Jiwoong is happy and he likes his life very much but, for the farmer he loves most, he needs to cook these terrible zucchinis into something delicious.

He changes into comfortable clothes and ambles down to the kitchen, bringing his books and the vegetables with him. The kitchen is painted blue and smells like warm popcorn, buttery and salty. Yujin, in pajamas, stands over an enormous bowl full of the snack, ominously holding a bottle of whipped cream.

“Hi!” The teenager greets brightly, the bottle of whipped cream disappearing between one blink and the next. His hair is adorably ruffled and his ankles, skinny little things, stick out of his pajama pants because he won’t stop growing.

“Yujinnie,” Jiwoong says, smiling. “It won’t taste good together.”

His arms are full of the zucchinis but he manages to open the fridge with his elbow, huffing a little, Yujin making several suspicious shuffling sounds from behind the fridge door. “But… but kettle corn is salty and sweet and it tastes good so I thought maybe…”

Jiwoong manages to squish the newest zucchinis in with the others, a whole row of enormous green vegetables in their fridge that mock him whenever he wants a snack, and closes the fridge with a sigh. Rolling his aching shoulders, he turns to take the whipped cream from Yujin.

“I think just adding sugar would be better,” he suggests, carefully tucking the whipped cream away behind the carrots, “but we can try it another time, when Hanbin isn’t home.”

Yujin grins at him, lighting up, his nose scrunching and cute dimples flashing. “Okay,” he agrees happily, “when Hanbin isn’t home.”

Hanbin, who has been facedown at the kitchen table the entire time, lifts his head and blinks blearily at them. He’s got red lines criss crossing one cheek and glitter on the other; Jiwoong knows Fridays are always a little crazy at the local summer day-camp Hanbin helps run. “Huh?”

“Nothing, hyung!” Yujin sings, scooping some of his popcorn into a bowl and setting it before Hanbin. “I made a snack, look! And nothing’s on fire.”

“Finally,” Hanbin sighs, putting piece after piece of popcorn in his mouth until his cheeks puff out. After swallowing his treat he seems to become a bit more aware, squinting at Jiwoong and Yujin now sharing the rest of the popcorn. “Is this our dinner?”

Jiwoong winces and chews his popcorn faster, determined to have as much buttery-salty deliciousness as he can. Hanbin is a wonderful, caring teacher but during the summers he occasionally becomes a bit overbearing without hordes of children to preside over every single day; Jiwoong and Yujin are his (un)lucky subjects.

“Jiwoong brought home more zucchinis,” Yujin tattles when Hanbin continues to frown, steadfastly ignoring the wounded look Jiwoong instantly shoots at him. “So we could have those for dinner? There’s kindof a lot.”

The little wrinkle between Hanbin’s brows deepens and when the younger man turns his soft brown eyes on Jiwoong, not mad but instead disappointed, the librarian almost feels like he’s in high school again.

“Jiwoong,” Hanbin sighs, “there’s so many zucchinis in our fridge. Please. We’re running out of space.”

Jiwoong licks salt off his thumb and shrugs, helplessly. “I know, I’m sorry. I just— Matthew.”

Yujin groans and snatches the bowl of popcorn from Jiwoong, crouching down on the floor and glowering sulkily up at the librarian. “You need to tell him you like him! I can’t keep doing this! It’s been forever.”

Jiwoong looks to Hanbin, who is usually the voice of reason, but finds his second roommate nodding in agreement. “Good progress only comes from trying something new,” he says in his teacher voice, and both Jiwoong and Yujin roll their eyes. “I just mean, you won’t be able to date until one of you says something, right?”

“Right,” Yujin agrees, digging into the quickly disappearing popcorn. “And then you can get married and I can be your best man and we finally won’t have to deal with all the zucchini anymore!”

Jiwoong bites his lower lip, frowning a little. “But what if he doesn’t like me back?”

Hanbin throws up his hands and then puts his face back down on the table, muttering something about being too tired to deal with oblivious people. Yujin rolls his eyes so hard it probably hurts and then points a buttery finger at Jiwoong, glowering up at him from beneath his mussed hair.

“Don’t be an idiot, hyung. He’s in love with you too. Why else would he keep giving you all those dumb vegetables?”

“They’re not dumb,” Jiwoong defends, offended on his favorite farmer’s behalf. “They’re really nice and organic! He doesn’t even use pesticides. Also, I pay for them? So he’s not giving them to me?”

Yujin waves his fingers dismissively. There’s a stray popcorn kernel clinging to his cheek. “Whatever. He like likes you back. You’re both just dumb!”

“Jinnie,” Hanbin admonishes, his voice muffled by the table. “Don’t call people dumb. It’s not nice.”

Yujin pouts, curling his legs in against his chest. “Jiwoong-hyung’s talked about this a million times already,” he argues, “and Matthew hasn’t asked him out yet either. So they both are dumb.”

“I just don’t know,” Jiwoong laments aloud, gazing out the window above the sink at the raising stars and thinking about how he can trace the shape of Matthew’s freckles in them. “I’m not sure he sees me as more than a friend. I think it might just be his good customer service skills, you know how charming he is…”

“Ugh,” Yujin says, clapping his hands over his ears, “this is worse than a TV show. I don’t like slow burn!”

“He’s so pretty,” Jiwoong continues, lost in his memories of seeing Matthew this afternoon and talking to him, hearing him laugh. “He’s always pretty, but he looked extra pretty today? He was wearing these really cute overalls and an actual straw hat! Isn’t that adorable?”

He smiles hopefully at Hanbin and Yujin, who are both ignoring him. They’ve heard him wax poetic about Matthew a million times already and, while they’re always supportive, their encouragement has turned from gentle to a little— harried, maybe.

When Jiwoong woke up to a buzzfeed article laying out detailed steps on how to ask out your crush, with photos, pinned to his door, he’d started to have the faintest inkling that perhaps his roommates are invested in his future husband too. It’s very sweet of them, really, but the problem is that he truly can’t be sure Matthew likes him back.

They’ve only known each other since June and although Matthew is the absolute light of his life, the librarian just can’t be sure that his farmer feels the same way. They laugh together, of course, share little stories and tidbits of gossip and discuss their weekends as well as the newest books Jiwoong’s reading, but isn’t that just what friends do?

Jiwoong can’t be sure. He doesn’t want to overstep the boundaries of their friendship and, also, he’s terrified of losing what they already have. So even though he like likes Matthew, and already has a whole Pinterest collection of inspiration photos for their summer wedding, he isn’t quite sure he’s ready to ask the farmer out yet or confess his feelings.

“Matthew was wearing a straw hat today,” he repeats after a few moments of silence, Yujin chewing on the popcorn kernels left in the bowl and Hanbin still trying to sleep on the table. “And he told me I’m his favorite customer.”

Hanbin’s head pops up, the silver bowl slipping from between Yujin’s fingers. “Really?” They ask in unison, giving him the same wide-eyed stare.

Jiwoong beams at them, his heart fluttering in his chest just at the memory. “Yes! Isn’t that so nice of him? He’s such a kind friend to me.”

Yujin tosses a kernel at Jiwoong, who manages to dodge it. “He’s not your friend! He’s in love with you! Show up at his farm and kiss him!”

“Or tell him he’s your favorite too,” Hanbin offers, stretching his back and groaning when it makes several disturbing clicks. “And then propose. You can worry about dating after you get married.”

Jiwoong considers this. “I do already have his ring picked out…”

“Yes,” Yujin agrees, rubbing his buttery hands together, “it’s all coming together. Finally!”

“…But I don’t think he’d say yes,” Jiwoong finishes, his shoulders slumping. “Maybe he would because he’s so nice, but I want him to want to marry me back.”

Yujin screeches, like a velociraptor, and twists to look at Hanbin. “Hyung, I really can’t live like this that much longer. He’s going to kill me or I’m going to murder them both.”

Hanbin makes a sad face. “I know. Me too, Jinnie.”

Jiwoong, still lost in his memories of how cute Matthew looked in his overalls, the burning tingle of his hand on the librarian’s arm, doesn’t notice.

Yujin doubles down, explaining, “hyung, I really think I’m losing brain cells just from living with him. He’s going to hurt my PSAT score!”

Hanbin opens his mouth, like he’s going to disagree, and then firmly closes it.

“I feel sick,” Yujin continues, giving Jiwoong the nastiest side eye, “I don’t even want to eat dinner. Yuck! Look at his face!”

Jiwoong, who has managed to lose himself in a daydream involving Matthew’s dimples and a pot of honey and many, many kisses, smiles back hazily at the teenager. “Hmm?”

Yujin pretends to gag, moving his shoulders and flexing his throat in a realistic approximation of being sick.

“I know,” Hanbin commiserates with his little brother, throwing Jiwoong a very fake smile, “it’s gross. Also, should we have pizza? I want pizza.”

“Pizza is so good,” Jiwoong agrees, blinking away his daydream. “Matthew likes pizza. With basil and olives.”

“Please,” Yujin says, his face blank, “please, go eat pizza at Matthew’s house. Please stop torturing us.”

Hanbin, who has hauled himself up and is now peering into the fridge, snorts in agreement. A moment later he straightens up and gives them both a disappointed teacher look, one hand on his hip. “We can’t have pizza. The only stuff in here is zucchini and milk.”

Yujin widens his already large, shiny eyes. “I’m a child. Don’t look at me.”

Jiwoong, realizing that their lack of food is perhaps his fault, presses his lips together. “It was my turn to get groceries. I’m sorry. I just… I saw this really cute stuffed fox in the cafe so I went in to buy it because it reminded me of Matthew and it turned out that they had a whole collection of fox themed stuff and after that I don’t… I don’t really remember.”

Hanbin blinks at him. Yujin, on the floor, is typing rapidly on his phone.

“You know, Jiwoong,” Hanbin suggests calmly, “maybe you should ask Matthew out on a date. For real. How about tomorrow? I’ll even drive you out to his farm.”

Jiwoong flushes brilliant red in an instant, his heart picking up pace in his chest and his belly flipping over. He could never, not tomorrow! Not without preparation!

“Hyungs.” Yujin is still tapping at his phone. “I ordered pizza from Wild Fern. It’ll be ready in half an hour. We have to pay with cash.”

“Good,” Hanbin says, returning to the table with a sigh, “wake me up when it’s time to go get it.” He puts his head down on his folded arms, having never wiped the glitter off his face.

“Hyung,” Yujin asks, twisting round to look at Jiwoong with his enormous, shiny eyes. “Do you wanna watch a movie while we wait?”

Jiwoong perks up. “Yujinnie, that’s such a good idea. Matthew told me about this new movie he really liked…”

******

The library is open on Saturdays but Taerae works instead and so, when Jiwoong wakes up to golden sunlight streaming through his windows and laying across his face, he allows himself to luxuriate in the cozy peace. He can hear birds singing outside, the sound of passing cars, wind in the trees and an old fuzzy radio playing downstairs.

The sound of home. Of summer, of peace and golden-green happiness and of stretching, unfurling butterfly wings.

Jiwoong dresses for battle after he rises, loose linen pants and a light t-shirt and a band, in his hair, to keep it off his face. He can smell the heat of July in the air already, an impending mugginess that will roll in with the rising sun, and with the amount of cooking he has planned for today he needs to be prepared.

Downstairs he fortifies himself with a cup of milky mint tea, sweetened with clover honey, and then flips open the first of many cookbooks. He’d gone through the thick pages last night, marking any recipes that contained zucchini and looked remotely appetizing, and now he has a busy day ahead of him.

Jiwoong is going to make all of the recipes, every single one, until he finds the perfect dish to woo his farmer with. He’s always heard that the best way into someone’s heart is through their stomach and for Matthew, who always exclaims over the bakery’s bagels and the cafe’s ice cream floats, this rings especially true.

He hauls the zucchinis out of the fridge, laying them out on the counter, a little embarrassed at just how many of the large green vegetables there are. Their fridge, though newly stocked by Hanbin this morning, looks almost empty now. Next he washes the zucchinis and cuts off their tops, being careful of the prickly stems.

He looks at his list of recipes, breathing in deeply. He can do this! To win his farmer’s heart, to someday marry the love of his life and take holiday photos together in the snow and celebrate their anniversary each summer— he can do this.

Grilled zucchini

Zoodles

Pasta w/zucchini

Veggie lasagna

Ratatouille

Picking up a newly sharpened knife and setting the first zucchini on the wooden cutting board, Jiwoong gets to work. He has a long day of cooking ahead of him.

*****

The dilemma of the zucchinis stretches back to the second Friday in June, the day the summer farmer’s market officially opened. Jiwoong, on that fateful afternoon, had closed up the library a bit early for lunch and wandered over to the green, drawn in by colorful tents and the promise of a few treats. 

The sellers at the market change from summer to summer but every so often a nice man who owns a portable fire oven and sells slices of pizza will show up. There was also, that one August, a couple who made the fluffiest and sweetest doughnuts Jiwoong’s ever tasted. 

So with a few dollars in the pockets of his favorite granny square cardigan and hunger rumbling in his belly, Jiwoong joined the people already perusing the stalls. He stopped for a few conversations, took a request for a new book series from an eager little girl, and pet two very cute dogs before he finally saw Matthew. 

The farmer was under his cheery yellow tent, focused on his table while he laid out baskets and bundles of vegetables, the summer’s first early harvest. Jiwoong had spent only a moment glancing over the lettuce and baby carrots, early snap peas and tiny magenta radishes before gazing at the beautiful young man, a stranger he instantly wanted to know.

Matthew was so busy that he didn’t notice Jiwoong watching him, just happy in his own little world, yellow tent fluttering and denim shorts exposing his golden legs.

Back then, even though he didn’t know why, Jiwoong had the strangest feeling that this was the person he was going to marry. Like an invisible string connected their chests he walked towards the stranger, a newcomer in their town which was certainly uncommon, and sincerely hoped that this farmer wasn’t married.

Jiwoong can’t remember the very first conversation shared between them, can’t recall who spoke first or how he learned Matthew’s name or if they shook hands. He can’t remember the excuses he made for his presence or if he welcomed the younger man to Peachem or if he was funny, though he hopes he was at least a little.

Instead, this is what Jiwoong remembers of his first meeting with Matthew; the sharp tilt of his eyes, the freckles splattered across his nose, the constant pink blush on his cheeks. The bright tone of Matthew’s laughter when he threw his head back, the enthusiasm with which he spoke of his farm, the warmth of standing in his presence.

Matthew, to him, has always felt like the sun since that very first day.

Jiwoong doesn’t remember what they spoke of but, somehow, he must have told Matthew in all his nerves that he loved zucchini. He must have communicated, somehow, that they were his favorite thing to eat.

On that Friday in June, beneath a cloudless blue sky, Jiwoong wandered away from the farmer’s market with a heavy vegetable tucked in his arms and a heart entirely bursting with love, having already fallen. All it took was one conversation, a few smiles, the exchange of their names.

Very quickly it became a tradition between them, a ritual performed each Friday afternoon that Jiwoong looked forward to all week long. Any length of time spent in Matthew’s company was wonderful, shining, the highlight of his day. The zucchinis, large and green and heavy, were only a small matter.

*****

Several hours and more than a dozen dirty bowls later, Jiwoong is close to tears. He’s peeled and chopped and sauteed the zucchini, has turned it into long spiraling zoodles and baked it into lasagna and tried his hardest to make it taste good but it just doesn’t.

The kitchen is an absolute mess, used pots and utensils piled up in the sink, the compost overflowing with zucchini scraps, pepper on the counter and a stray bit of tomato sauce on Jiwoong’s cheek. He’s gone through an entire roll of paper towels and even though the kitchen smells nice, like simmering vegetables and spices and warm pasta, Jiwoong doesn’t have anything for his farmer.

The screen door creaks as Yujin ducks inside, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, his skateboard tucked under one arm. He’s sweaty and beaming, smelling like hot sun, and his eyes light up when he sees all the food laid out on the kitchen table.

“Hi hyung! Can I try this?”

Jiwoong, slumped against the counter, mops his flushed cheeks with a cloth and sighs. “Sure, Jinnie. It’s ratatouille.”

“Like what the rat made?” Jiwoong nods and Yujin bounces with happiness, scooping up a large bite. He chews for a second or two, still beaming, and then his whole face pinches with disgust. “Hyung, it’s vegetables.”

“I know,” Jiwoong grumbles, sinking down to sit on the floor. His shoulders are aching and his back hurts and he’s dripping with sweat and he just really, really hates zucchini. “It doesn’t taste good, does it?”

Yujin swallows thickly, pushing the tray of ratatouille away with a glare. “Disney lied to us! That was so gross, all I could taste was tomato.”

Jiwoong, at his wits end, just nods. It seems like he’ll be a bachelor forever, if he can’t figure out how to make something delicious for Matthew.

Yujin surveys the table, crinkling his nose at the green zoodles in a creamy lemon sauce, passing over the strips of grilled zucchini sprinkled with salt and pepper and feta. “Hyung,” he asks suspiciously, “is there zucchini in all of this? Even the lasagna?”

Jiwoong nods sadly and Yujin backs away from the table, shuddering. “Ugh, why? Can’t we just put the zucchinis in the compost and not tell hyung?”

“No,” Jiwoong says, despondent and crushed and trying to reconcile with the fact that he’ll be alone forever. “I have to make something yummy for Matthew. We’re meeting on Friday. I said I would cook for him.”

Yujin freezes, his mouth dropping open. “You’re cooking for him? Like a date?”

Jiwoong thinks about it, then shakes his head. That would be too good to be true. “No, I’m just making him food.”

Yujin’s chest is heaving, his eyes glowing. “Hyung, that’s literally a date! You’re going on a date with your soulmate!”

Jiwoong perks up the tiniest bit, wiping sweat off his forehead and daring to feel a spark of hope. Are all of his dreams, at last, after more than a month of pining, finally coming true? Should he order that ring he’s picked out? Perhaps it’s time to edit his vows again?

“Really? You think so, Yujinnie?”

“No,” Jiwoong says emphatically, hugging the last remaining zucchini protectively to his chest. “I have to! I need to give him the most delicious zucchini ever so he’ll realize I love him and his vegetables and that I’m okay being a farmer’s househusband!”

Yujin scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Like it isn’t your dream job! He doesn’t know that yet? You haven’t told him?”

Jiwoong blushes faintly, shifting the zucchini in his arms. “Well… no. Not yet. I’m working up to it.”

Yujin levels a stare at him, entirely too knowledgeable for a teenager wearing an oversized cocomelon t-shirt. “You need to be honest, Jiwoong-hyung. Tell him you’re in love with him and that you wanna marry him and cook all his meals.”

Jiwoong makes a very sad sound. “But I need to cook this dumb zucchini and make it delicious so he’ll agree to marry me! I have to prove my husband skills!” 

Chapter Text

*****

Ricky wakes up feeling— cold. 

If he were a regular person with a sometimes faulty immune system, this would be perfectly normal and only a minor hindrance. For the ruler of Hell, supreme demon of fire and brimstone, lord of burning ashes and so forth, it’s a bit… concerning. 

Ricky has only a moment after waking to enjoy the sumptuous silk sheets of his bed, music chiming softly from a harp in the corner and flames flickering gently around the ceiling to watch over him in his dreams. Everything in his realm is as it should be, the millions of threads that connect him to his demons and sprites and imps perfectly attuned, but something feels— off. 

Ricky, who has never been sick a day in his very very long life, sits up with a drawn-out gasp. Pressing a long, pale hand to his chest, he goes very still, trying to assess exactly what in his body is out of place. 

His skin looks the same, snowy white, his nails varnished in his preferred shade of crimson. He can wiggle his toes beneath the garnet sheets and his vision is crisp, breathing unencumbered. Even the candles beside his bed and the flames in his enormous black marble fireplace flicker steadily, in no danger of dimming. 

But there’s an unsettling tickle at the nape of his neck, a sense that somewhere in his body something vital is no longer aligned. The molten fire that flows through Ricky’s veins has cooled, slightly, and when he thinks about how he feels, he realizes he is—chilled.

A little cold, in need of a warm bath or some hot tea or a cozy sweater wrapped around his shoulders.

Rick gasps again, pressing both hands to his chest and falling back against his mountain of pillows. For the very first time in his unending life, there is a chill on his skin and he feels cold. 

“Advisors!” His voice, normally smooth and deep, wavers like a new flame. How horrifying! 

“Advisors.” Ricky croaks again, snapping his fingers and attempting to send out his usual ribbons of fire, little twisting snakes that slither through the palace to do his bidding and summon whoever has displeased him. Terribly, horribly, only red-gold sparks burst against the ebony marble.

Gathering the last dregs of his energy, vowing to smite whatever has caused this unsettling chill the moment he feels better, Ricky issues a final summons. “Attend to me! I am dying! I am— I am wasting away!”

Spent, his throat aching terribly, he collapses back against his mountains of pillows. They are the softest thing in the world, stuffed with phoenix feathers, and yet the brush of them against his sensitive skin grates painfully.

He stares up at the ceiling, Earthen constellations depicted in gold and precious gems, and feels very sorry for himself. That horrific little tingle is still running over his skin, a frisson of ice that tickles his nerves and raises the fine hairs on his body. Strangely, his teeth are vibrating in his mouth and, very gently, he is shaking beneath his velvet covers.

This is humiliation to the upmost degree! He has been cursed, surely! Poisoned, betrayed, stabbed in his sleep! Perhaps one of Heaven’s angels snuck done and sprinkled some of their disgusting glitter over him; Ricky shudders at the thought, wishing he were strong enough to drag himself into a cleansing tub of hellfire.

With a resounding boom, the massive golden double doors to his rooms are thrown wide. Only a sliver of the castle beyond is visible, more black marble and woven tapestries, before the hordes of Ricky’s Advisors rush into his bedroom.

They are dressed in their required uniform, silken cheetah print shirts and black trousers, but somehow the sight of them still manages to make Ricky feel ill. He presses a slim hand to his forehead, squinting at them, wishing for his YSL sunglasses and a nice cup of strawberry milk.

“Your Majesty,” the First Advisor intones, stopping seven paces away from Ricky’s bed and throwing himself into a deep, deep bow.

The First Advisor has the longest horns of the whole pack of them, great spiraling things adorned with rings of gold, and skin the color of charred meat. He wears ridiculous curved shoes and his tail keeps bursting into flame, but when he bows so do the rest of them. “You summoned us with great urgency. How may we serve you?”

Ricky clenches his vibrating teeth together, miffed. The Advisors have not remembered to complete the customary Three Bows and Ten Compliments before addressing him. Truly, how can he be expected to survive so many indignities in the morning alone?

A legion of little ember fairies floats above the heads of the Advisors, their bodies glowing brilliant saffron and crimson, fluttering black wings cascading ash upon the assembled creatures. They chitter in high pitched voices, so fast that only Ricky can catch their words, but at least they have the good members to remember the royal protocol.

“So pretty, Your Majesty,” one fairy compliments, dipping into a swirling curtsy. Another follows suit, singing out sweetly; “your hair shines brighter than rubies.”

“Your skin is flawless.”

“His Majesty’s eyes could cut glass!”

“Our King is beautiful even after waking.”

“Only one so ethereal has the right to rule us.”

“You glow brighter than the morning star!”

“Our King is more radiant than the sun, in my opinion.”

“His Majesty’s mouth is softer than a rose.”

“His Majesty’s mouth is softer than an entire garden of roses!”

Ricky’s mouth, which is indeed very soft, quirks faintly. He’s always enjoyed the ember fairies and their silly chatter, most especially because members of his court tend to forget their presence. Ricky, however, finds them to be wonderful sources of gossip and valuable allies.

He is still very ill, of course, a terrible unknown cold lodged in his chest like a stubborn chip of ice, but he feels minutely better. The compliments, like soft tongues of flame, have layered over his skin. He thinks he might even be able to overlook the lack of additional bows from his silly Advisors.

“Summon the Royal physician,” Ricky instructs, barely moving his lips. He feels entirely drained, weaker than a newly hatched phoenix, unable to even lift a finger. He coughs faintly, hot air scraping his raw throat, and is forced to close his eyes momentarily. Truly, he is perishing by the moment!

The Advisors, still bent low and gazing at the sleek marble floor, make confused noises. They remind him of chickens, only sillier, and Ricky wonders again why he allows them to run around his palace. They aren’t even good at thinking up new compliments for him each morning!

“I,” he croaks, drawing in a labored breath, pressing both hands against his chest and flinching at the cold emanating from his chest, “am dying. It is my time. I must leave you, soon.”

The First Advisor forgets himself and stands up straight, new cracks of reddish-orange fire appearing on his charred skin with the swell of his emotions. Clearly, he is devastated. “Dying, Your Majesty?”

Ricky blinks slowly, feeling another little shiver work through his body. Oh, how he misses the lovely warmth of the hellfire that runs through his veins and usually keeps him burning hot! He is so young, still, so much life ahead of him! His rule has only just begun, truly— he had so many plans for Hell, for fields of flame flowers and pools of lava and perhaps a nice shrine to cats.

If only he had done more with his scant few years here; if only his spark, so bright yet so short-lived, could go on!

“You can’t be dying, Your Majesty,” the Second Advisor protests, straightening up too, the ridge of fur along her spine twitching. “You’re the only ruler we’ve ever had! You made Hell!”

Ricky sniffs, sadly, and tries to stay strong for his inconsolable staff. “Struck down in my youth,” he laments, blinking quickly. “Just as I was beginning. It’s so cruel.”

The Advisors, now entirely ignoring protocol, have all straightened up and are loudly muttering to each other, the rumble of voices swelling up to the high ceiling. The temperature in Ricky’s bedroom is noticeably warmer, hot air and emotions pressing outward, the flames in his fireplace and along the walls climbing higher.

“We will find the Royal Physician immediately, Your Majesty,” the First Advisor vows, gesturing at the noisy masses behind him to be silent. Instantly tails cease to lash, flames extinguish, ears lower and wings fold in and scales fade to smooth black. “We will not allow you to perish!”

Ricky sighs faintly, a headache pulsing at his temples. The Advisors are very loud, and colorful, and he really needs to fire some of them when he next remembers. They’re barely helpful.

“Go, then,” he orders, flicking his shiny red nails at the Advisors in dismissal. They’ve worked themselves up into a frenzy, some of them already sobbing loudly into each other’s shoulders, sad little puffs of smoke spiraling up towards the ceiling.

The flame fairies have floated down to settle gently on covers of Ricky’s bed, circles of ash around their drooped wings and bowed shoulders. He doesn’t think they can cry but their bodies have dimmed to only a pale yellow gleam, tiny voices gone silent. He’s very grateful for their solidarity during his final hours.

“We will, Your Majesty,” the First Advisor promises, bowing so low that his long nose brushes the tips of his curling shoes. His skin is flaring, angry red lines spiraling across his body and scorching the silk of his uniform shirt. “In your hour of need, we are here!”

Ricky’s cold chest jumps, ice creeping into the second chamber of his heart, and he closes his eyes. He can’t bear his silly Advisors a moment longer.

He hears the First Advisor turn to shout at the rest of them, bellowing steaming orders, the scrape of hooves and shoes and slithering scales against marble as his rooms slowly empty. With a final boom, marking his death toll, the double doors close and Ricky is left in wonderful silence.

“Your Majesty,” one of the ember fairies chirps, sweet voice not too harsh on his sensitive ears. “How can we be of help?”

Ricky’s teeth chatter in his mouth, clicking together painfully. He doesn’t like the sensation one bit, wants it to stop immediately, but he doesn’t know how. The horrible, terrible, seeping cold in his chest is somehow affecting the rest of his body, poisoning him!

“I am cold,” he complains, poking his nose in the air and wishing for death to sweep him away to sweet, sweet fiery peace. He hates this! He can’t take it a moment longer! There is a chill tickling his toes!

The fairies chatter among themselves for a moment and then, when Ricky peeks at them through his lashes, he sees them rise in one enormous cloud and fly towards the rest of his rooms. In only a moment or two they return, glowing bodies ringed among many blankets, floating them towards his bed.

“Here, Your Royal Majesty,” one of the fairies chirps as the first coverlet is laid over him, thickly woven wool twined with gold. He can feel the weight of it, faintly, and as another blanket settles atop him and then another, Ricky feels the tiniest bit— warmer.

“That’s lovely,” he compliments the fairies, burrowing a bit deeper beneath the covers as the fairies cycle around to drape him in layers and layers of blankets. The cold chip of ice is still lodged in his chest, little fingers of cold spiraling through his veins, but the uncomfortable trembling is slowing down. “Thank you.”

One of the fairies carefully drapes a fuzzy knit blanket around Ricky’s head, covering the brilliant crimson of his hair and softening his slicing features. It feels almost cozy, gentle layers of warmth around his body trapping the lingering heat in his veins.

The fairies flicker at him happily, swooping in a way that means no ash sprinkles his blankets, and settle on the footboard of his bed, adorning the carved black marble and flashing gems. Golden glow emanates softly from them, almost like tiny nightlights, and Ricky closes his eyes and drifts for a while, focusing on the warmth and trying to ignore the ice lodged in his chest.

With another resounding boom, his doors are thrown open once more. “Your Royal Majesty! The Physician has been summoned. Do… do you yet breathe?”

The horde of Advisors draws in a dramatic gasp, some of them crying out loudly, a few going so far as to start bashing their heads against the walls. It’s rather gratifying.

Ricky flutters his eyes open, wrinkling his nose at the assembled Advisors. Their tears, pooled on the marble, are eating away at the stone. “I will not go so easily into the good night,” he rasps, forcing himself to withstand the ice in his chest if only to save his poor Advisors from their sorrow.

The Advisors, upon realizing he is still alive, are overcome with emotion. The First Advisor collapses to the floor, wailing loudly into his hands, rivulets of lava overflowing and pooling around his knees. The Second Advisor sketches a pentagram with her tears, thanking all the immortal stars, and the rest of them generally cause chaos and celebrate in the silliest way.

Ricky, watching from his sickbed, feels the tiniest bit pleased. His Advisors are useless but occasionally, sometimes, they manage to amuse him. Perhaps he won’t fire them after all.

“Fetch the Master of Ceremonies too,” he decides after their wailing starts to hurt his ears, burrowing a bit deeper beneath his bedding and luxuriating in the warmth. He sinks so low that only his nose and eyes are visible. “There must be cake, one last time. I demand seven tiers of red velvet before I fade away.” 

“Yes, your majesty,” one of his advisors, probably a newer one because his three horns aren’t very large yet, steps forward to quickly say. His tone is oily, too obsequious for Ricky’s liking. “Whatever you desire. Shall the cake be frosted?”

Ricky frowns at the demon’s horns, annoyed. He almost forgets to feel cold for a moment; this advisor is clearly incompetent. Perhaps he should dredge up the energy to fire him. “Is that a question?” 

The advisor freezes for a moment, then bends so low that he’s practically kneeling on the marble. The other Advisors are backing away from him, a widening circle around his long fuzzy tail.

“No, Your Majesty,” the advisor agrees, recalcitrant. “Of course not. Cream cheese frosting is always necessary.”

“Yes, it is always necessary,” Ricky repeats in a huff, though the thought of his favorite dessert smooths the little wrinkles on his brow. “Tell the kitchens immediately.”

The First Advisor shuffles forward until he covers the other advisor, flashing a toothy smile at Ricky and then hissing something at the other demon. “Right away, Majesty. You will, of course, have your cake.”

The lowly advisor is quickly ushered out of the rooms, passed from demon to demon so that Ricky never once has to glimpse him.

“Bring the royal Painters, too.” Ricky calls after the advisor as they bow their way out of his rooms, coughing a little. He mustn’t strain his poor throat— he’ll have to order cinnamon ember tea from the kitchens. “I wish to have my dying beauty memorialized so that all the subjects may visit my portrait and weep!”

It pleases him to imagine the hordes of Hell bowing before his portrait, sobbing at the loss of their king and his eternal, radiant beauty. Surely they will marvel over the vibrant shade of his hair, the full tilt of his mouth, his simmering gaze.

The Advisors are still rumbling, puffing smoke and little sparks, when the doors boom open a third time. Ricky, languid in his bed, squeezes his eyes shut and wishes for a swift end. He cannot truly sustain this chaos much longer!

The Royal Physician strides towards his bed, medical bag under one arm and a stethoscope looped around his throat. He’s wearing a long white coat over swimming shorts, drops of lava still caught in his black hair, tiger markings covering his skin.

“Your Majesty,” the Physician intones, bowing smartly before settling in the chair one of the Advisors has set beside the bed. He adjusts his wire-rim glasses, his air serious and reserved despite evidence of a recent vacation. Never, in the thousands of years Ricky has ruled, has he once called upon his doctor. “You summoned me?”

The Advisors have gathered round the foot of his bed, murmuring nervously, a few of the younger ones still crying. Everything smells of smoke and ash, which should be comforting, but Ricky would rather like to be left alone to rot in his bed and hopefully eat some cake too.

Weakly he withdraws a pale hand from beneath the layers of blankets, blinking drowsily at the doctor. “I am cold,” he says, laboring a little with his breathing, “it’s terminal. I’m sure. The eternal flame in my heart has— has extinguished.”

The gathered Advisors gasp loudly, clutching at one another’s arms and making high sounds of distress. At the foot of his bed, the ember sprites rise up in a glimmering wave, squeaking their dismay and promises to warm him up until he feels better.

In his chest, the cold embracing his heart is spreading a little, chills radiating across his shoulders and filling his collarbones. It’s like wearing a necklace of ice, only worse because Ricky has never felt this before.

He is a creature of fire and warmth, of passion and anger and blazing emotion. He is smoke and ash and glowing embers, crackling flames and flowing lava and the beautiful, dangerous shine of sparks.

The doctor hums, nodding seriously. Unlooping the stethoscope, he holds it up. “May I listen to your heart, Majesty? I need to determine if your inner fire has truly burnt out.”

Ricky struggles to clear his throat, lids heavier than ever, and nods a little. The back of his neck, cradled by soft pillows, aches terribly. He very much hopes his red velvet cake arrives soon.

The doctor quickly opens his bag, revealing an array of sharply shining silver instruments—the gathered Advisors make horrified sounds and collectively shuffle back a few feet—but thankfully reaches for the stethoscope first. He fits it into his ears and then reaches out with the round end, dipping his head respectfully until Ricky flicks his fingers in agreement.

The metal is shockingly cold against the skin of his chest, pressing over the ice in his heart; a wave of chills rushes through Ricky, horrible little slivers of ice piercing his organs and invading his veins. It’s the worst feeling he’s ever felt and he doesn’t bother keeping his eyes open; unhappy, his toes numb from the chill, he squeezes his eyes shut and waits for his death verdict.

The doctor hums a few times as he listens to Ricky’s heart, though surely there can be nothing more than a murmur of fire left. He feels as weak as an ember, coated in ash, his inner flame barely managing to flicker.

Eventually the doctor withdraws his stethoscope and Ricky gratefully pulls the many layers of blankets back up to his chin, still shivering. His Advisors, poor weak things, are trying hard to muffle their sobs in handkerchiefs but failing miserably.

Over the next few minutes the doctor continues his examination of Ricky, taking the weak pulse at his wrist and peering at his sharp teeth and even sniffing his brilliantly crimson hair. He frowns at the weak sparks Ricky is able to produce with a snap of his fingers and feels his forehead and peers at his tongue with a little flashlight. It’s all very scary.

At last Ricky is allowed to collapse back against his pillows, exhausted and worried and hungrier than ever for his cake. Why is it taking so long? Have the cooks become so overwhelmed with sorrow at his imminent death that they can’t even bake his favorite treat?

“Doctor,” the First Advisor calls weakly, bravely wiping tear tracks from his reddened face and stepping forward, “please… how is His Royal Majesty? Will he live?”

The doctor closes his medical case slowly, a little wrinkle creasing his brow. He peers at Ricky over the rims of his glasses, taking a moment to find his words.

“I’m afraid,” he begins, and instantly the gathered Advisors break into renewed cries of sorrow. Their flames extinguish and some of them throw themselves to the floor, beating their fists against the marble or fully erupting into flames as their emotions boil over. The scent of sulfur is overwhelming and ash swirls through the air, the little ember fairies flying in dizzying loops as they shriek their sadness.

The chaos persists for a long while, little rivers of lava tears running through the length of Ricky’s bedchamber, flames dripping from the ceiling to meet the fire of his own staff, so much lovely heat in the room but none of it able to touch the ice lodged in his chest. He is still very, very cold and he can’t muster the energy to try to comfort anyone, not when he’s going to be dying so soon.

Ricky, a tongue of cold curling round his throat like a necklace, falls back limply against his pillows. His eyelids are heavy. “Woe is me,” he intones, gazing up at the constellations painted across his ceiling in shimmering gold.

“Your Majesty!” The doctor interrupts the screaming, wailing chaos, raising his voice to shout in order to be heard. Ricky waves a listless hand at him, uncaring if the man continues to speak or not. “You aren’t dying yet. Your heart is just a bit chilled.”

Ricky, somehow, finds a new scrap of energy to raise his head and peer at the doctor. Behind him the Advisors have gone silent, mouths open and flames simmering blue-green as they hang onto each of the Royal Physician’s words. The ember fairies, still sobbing, are now hovering threateningly around his head as if ready to attack should they not like whatever the doctor says next.

“I’m not dying?”

The doctor sighs tiredly, as if he hasn’t had thousands of years of free time, and shakes his orange head. “Not really. Your heart is growing dim, certainly, but we just need to find a way to warm it up again and you’ll be quite well.”

All at once, Ricky finds that he feels much better. He even dredges up the strength to raise himself into a sitting position, propped against the pillows. The chill nipping at his toes and brushing over his ankles isn’t quite so bad, though he clutches the blankets around his shoulders close.

“Well,” he announces, flicking his fingers at the flames dripping down the walls of his bedroom until they retreat like scolded pets, “I suppose I should start my morning, then. Physician, Advisors, begin the search for a cure. I have cake to eat!”

*****

A few days later finds Ricky in the human world, strolling down a street full of little shops and restaurants and cute bakeries on the search for boba.

Doctors are scary, after all, and he thinks he more than deserves the treat after suffering through a whole medical exam. Plus, he’s sick, ice still lodged in his chest and radiating little shivers down his arms and across his ribs at the most unfortunate times. It makes him drop whatever he’s holding when it happens and he’s taken to shuffling round the palace draped in a blanket, fuzzy fabric trailing behind him in a curious train.

So Ricky’s here, in a city he can’t remember the name of, enjoying the warm summer air on his face and the way the crowds of tourists and couples part for him, either in awe of his beauty or because they can sense some of his simmering power. He needs the comfort of boba right now and though the chefs in Hell are adept at many things, they absolutely can’t figure out how to make tapioca balls for some reason.

They’d tried to explain it to him, once, after he’d fired three head chefs in a row because the drinks they’d served him had been so abysmal. Something about the high temperatures in Hell, the abundance of lava and magma fields and erupting volcanoes, blah blah blah… Ricky doesn’t care. All he wants is his favorite drink.

He studies the glowing neon signs of the shops from behind his sunglasses, the pretty trees in full green finery, ice cream and shaved ice for sale wherever he turns. Usually he’d enjoy the cold treats and the way they instantly melt, vaporizing before he can place the spoon in his mouth, but he’s had more than enough experience with icy things as of late.

So instead he keeps walking, watching couples hold hands and pose for little black squares of metal and smile at each other beneath the twinkling fairy lights strung overhead, crisscrossing between the shops. He listens to the excited chatter of children and hisses at any dogs silly enough to come too close and he keeps his hands tucked into his pockets, because a horrible chill has lodged itself in his fingers the last few days and refuses to leave.

All of his Advisors have, under the direction of the Royal Physician, dedicated themselves to searching out a cure for flickering flames in his heart. They’ve taken over the dusty libraries and are even using something called the internet, though he doesn’t understand what it is at all.

They’re very serious about their search, though they have yet to find any solutions. They’re researching and muttering and running about the palace at all hours of the day, testing beakers of lava in a newly established room and even using strange human contraptions to look at slivers of embers.

The Royal Physician examines Ricky every morning and every night, listening to his heart and feeling his pulse and asking about the strange numb chill that’s settled in his toes and fingers, that is slowly creeping up his wrists and ankles.

He’s lived for a very long time and he’s sure, absolutely convinced, that his reign will continue for another thousand or so years. The cold in his chest is uncomfortable, even painful at times, and it’s very strange to not really be able to feel his fingers or toes, but he’s soldiering bravely on and he’s sure that the fire in his heart will rekindle eventually. He's the devil, after all! Lord of hellfire and brimstone and all sorts of boiling hot, scorching things! He's going to perfectly fine.

*****

Gyuvin is having a completely normal day in a long string of completely normal, regular, slightly boring days. Really his whole life, if he examines it in totality, has been nothing more or less than perfectly average and normal.

He woke up this morning, late for class as always, and scribbled down notes during his lectures that he didn’t really understand. All of that was perfectly regular for him, just part of his university routine. He ate a sandwich sprawled in a nearby park, staring at the clouds and thinking of nothing, and then made his way to his job.

The little boba shop Gyuvin works in is cute, candy pink and green walls and a white floor with rainbow polka dots. It smells like sugar and vanilla and strawberries and there’s always happy, upbeat music playing in the background though Gyuvin can never decipher the lyrics.

His job is perfectly regular, mindless hours spent behind the gleaming silver counter mixing drinks and smiling blandly at happy customers and waiting, always waiting, for something to change. For something to be different.

But because Gyuvin is having such a normal day, such a perfectly regular life, he never expects the tall man dressed in a brilliant red suit to enter his workplace.

The man stands out instantly, vivid against the cheerful colors of the shop, clashing horribly with the walls and ceiling. He’s also beautiful, better looking than the models who grace billboards or strut down runways, and very tall. He stands like he doesn’t feel out of place, relaxed, slim legs going on for miles and hands tucked into his pockets.

Large black sunglasses cover his eyes so that all Gyuvin can glimpse are his sharp cheekbones, a full mouth, a few artful strands of crimson hair falling into his face. He looks rich and important and incredibly out of place in this little shop that’s really just meant for tourists and university students.

“Hello,” Gyuvin greets cheerfully, committed to good customer service and earning tips. “How can I serve you today?”

The man tilts his sharp face, brilliant crimson hair slipping against his throat, several golden earrings clinking together softly. He’s very pretty, even with the sunglasses. Gyuvin wonders how freshly he’s dyed his hair for it to be such an extreme shade of crimson red.

“You will serve me?”

Gyuvin blinks, confused. “Um… yes?”

The edge of the man’s nice mouth curls, which is totally something Gyuvin’s only read about in his romance books. “Very well. I accept. Bring me a brown sugar boba.”

Gyuvin winces a little, shuffling his feet beneath the counter. “I’m sorry sir,” he apologizes sincerely, “we’re unfortunately sold out of our brown sugar milk tea. I can recommend a different drink, if you’d like?”

The stranger stares at him, sleek sunglasses reflecting Gyuvin’s professional smile and flushed cheeks— it’s rather a hot evening, especially in the small shop— and doesn’t given any indication of an answer for a long, long while.

Gyuvin isn’t upset about it though. He understands it can be overwhelming to abandon something you’d planned on having and instead accept a new option. Also, the brown sugar milk tea is really good!

He just keeps smiling at the customer, dimples popped, and leans against the counter as he waits, rumpling his pink apron a little bit.

“What,” the man asks at last, expressionless, “do you recommend?”

Gyuvin beams at the man, overjoyed that he can be helpful. “For you, sir, I would recommend our strawberry milk tea with strawberry and vanilla popping bubbles. It’s delicious!”

The stranger stares at him, except of course Gyuvin can’t see his eyes, but then gives an imperious little dip of his chin. “Bring it to me. I will try the strawberry popping bubbles.”

“Wonderful,” Gyuvin gushes, already reaching for the plastic cups. “Would you like that with whipped cream, sir? And can I have your name for the order?”

"You may," the man replies and if anyone else said that, Gyuvin would laugh at them, but he somehow manages to make it attractive. "My name is... Ricky." 

"Wonderful!" Gyuvin agrees, picking up an empty cup and scrawling the man's name across it. "Whipped cream?" 

The man slides his sunglasses just the tiniest bit down his nose, peering over the rim at Gyuvin with eyes that seem to flicker gold. "An absurd question." 

Gyuvin giggles and nods because he gets it-- whipped cream should always be mandatory, not optional.

He sets about making the drink with the most care and attention he’s ever used, trying to ignore how his fingers are shaking. He can’t figure out if the twisting feeling in his belly is fear or just, like, because of how incredibly pretty this customer is. Gyuvin’s sure he even smells nice. Beautiful people always do.

Chapter Text

*****

It’s snowing in Seoul on the day that Ricky leaves.

Tiny little flakes that drift down from the milky gray sky, light as feathers or shattered stars, dancing and pirouetting as they fall. The world is gradually draped in soft white one miniscule crystal at a time, so slowly that he hardly even notices until he glances up and realizes he can no longer see the gray concrete.

This is the first snow of the winter, magical and pretty, but Ricky can’t feel the cold kiss of the flakes from behind the thick glass windows of Incheon Airport. He’s bundled in a long wool coat and a cashmere scarf, a gift from Gyuvin on the last birthday they spent together, but the suitcases being loaded onto his plane are filled with silky shirts and linen trousers and sunhats.

Ricky is escaping the cold, flying away from winter as migratory birds do.

He settles down in a corner once he finds his gate, glad to sit and to simply watch the crowds of people moving past. He hasn’t hired any security for this trip and though it’s less likely now, a year later, he’s still wary of being recognized and so his face is hidden by a baseball cap and a mask.

Ricky gradually droops into his uncomfortable chair, huddling down in the silk lining of his coat and watching the people arriving and departing all around him, continuing on with their lives even as they cross his own in this one small way.

He likes airports. He’s spent years in them, staggering through security half-asleep and waving to photographers and buying overpriced sandwiches in countries he barely remembers visiting. Still, there’s something comfortingly familiar about the hustle and bustle of airports because even if he is lonely now, at least he isn’t alone.

There is life all around him, the echoes of departing flights and new gates and missing passengers filling the air along with Christmas music and the click-clack of heels, squeaky suitcase wheels and crying babies and harried travelers racing to their destinations. So much life exists here in the airport, everywhere he turns, bright flowing paths that cross his own for an instant before they spread across the world to wherever they belong.

Ricky tucks his cold hands into his coat pockets and watches the people passing him by, playing a game he and Yujin made up. They liked to watch strangers and create stories about their lives, about where they were travelling to and why. About what their dreams were before they grew up.

After a while his eyes tire of the bright parade of coats and suitcases and so Ricky turns his attention to the TV mounted over the waiting area, some drama playing soundlessly. He watches along for a while, trying to remember if this is one he’s seen before or not because the main character works in a chicken shop, but right before the couple is about to kiss an ad pops up on the screen.

It’s Hanbin.

His hair is blonde again, unlike the dark chestnut it was last time they met for dinner with the others— three, four months ago? Ricky can’t quite remember. Hanbin is smiling, signature whisker dimples creasing his cheeks, and he’s holding up a skincare product. He looks happy.

Ricky watches the ad until he can taste copper in his mouth and then he slides his eyes to the window and the snow still falling outside, airy and light and perfectly cold. He likes how the world looks blanketed in white, the humming mess of Seoul softened into icy silence.

The snow continues to fall as he waits, as the milky sky darkens into deep slate and the bright lights inside the airport turn up a notch. Filtered air scrapes his throat and his spine aches from the chair, from sitting in one stiff position for so long, but Ricky isn’t hungry and he’d rather wait like a statue than risk entering one of the convenience shops. He’ll be okay for now. They’ll feed him on the plane.

Finally his flight begins to board, the aircraft outside the window already dusted in snow. Ricky presses his elbows against his ribs, his fingers numb inside his pockets, and doesn’t move even when his group’s turn is called.

The ad has played on the TV again, several times. Hanbin looks so pretty when he smiles, so bright and shiny as if there’s a sun radiating from beneath his skin. It’s something they used to tease him about during the dismal early mornings spent pre-recording performances or dragging themselves to practice or piling into a car for a new schedule.

Ricky can remember it all still. The time with his members feels so close, merely hiding round a corner— if he turns to glance over his shoulder, will they be there?

More people are trickling down the tunnel to his plane, trailing suitcases and strollers and purses. The sky outside is so dark now that Ricky can vaguely catch a smear of his own reflection in the glass, his silvery hair and paler face. He dyed his hair this color again to say farewell and it felt right to keep it, even a year later. It felt like his youth; the beginning of everything, and the end.

Ricky glances round the airport again, taking in the bustling crowds of people and bright neon lights and the many families and friends travelling in groups. He thinks about the lights of Seoul, not so terribly far away, and then he pulls his phone from his pocket with fingers that only tremble a little.

One last call. He listens to the phone ring with a vague sense of detachment even as his belly twists a little, with nerves and anticipation.

Outside the thick glass windows the snow is falling more quickly now, thick wet flakes that melt into the concrete and clump like cotton upon the planes and loading equipment. The phone vibrates against his ear, a shrill ringing that goes on and on and on.

Hao doesn’t answer. The call ends in a click, not even going to voicemail because his hyung never set it up, and Ricky slips his phone back into his pocket with a chill sense of finality.

He’s tried. He really, really tried, for long months and endless nights and yet still he can’t help the regret settling heavily in his chest. This isn’t the future Ricky wanted or dreamed of. He never thought he’d be alone, after it all settled. He never imagined how cold it would be.

He stands and gathers his travel bag, the supple leather pressing against his ribs. His suitcases will have been loaded onto the plane already and it isn’t as if he has much to take with him; just his essentials, really, and a sheet mask from Uniskin which he still feels obliged to use.

He overbalances for a moment, gravity pulling him down, but manages to push upright. He’ll need to take his medicine on the flight, after dinner is served. Ricky glances out the window again, taking in the snow and velvety night sky and pretty snow, and then heads towards where the flight attendants are helping the last few passengers.

A new song filters through the airport speakers, bubbly and bright. Ricky recognizes Taerae the instant he begins to sing, rich and sweet as cherry blossoms. Park Hanbin joins in next, and then Jihoo raps so fast that it makes his hearing blur. They’re good. The song is good, too, and it was released at the end of spring so he spent all summer long hearing it in 7/11 and at random shopping malls, Taerae’s lovely voice filtered through scratchy speakers.

He remembers sitting beside Taerae in unfamiliar hotel rooms, listening to the older boy play his guitar and croon snippets of old love songs. It always helped, when he was homesick or lonely, to listen to his hyung’s sweet singing.

The flight attendants usher him politely through once they’ve glanced at his passport and the chatter of the airport fades into nothing as Ricky steps into the tunnel leading to the plane, carpet muffling his leather boots. The air is significantly colder; he can almost taste the crisp ice of snowflakes as they drift past the glass walls.

The world is very quiet when Ricky settles into his much more comfortable seat and glances out his tiny window, the thick layer of glass frosty against his fingertips. He gazes at the lights of Seoul in the distance, the tiny spikes of skyscrapers, and he thinks about the reflection of those lights in the silvery bend of the Han River.

He loves Korea still. It has been his home as he grew into an adult and Seoul gave him such lovely memories, so many beautiful moments and truths. The city will always be precious to him, as are the people scattered somewhere beneath the many lights, but it’s time to go now.

Seoul no longer feels like home. Ricky does not belong here, in the ice and cold and white snow, and there is no reason to stay.

*****

Bright sun and blue skies greet him when he steps out of the LAX airport, tugging his heavy suitcases with his wool coat draped over an arm. Ricky closes his eyes, tipping his face back into the full sunlight, and breathes in car exhaust and hotdogs and the unmistakable brine of the ocean.

He’s missed California.

The U.S. is so much louder, so much more vivid in November as if all the life has yet to be drained away by winter’s cold touch. Ricky finds a taxi and settles onto smooth leather seats while the driver loads up his suitcases, buckling in with a quiet feeling of contentment. He presses his nose to the tinted glass as they begin to move, eager for the shape of the dusty hills and the glittering blue of the water, eager to reacquaint himself with this place that has always felt a little like home.

A tiny smile curls his mouth when he spots the first palm tree, spindly against the blue sky.

He was so happy, the first time they all came here. It was before their debut but they’d already been practicing hard, spending long hours in their small studio sweating and learning how to move as one beast instead of nine individual contestants.

The air had tasted of electricity and citrus fruit back then, sparkling bright and brimming with possibility. Ricky remembers the hot flame of nerves and excitement during their first stage at KCON, how loudly the audience had cheered for them despite their relative newness to the world. It had been thrilling, like the first sip of sparkling champagne after being parched for months and months.

He thinks that first stage is where he truly fell in love with being an idol. In L.A., in his second home with his members all around and masses of faceless, screaming lights before them— that’s when Ricky became sure of dream.

Now the taxi glides past boxy buildings and gated mansions and shiny stores built entirely of sleek glass, the ocean a constant ripple of blue on the horizon. Ricky leans back against the smooth leather seat and allows himself to drink in the muted colors through the tinted glass, forgetting his worries for a little while.

He’s arrived in the land of sun and he deserves to relish in it, if only for this handful of minutes. The frigid chill of Seoul feels incredibly far away now that he’s here, an ocean separating him from that life, and Ricky is already forgetting the crisp taste of snowflakes alighting upon his lips and tongue.

The hotel he’s chosen is modern and painted in shades of beige, bland and perfectly impersonal in its quiet luxury. His bags are whisked away before he can even swipe his card and when he steps into the glass elevator that will take him to his room, he finds it more spacious than the dorm he’d shared with his fellow Yuehua trainees.

He gazes at the ocean spreading across the horizon as he shoots upwards, the elevator humming quietly. He likes the taste of English on his tongue, the flatness of the syllables and how brightly everyone smiles here.

The room he’s been given is spacious, smelling of fresh cotton and synthetic vanilla. He has a little balcony with a lounge chair that faces the water, L.A.’s mansions and luxury apartments spreading out all around him, bordering the pale strip of beach where white surf crashes and more palm trees stand tall.

Ricky ignores the palatial bed and sparkling mirror in the bathroom, the enormous closet and television, and steps out onto the balcony. He’s still chilled to his bones, even beneath his cashmere sweater, but he leans against the balcony and gazes at the cerulean ocean and feels the warm press of sunlight against his cheekbones.

He survived. The snow and ice can’t touch him here and even if someone were to call, his phone doesn’t work in America.

Soon it will be time to take his medicine again, to lay down and sleep for hours and hours as the sun rises on a city halfway across the world which has been his constant home. Soon he will need to book doctor’s appointments and lie in humming machines that scan his brain but today, in this glorious blue morning, Ricky feels content.

His heart beats in time with the distant roll of ocean waves and his skin gradually warms beneath the golden sunlight, a soft breeze ruffling through his pale hair. Winter’s chill cannot touch him here and even if the luxurious bedroom at his back is empty, Ricky is at least accustomed to bearing the silence of being alone.

*****

January 2026

They do not sleep in their beds, that final night. It doesn’t need to be discussed or spoken aloud, not when they all want the same thing.

To stay together. To press close, to soak up the warmth of each other’s bodies and lace their fingers together and remain as one, forever and ever and ever.

Their dorm seems so large now that it’s been cleared of all their belongings, the bathrooms they’d fought over and the shelves they’d stuffed with things until they overflowed echoing. All of the walls are perfectly white again, blank canvases waiting for the next inhabitants to fill up the small space with their dreams and bright youth and loud laughter.

Hanbin gathers them close around him on the living room floor, where they used to curl together to play video games or watch movies or gossip late into the night. This is where they shared pizza and squabbled over the last few pieces of fried chicken and where Gyuvin slipped and bruised his knee badly while practicing choreography, blue and purple blooming beneath his skin.

There is no sense of urgency in their movements now as they curl round one another and prop their heads on thighs or laps, all the lights turned off save for a few electric candles. Their things have been packed away into neatly labeled boxes and carted back to their companies, a rainbow of suitcases lined up next to the door in preparation for the morning. Closets sit empty and not even a single protein shake remains in the fridge, the entryway no longer cluttered with shoes and jackets and umbrellas.

This dorm was their home for almost three years and yet now it is nothing more than a collection of empty white rooms and echoing walls, frosty air where laughter and music and the sounds of cooking once blended into a harmony of shared life.

Ricky’s head rests in Hao’s lap, Jiwoong’s own head pillowed on his lower belly. He holds Yujin’s hand, carefully, and Matthew’s side presses up against him where his hyung and Gunwook have curved together. They form a many-limbed creature upon the floor, covered in whichever blankets and sweatshirts they’ve been able to pull from their suitcases.

The heating has been shut off. It is only a precaution of what will take place in the morning, their final parting, and yet Ricky cannot help but press closer to his members, to their warmth and beating hearts.

“Hyungs.” It’s Gunwook, his voice low and already trembling, cracking in the way it had at their final concert. He’d cried more than any of them. “I want you to know that… that I’m so—”

“We know, Wook-ah.” Taerae speaks gently and Ricky feels it when their hyung reaches for Gunwook, pulling him close along with Matthew so that he’s all the more firmly cocooned in warmth and familiar hands. “You don’t have to say it.”

“We all understand,” Hao murmurs, one of his hands stroking Ricky’s hair gently. Ricky closes his eyes to stop the prickle of tears and turns his face into Hao’s belly, searching out the familiar scent of the detergent they all use. He should have stolen a bottle for after.

They all listen to Gunwook’s unsteady breaths, the sniffles he can’t hold back.

“But I want to tell you,” he says thickly after a few minutes, tears clogging his throat. Yujin makes a tiny noise from somewhere in the darkness, but Hanbin and Hao both reach for him, shifting everyone else in the process. “I want you to know. You’re my members and I— and I’m—”

Yujin’s crying now too, in the way that’s barely noticeable because he always becomes smaller when he’s sad, curling in on himself and hiding away. He couldn’t walk, after the final concert. He had to be carried into their car by Jiwoong.

“Shh, baby,” Hanbin murmurs, and Ricky squeezes Yujin’s hand so tightly that his knuckles ache. He won’t let go, though. Not ever. “It’ll be okay.”

No one calls Hanbin out on his lie; perhaps because he is their leader or perhaps because they all wish to remain in this false belief just a little while longer. Even as Yujin’s cries die down, even as he squeezes Ricky’s fingers in return, no one speaks.

What is there left to say?

They have sung their final song and taken their last bow and walked away from their stage for the last time. Their fans will scream their names no more, at least not as they are now, and when the sun rises on Seoul in the morning, Zerobaseone will cease to exist.

It’s all over. Time has been so very kind to them but it passed too quickly, spiraling away like falling rose petals as winter approached.

“I don’t want it to be over.” Matthew’s voice rasps— he shone the brightest during their final stages, his smile more luminous than the sun as he sang and shouted and called out to the crowd of lights again and again. It was for the fans and for them and for the love of all they have been, all they have accomplished during the two years they burned hot and quick as shooting stars.

Jiwoong shifts slightly, head digging into Ricky’s hip. “You’ll always have us, Mattchu.”

Matthew tries to laugh, though the sound is too wet. “I don’t know how to be an idol without all of you.”

Ricky doesn’t either. Zerobaseone is all he has known and breathed and believed in. Blue roses fill his dreams and he’d thought, when they signed their contracts at the beginning of it all, that two and a half years was an eternity. It had felt like forever, back then. It had felt as if they had all the time in the world.

He thought they would be granted eternity. Up until the very last second, up until the moment they walked off their final stage and watched the velvet curtain descend— even then, Ricky still held onto hope. Or perhaps not hope— perhaps he simply refused to accept the truth of the future.

They promised each other forever, over and over, and they meant it even as they signed the disbandment papers.

Ricky still can’t grasp that it’s all ending tomorrow— that, in truth, it’s already over. They were given this final night in their dorm but he saw Hao hiding a text from their Yuehua managers.

They’re coveted possessions now. They ran so hard with one another that they managed to fly up into the sky, catching summer breezes and sailing higher and higher, but it’s the very brightness of their success that’s driving them apart now.

“We’ll still see each other.” Yujin’s voice is a whisper, his skinny fingers clutching at Ricky too painfully. “Right hyungs?”

Ricky waits with Hao and Gyuvin and Yujin in the hallway, bags slung over their shoulders and suitcases gathered round their knees. The filtered air smells stale, suddenly, the hallway stretching on for miles, as bare and white as a hospital.

Hanbin is the last one inside their dorm, backpack hanging low as he walks through their rooms and gently, carefully closes the doors on the empty boxes. They listen to his echoing footsteps but do not speak, do not even look at one another as they wait in silent vigil.

He checks the light switches in the living room and kitchen last, flicking them on so that the lights crackle and buzz with electricity for just a moment before he turns them off again. The January morning is overcast, dismal gray, and Hanbin’s face is equally pale when he turns towards them.

He is their leader, now and forevermore, and so Hanbin doesn’t cry, even though they have been shedding tears all morning. He’s the last person to leave their dorm, the last person to softly close their front door, fingers lingering on the knob in a final farewell.

*****

Ricky feels too nauseous for breakfast when he wakes late into the morning, heavily fatigued by the time difference between L.A. and Seoul. He knows it will take his body around a week to adjust but he pushes through his protesting body and aching spine, dressing in silk before making his way down to the lobby.

The beach lies only a short walk away and despite his dizziness and the headache tapping gently at his temples, Ricky feels better the moment he steps onto soft golden sand. He slips his shoes off and carries them as he walks towards the crashing waves, blue water breaking into white froth and bubbles against the shoreline, carrying tiny fragments of seaweed and the freshness of a blue day.

It’s warm here in California, all his cozy sweaters unnecessary. There are people everywhere, in colorful outfits and enormous sunglasses, phones constantly ringing and cars clogging the roads like shiny beetles and a million advertisements plastered everywhere showing off gorgeous, sculpted faces of celebrities Ricky only vaguely recognizes.

He came here because he missed the sun, and because it was very far away from Seoul, and because he thought he might be able to wrap himself in the happy memories he has of this place. The times he ran down the beach with his members, the meals and whirlwind performances and afternoons spent strolling down streets that always ended in a blue horizon. 

He pauses to gaze out at the water, the endless blue which stretches onwards until it disappears at the flat horizon and is mirrored by the brighter blue of the sky above. Warm little curries of air whistle in his ears and his feet sink a bit deeper in the sand, drops of surf spraying his pants.

Ricky breathes in the salty air and feels— lonely.

He’d thought the hollow emptiness of being all alone wouldn’t be able to cling to him like a shadow in California’s sunlight but he’s standing here on this beautiful beach, gazing out at the ocean, and all he wants is another person to keep him company.

There should be boys running in the surf and splashing each other with water, shirts flapping in the breeze. Boys to take his photo and hold his hand as they tug him into the shallows, boys to sit beside him in the sand and watch the sun sink crimson and tangerine towards the horizon.

He is intimately familiar with the silence of his own presence, the chill of an enormous bed empty around him, but he’s never learned how to be good at being alone. It’s not a skill he’d ever been interested in cultivating and Ricky’s so constantly used to being surrounded by other beating hearts, by living stacked upon other boys in too-small rooms, that he’d never really understood what it was to be lonely.

For a moment the beach stretching before him and the blue line of the ocean blur, hazy and indistinct as a mirage. He can still hear the rolling waves and the hum of cars along the nearby roads but his eyes ache in the sunlight, everything before him fuzzed in tiny little dots.

Ricky blinks and reaches up to rub his eyes, pressing hard against his closed lids. He plants his feet more firmly in the sand, feeling the ticklish brush of cool water against his toes, and breathes in salt and car exhaust.

Several minutes pass before he opens his eyes.

Ricky’s fingertips tremble when he lowers his hands from his face but as he tentatively cracks his lashes and peeks out at the world, the blue ocean and golden sand and tall palms solidify into real shapes once more, sharp and crisp and perfectly visible. He can almost pretend it was all a magic trick.

Ricky breathes in the fresh air a moment longer, steadying himself as he presses a hand to his chest. The tap-tap of his heartbeat comforts him, blood rushing in his ears like the ocean as he turns and begins to slowly pick his way back down the beach towards his hotel.

It was a long day of travel. He simply needs to rest, and allow himself time to adjust to this side of the world.

*****

April 2026

Ricky stays up until midnight with the others, gathered round an ipad and excitedly counting down the minutes. He feels breathless and electric with excitement, a flush sitting too high on his cheeks even after the incredibly tiring day of practice.

They’ll regret this in the morning but it’s almost midnight and their friends are debuting. Hao had shamelessly begged for spoilers but Taerae steadfastly refused, telling them again and again that he wants his debut to be a true surprise for them.

Ricky feels as if he’s experiencing what it’s like to be a fan, a bit. He and Yujin have been stalking the social media pages for Taerae’s group, =NOX, waiting for each batch of concept photos and analyzing the highlight medley of their first mini album over and over again until Gyuvin had tickled them and called them obsessed.

“Only five more minutes,” Sungeon announces from where he’s squeezed onto the very end of the bunk bed, chewing his nails nervously and constantly tapping at his phone to check the time. “Is it still counting down?”

“Yes,” Hao replies without looking away from the ipad, where they’re waiting the timer count down on the music video for =NOX’s debut song. It’s strange to be on the WakeOne channel, to see the familiar logo for a video that isn’t theirs, but Ricky’s trying not to think about it.

“I wish it would open early,” Yujin complains, clutching the pillow in his lap tighter. He’s squished between Gyuvin and Yunseo, on Ricky’s other side, and is almost vibrating with excitement. “I’m more nervous than I was for our debut!”

“That’s not true,” Gyuvin argues, poking Yujin until he giggles. “You almost threw up when we debuted.”

Yujin scrunches his nose. “I don’t remember that.”

“Hyung,” Gyuvin appeals, leaning round Yunseo to peer at Hao. “You remember. Yujinnie was almost sick.”

“Three minutes,” Sungeon calls from the other end of the bed, blowing out an enormous breath.

Thankfully they’re the only trainees in this dorm because they’re being quite loud and Ricky’s not sure the bunk beds are actually built to carry this much weight— he wouldn’t want to squish anyone sleeping below them. Having their own dorm is a slight perk of all returning to Yuehua as experienced idols, though adjusting to spending all their time training and attending vocal lessons instead of performing for fans hasn’t been very fun.

Ricky misses being on stage desperately. He misses talking to their fans and attending schedules and he even misses the incredibly early mornings spent at the airport or traveling to new countries.

It’s boring to be a trainee now that he’s experienced idol life. The waiting is testing everyone’s patience but at least Sungeon and Ollie and Yunseo all understand too; they want to return to true performances as badly as Ricky and Gyuvin and Hao and Yujin do.

“Hyung texted,” Yujin announces, fingers flying across his phone. “He said he hopes we like it and to lie even if we don’t.”

“Of course we’ll like it,” Sungeon says staunchly, though he’s nibbling his nails, as nervous and excited as the rest of them. “One minute left!”

Ricky leans a little closer to Hao’s warmth, peering at the ipad and the animated count down on the screen. There’s a queue with other people waiting— almost two hundred thousand of them. He wonders if the other members are staying up for the premier too.

“Do you think it’ll be good?” His whispered question is just for Hao, who allows Ricky to hold onto his sweatshirt sleeve without complaint.

“Yes,” Hao whispers back, finger hovering over the screen as the seconds tick towards zero. “It’s Taerae. He’ll make sure it’s good.”

Ricky tips his cheek against Hao’s shoulder, enjoying the softness of his sweatshirt. He thinks it used to belong to Hanbin, or perhaps Jiwoong. It’s nice. It still smells of the detergent they used in their old dorm.

“Do you think it’ll be better than ours?”

Ricky doesn’t have to explain, even if he feels ashamed to be asking this tiny fear that’s lodged in his heart. It’s silly for him to worry about this when all that matters is Taerae’s debut and =NOX’s success; that’s what they all want, what Ricky wishes for his hyung. Taerae is lovely and he’s worked so hard and he deserves to have a wonderful, successful debut with his members. His permanent group.

But still— still, Ricky is afraid somehow. What if Taerae likes this debut song better than In Bloom? What if the song is prettier, what if all of Korea enjoys it more?

Hao tips his chin to look down at Ricky, finally taking his eyes off the bright screen. There are faint lilac crescents curved beneath his lower lashes, and he hasn’t washed his hair today, but he’s still so pretty. Ricky’s pretty hyung. His new leader, now that Hanbin’s gone.

He can see that Zhang Hao understands.

“It’ll be different,” Hao tells him quietly, lifting one hand from the ipad to softly ruffle Ricky’s hair in the way that his hyung knows annoys him. “But even if it’s better, he’s still ours. He was our member first.”

Ricky bites his lower lip until it stings and pushes his cheek more firmly against Hao’s shoulder, returning his eyes to the screen while he clutches the fabric of his sleeve, rubbing it absentmindedly. He’s glad to cling onto Hao, jealously grateful that at least he could keep Gyuvin and Yujin and their hyung.

He’d wanted more. He’d wanted all of them, as voraciously as a dragon, but at least he has these three. At least he isn’t alone and so even as Ricky cheers with the others when the count down ends and the music video for Taerae’s second debut begins to play, he feels sad too because Taerae is moving forward without them.

It’s a good music video.

Bright and cheerful, perfect for the approaching summer, and Taerae shines under the artificial sun and shines even brighter as the screen switches to a night sky filled with stars. He’d said something about the group’s concept meaning duality and shadows and light, but all Ricky really cares about are the cute little star stickers on their hyung’s face and how he dances at the center of his new group.

He’s improved so much at dancing. He practiced harder than almost anyone, dragging himself to the studio before Ricky’s alarms had even gone off, and it’s clear how much more confident he is as he slides through the fun dance sequences now.

Ricky is so proud of Taerae. They all clap when the video ends, then call for Hao to play it again, squishing close close close to their leader so they can pick apart each line and move and shift of scenery.

“It’s pretty,” Yujin says happily, and Ollie hums his agreement. “I think hyung is best at bright concepts. He looks so cute in this outfit!”

Ricky smiles a little, gaze still trained on the screen where Taerae is singing about waiting for love in between the night and the day. “Remember when we filmed melting point and he had to wear those fluffy boots? And he hated them but all the fans were calling him cute?”

Their dorm goes quiet, only the song still playing on the ipad. There’s a heaviness in the air that makes Ricky feel cold, and Gyuvin elbows him lightly in the ribs in retribution for a mistake he can’t figure out.

Was it wrong of him to mention the past? Are those memories he’s not allowed to be fond of, even through the sadness?

The music video ends again and this time Hao allows the ipad to turn off, screen fading to shiny black as it reflects his expression; his mouth is a line, and he’s looking down at his lap. Everything is quiet and the bed feels too full, suddenly, uncomfortably overcrowded with boys and bodies and people touching Ricky.

“I think we should go to sleep now,” Hao says quietly, not an order but a suggestion they’ll follow anyways because he’s the oldest, because he’s going to be their leader. “It’s really late and we have practice in the morning.”

Gyuvin scoffs a little, breaking the thick silence. “We always have practice.”

They go to watch =NOX on MCountdown the next morning, so early that their eyes are puffy and they’re smothering yawns in each other’s shoulders over and over. The others haven’t been allowed to join them but it feels right for Ricky and Hao and Gyuvin and Yujin to clump close together as they walk down the familiar white hallways, as they pass waiting rooms and staff of other idols and racks of costumes.

They came here often, once upon a time. Ricky still knows which vending machine sells the best snacks and he can remember playing hide and seek in these hallways with Matthew and Jiwoong, racing away from annoyed makeup artists and stressed managers.

Instinctively Ricky turns to follow after Taerae, his hyung’s fluffy hair and shoulders so familiar among the swirling strangers backstage. He can hear the deep roll of Park Hanbin’s laughter too, the excited chatter of the group of boys which dredges up other memories lodged in his brain.

“Ricky.” It’s Hao calling for him, near the wings of the stage. Ricky turns, tilting his head in confusion, and finds Hao and Yujin and Gyuvin all gathered together, peering back at him. Hao beckons for him, holding out his hand. “Where are you going?”

Ricky’s heart flutters and then sinks in his chest. He’d forgotten for just a moment.

*****

A few days after he’s arrived in California, Ricky finally unpacks his suitcases. He’s been wearing whatever’s at the top of the mess inside so far, skimming off the nearest shirt and jeans so that he can spend more time at the beach or strolling through the trendy shopping areas nearby.

But clothes are overflowing from his smallest suitcase now, trailing across the thick carpet like silky black entrails, and he can’t find his favorite pair of pajamas anywhere. Ricky’s booked this hotel room for a month and so, unhappily, he settles on the floor and begins to crack his suitcases open, zippers bursting at the seams.

He’s always believed that clothes carry memories and so he tends to keep everything, even the ratty sweatpants he bought his first month in Seoul and the silly furry kitten paws a fan gifted him once. Ricky takes each item of clothing out and shakes the wrinkles free, memories and dust that still smell of Seoul thickly coating the air.

Here’s the silky leopard print shirt he wore the first time they flew to Singapore, cool as water beneath his fingertips. Here are his favorite jeans that he bought five pairs of, the darkest shade of black he could find. Here is the pink and green striped sweater he wore for their first comeback, and then out to dinner with Yujin and Taerae.

Ricky gently fills up the closet with silk and denim and leather, fragments of memory stitched into each garment. The balcony doors are cracked open to allow in a warm breeze and so he listens to the rolling ocean as he unpacks, clothes scattered round him and jewelry shining from the large desk.

He finishes his medium sized suitcase and then starts on the small carry-on, which holds the clothes he wears most often. Fuzzy sweatpants and t-shirts for dance practices he hasn’t attended in months and, at the very bottom, a slightly oversized knit sweater the color of raspberries.

Ricky stares at the sweater for too long before lifting it to his nose and inhaling lightly; the soft fabric still smells of Hao, his baobab lotion and white lotus perfume.

Ricky turns the sweater and slips it over his head, feeling the slight weight of it settle on his broader shoulders, the ribbed neckline stretching just above the dip of his collarbones. He curls his fingertips, always cold these days, into the loose cuffs and then wraps his arms around himself.

If he closes his eyes and breathes in shallowly, he can almost pretend that his hyung is here too, wrapping him up in a cozy hug.

He remembers Hao bringing the sweater home from a photoshoot one day, special only because his hyung wore it constantly afterwards. The raspberry yarn looked so pretty against the light hair he had back then; Ricky remembers cuddling up against his chest and nuzzling his face into the yarn, listening to Hao’s heartbeat after an incredibly long day of filming.

The sweater was one of the few pieces of clothing that didn’t become shared property in their dorm because Hao guarded it so fiercely, whisking it away from Yujin and Hanbin. Ricky had almost started to covet the sweater simply because Hao cherished it, simply because it was beloved to his hyung.

He stands, a bit wobbly, and leaves the rest of his clothes on the floor in sloppy piles. He’ll finish unpacking tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. He’s done enough for now and the jetlag must still be catching up to him because he feels quite tired, muscles and eyelids heavy.

Ricky curls into a ball atop his luxurious white sheets and tucks his knees up against his chest, dipping his head down until he resembles a crescent moon. The air is neither too cold nor too warm but he feels perfectly cozy in the stolen sweater, wrapped up in memories of Zhang Hao.

He closes his eyes, sighing a little. He can still remember the night he stole the sweater from Hao’s laundry basket, how fast his heart had thrummed as he tucked it beneath his jacket and crept from his hyung’s room.

It was— before. Closer to the end, snow already dusting the streets and glossy chrome buildings of Seoul, but before the true end.

Settling down against the fluffy pillows, Ricky tucks one sweater-covered hand beneath his nose and drifts into sleep.

*****

June 2026

Ricky fidgets in his seat, craning his neck yet again to look at Yujin where he sits among the crowd of other teenagers, dressed in his navy uniform although his tie is only loosely draped round his throat.

If Hao were here he’d have scolded Yujin about the tie and then done it up properly, but Ricky and Gyuvin don’t know enough to help. Perhaps Hanbin or Jiwoong can fix it, once they arrive.

“Where are they,” Gyuvin mutters, craning his neck for the hundredth time to peer over the mass of graduating students and gathered families and friends, looking at the door where more people continue to filter into the large auditorium. “They’re going to miss it if they don’t get here soon!”

Ricky is equally anxious but he simply curls his fingertips beneath the rim of his flimsy metal chair, staying seated even as Gyuvin half rises to peer at the crowded entrance. “They’ll be here.”

Gyuvin sighs and sits back down when Ricky tugs on his pants, jiggling his knee. His legs are too long for the cramped row they’ve claimed, practically brushing his chest when he leans over to tie his shoelace for the fifth time, but he doesn’t complain. They’re just glad they were allowed to take time away from practice to come, though the others weren’t.

Ricky waves at Yujin’s family across the auditorium, his mom waving back, and then perks up when someone stops at the end of their row. It’s a set of parents, though, and they’re eyeing the empty seats Ricky and Gyuvin have been guarding with interest— five chairs is a lot in a crowded event like this.

“Excuse me,” the woman starts to ask, already smiling politely. “Are these—”

“Taken, sorry.” Gyuvin interjects, shrugging his jacket off and practically flinging it across the chairs. He softens his words with a glittering smile and dips his head in the most polite version of a seated bow, one arm wrapping across the back of Ricky’s chair. “We have a large family and we’re all very proud of our little brother— he’s the last to graduate!”

Gyuvin points out Yujin in the sea of teenagers and the couple, their faces softening, obligingly compliment them before moving on to find seats elsewhere.

Ricky allows himself to laugh the moment they’re gone, covering his smile with his fingers. “That was rude,” he murmurs, poking Gyuvin’s thigh. “You’re lucky Hao isn’t here. He’d make you go apologize.”

Gyuvin beams back at him, unrepentant, and then tugs on the collar of Ricky’s suit jacket. “Hey, put this on the chairs too. We need to mark our territory.”

Ricky rolls his eyes but obeys, pulling off the jacket and carefully buttoning the cuffs of his blue and white pinstripe shirt. He lays his jacket across the remaining chairs and even tries to look menacing according to Gyuvin’s hissed orders, though he doubts the equally intimidating parents and grandparents will care.

A few more minutes pass as the auditorium continues to fill, stuffed with family and friends and silver-haired grandparents, so many people shoved together that Ricky’s started to sweat. Or perhaps it’s just that he’s a little nervous around so many strangers, with only Gyuvin here.

He isn’t used to being at events by himself, or with so few members. It’s odd to sit in this stretch of empty chairs, to turn automatically to the side and then realize that Hao and the other hyungs aren’t with him.

Ricky feels a bit lost, really, as if he can’t remember how to carry himself.

“Oh!” Gyuvin exclaims, shooting to his feet and waving wildly, practically bouncing on his toes. “Matthew-hyung’s here! Ah— yes, good, he saw me!”

Gyuvin sinks back down, satisfied, and beams at Ricky with cutely flushed cheeks. He doesn’t seem to be feeling any of Ricky’s stress and is clearly excited about Yujin’s graduation, about reuniting with their other members.

It’s been harder to meet up than Ricky would have thought, even though they all live in Seoul. Their buildings truly aren’t very far apart at all and yet between training and recording and photoshoots and overseas schedules for Taerae, this is the first time so many of them have been able to match up their hectic schedules.

Ricky brightens when Matthew slides into the seat beside him, a little out of breath and with darker hair than the last time they’d seen each other in person. He’s smiling but there are shadows beneath his eyes and his jaw is a bit sharper, a too-large jacket swallowing up his shoulders.

“Hi,” he greets them warmly, giggling a little when Gyuvin bends around Ricky and winds both of them up in his incredibly long arms, making a happy sound. “Gyuvin-ah, don’t strangle me! I really want to see Yujin graduate.”

Ricky pretends to choke and Gyuvin lets them both go with a laugh, still beaming, one of his hands holding Matthew’s. “I didn’t think it’d ever happen. He missed so much school!”

“He never did his homework,” Ricky agrees, though of course he can’t exactly condemn Yujin when he wasn’t quite the best student himself.

Matthew giggles again and then pretends to wipe a tear from his pale cheek. “I never thought it would come true,” he sighs dramatically, “but our baby’s all grown up. A high school graduate!”

Ricky and Gyuvin grin at him and for a moment, just a flash in time, it feels as if nothing’s changed.

“Where is he?” Matthew asks and Gyuvin points out Yujin, his head ducked over his phone among the sea of other uniformed students.

“He’s probably playing games,” Matthew says proudly and then he stands up and waves his arms around so obnoxiously that Ricky slides lower in his seat, the tips of his ears red, and wishes he were wearing a baseball cap. It must work, though, because several minutes later Matthew collapses back into his seat and announces, happily, “he saw me! I should’ve brought a sign to embarrass him with.”

“Hanbin-hyung probably has one,” Gyuvin answers, bouncing a little in his seat. “Do you know when he’s coming, hyung? I don’t think we have that much longer until it starts.”

“Ah.” Matthew’s forehead wrinkles a little, his hands suddenly fiddling in his lap. “No, I’m not sure. Hey— any news on your debut?”

Ricky chews his tongue, then shakes his head because Gyuvin’s gone quiet beside him, all the good mood sucked from their row of chairs. “Not yet. They’re still deciding on the details.”

*****

July 2026

Ricky flops down against the practice room floor, uncaring of the pain that sparks in his bones, as the music fades away from the speakers and Hao calls for them to stop. He’s exhausted, dripping in sweat and running feverishly hot, but he’s too tired to even think of standing up and retrieving his water bottle.

Around the small room, steamy from their hours of dancing so that even the mirror has begun to fog over, the others drop to the floor too, limp as as abandoned marionette dolls. Ricky can hear them sucking air desperately into their lungs, can smell the salty tang of their sweat and the pine of floor cleaner against his cheek.

The hard floor is so nice and cool. Ricky doesn’t particularly care how dirty it might be; he presses his flushed face more firmly against the boards and pants through chapped lips, ignoring the nasty trickle of a bead of sweat down his spine.

It’s hot in Seoul and that heat, despite the constant whirring of the AC and an overhead fan, has crept into their practice room. Their t-shirts stick to their bodies after only a round or two of warmups and everyone’s crankier than usual, sick of the humidity and heat and constantly shining sun whenever they step outside.

It doesn’t help that today’s the anniversary of their debut, three years ago.

“Ten minutes,” Hao reminds them from the corner but he turns back to his phone before Ricky can get a good look at his face, can judge how his hyung is feeling.

It’s been a strange day. Ricky didn’t feel like eating breakfast and Yujin hasn’t said a word since climbing from bed, the delicate skin beneath his eyes swollen and lilac, and even Gyuvin’s smiles stretch a bit too thin in the practice room mirror.

Ricky wants to talk about their anniversary but he’s too scared to bring it up first. There’d been messages in the ZB1 group chat, from everyone else, and Gunwook sent some old selfies from their last fan meeting, but it’s a muted kind of celebration when they can’t all be together. When they can’t be on stage, can’t ever say their group reached a three year anniversary.

“Guess what!” Matthew’s voice is so loud that the phone speaker crackles, technology maxed out at full volume. There’s shrieking in the background, joyful whoops that go on and on. “Hao-hyung, guess what fucking happened!”

They’re all gathered close round the phone now, peering at Hao inquisitively even as he lifts his eyebrows and shrugs. It’s been a while since they’ve heard Matthew this happy, though he always celebrated exuberantly after each performance and music show win and awards ceremony. He truly is bright as the sun.

Matthew cackles, the call blurring with static for a moment, and then his voice rings over the line. “They bought it! They bought my fucking contract!”

Hao’s mouth drops open and Yujin lets out a little shriek before he claps his hands over his mouth. Who, Gyuvin mouths at Ricky, but Hao is already asking Matthew that very question.

“Mattchu, who bought it?”

“Fucking— Jellyfish!” Matthew’s voice blots in and out like a summer rainstorm, too loud in the stuffy room. “I’ve been trying to get MNH to—” another burst of static and then Matthew’s voice returns, exasperated and jubilant, chattering rapidly in English. “They actually did it, I can’t believe it worked, and Wookie knew but he didn’t—”

The others are peering up at Ricky now, waiting for him to translate, but his blurry brain is taking too long to whir through Matthew’s words and overflowing happiness. “Matthew, slow down,” he says loudly, feeling his lips quiver like he wants to smile but just can’t quite manage it. “Is Gunwook there?”

“Hi!” Gunwook sounds just as exuberant as Matthew, giggling through the static. “I’m here! We’re here together in our company!”

“— our company, oh my fucking god—” Matthew is saying, as if he can’t quite believe it. “Gunwook-ah, we get to— are the dorms here nice? Oh shit, do you have good health insurance? I have this weird rash and I—”

“Hyung!” Ricky’s laughing now, along with Gunwook, and bemused smiles are breaking out on the other boys’ faces even though they don’t understand what’s so funny. “Explain please. How’d you get them to sell your contract?”

Matthew cackles and then his voice becomes much clearer, as if he’s pressed the phone to his mouth as he switches back to Korean. “I just told them at first, I wasn't serious, but then Wookie and I talked and we made a whole PowerPoint and I explained to them how much more money they'd make if they let me go and--"

*****

“Ricky,” one of the nurses, a kind one who turned down the AC in his room earlier, asks with a smile. “You said you’re a singer, right?”

Ricky blinks, careful not to move his aching head. His throat is very dry and it hurts to swallow, as if there’s sandpaper rubbing together in the back of his mouth.

“The CT will take a few minutes,” she continues, straightening the blanket draped over him. There’s a belt strapped across his waist, almost similar to what cars have. “Would you like to listen to music during it? Some patients find it helps distract them a little.”

Ricky isn’t sure how this nurse knows that he’s terrified, that he’s cold and lonely and aching for any shred of kindness. Perhaps she can simply see it on his face. Perhaps the sharpness of his body is a warning sign medical staff understand how to read, even though no one else has.

“We can play your music,” she says with another smile, as if she once again believes she is treating him with kindness. “Any song you like.”

Ricky’s eyes are too wet. He blinks, moving his gaze to the ceiling tiles and the round edge of the machine behind him, a mouth waiting to swallow him whole. Everything is very white and very clean and all he can smell is plastic, the cold tray underneath him. There is no one at his side to hold his hand, no one pacing anxiously in the hospital waiting room.

Only Ricky and this hungry machine and the broken pieces of his brain, the blood that won’t stop flowing because he hasn’t been whole for many months now.

He can’t remember what it was like, their last stage. It’s the strangest thing in the world because that concert felt like swallowing flames, like racing across hot coals and flying among the stars and balancing atop the clouds. It mattered to him more than anything and he gave his body to that final stage; his blood and his sweat and his tears, as it was ending.

Ricky threw his body into dancing without any concern for torn muscles or bruises or exhaustion because he knew it was their brightest moment, the final stretch of their flower path. That concert was their final gasp of air before passing into death and they were hungry for it, ravenous, clawing and thrashing to hold onto the lights and the fans and the brightness just a few seconds longer. Ricky sang until blood coated his tongue and then he sang even louder; he ignored the raw slickness of his vocal cords and he didn’t care that there was no air in his lungs, that he was drowning for all the world to witness.

All that mattered was that they were seen, that they danced and gave themselves to that final stage. That they existed. A shooting star, Ricky knows, will always burn brighter than any other constellation because even a few seconds of fame are more delicious than a lifetime of certain adoration.

Their farewell concert was his final burning mark upon the world and yet he can’t recall it. Blue lights blur in his memories and he can remember the sweat soaking him, the drape of the velvet curtain as it fell, but the exact details of his final night as Zerobaseone’s member are lost to him.

“Any song you’d like, Ricky,” the nurse repeats, her voice tinny because she’s left him alone in the cold room and now stands safely behind a pane of glass, speaking to him through what feels like miles of water. It’s only Ricky and the machine, Ricky and his bleeding brain and this hulking piece of plastic waiting to swallow him whole. “Just tell me the name.”

Words rise on his tongue like tiny spring flowers, sweetly familiar. He hasn’t listened to their music since they left the dorm, though Gyuvin does almost obsessively and Yujin still likes to practice with bits of their choreography.

Hao doesn't listen to their music either. Once they were in a 7/11, buying snacks, and In Bloom began to play; Hao set down their food very carefully and left the store without saying anything, though his face had gone pale. Ricky left after a moment too, unable to fathom speaking to the cashier while his own voice echoed through the aisles.

Ricky shifts a little under the thin blanket, curling his frozen fingers against his hips and thinking longingly of the sun outside this cold hospital, of how vibrantly blue the ocean is.

“No music, please,” he says quietly, his lips too dry from filtered air. He knows the nurse will hear him, as will the CT technicians waiting to send him into the machine’s depths. This isn’t his first time having the scan, though he’s only done it in Korea until now.

The static of the speaker clicks off and then the lights truly dim, so low he can close his eyes and not glimpse the reddish glow of his own blood vessels. He feels the tray he lies on begin to slide backwards, slow and steady, sending him into the dark depths of the machine which will riddle his body with light and illuminate all the ways in which he is broken.

As shadows cross his face he feels suddenly and desperately, with a sharp pain that bursts beneath his sternum, that he wants someone to be waiting for him.

*****

August 2026

The summer seems to fly past, weeks slipping away like grains of sand, long days and short nights and hours in the practice room blurring together until Ricky feels as if his only purpose in life is to dance and sing and then dance again.

Early August is lovely and blue and they make themselves sick on ice cream, completely giving up on eating healthily without Hao to buy them vegetables. Ollie and Yujin find a new song for children that’s meant to teach good manners and delight in racing up behind everyone else and shrieking the lyrics in their ears, then racing away before they can be scolded. Their dorm is too small, still, and the windows of their dance studio grow damp with condensation, but it’s a good month, Ricky thinks.

Later on it gets harder. The weather is unbearable and all of Seoul seems to be sagging beneath the broiling heat of the sun and the humidity; his clothes are constantly damp and all he wants to do is lie in front of the fan and chew on ice cubes. They keep practicing, though, dancing through drops of sweat spattered across the floorboards and running themselves ragged until the sun eventually fades from the sky. Ricky sleeps in Hao’s bed sometimes, when his own grows too hot, and he steals their hyung’s shirts for practice sometimes because Hao isn’t there to playfully fight him about it.

*****

Late November 2026

Ricky’s alone in the practice room the first time it happens.

It’s late enough that everyone else has gone to bed, the sky outside the one tiny window perfectly purple-black. He can feel the silence of a sleeping city even inside the practice room, even over the thumping bass of the music looping through the speakers as he pushes his aching body through the choreography again and again, snapping his limbs out even as his moves begin to grow sloppy.

He’s tired. There’s a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes because he doesn’t want to stare at his pale reflection any longer, can’t deal with his own scowl when all that matters are his clumsy feet and how he can’t make them move right.

It was a long day.

They fought during practice, not in a big way, but Sungeon argued with Gyuvin until they were both flushed and the rest of their time in the studio was tense. It’s because they’re all stressed and worried about how long their debut is taking, Ricky knows this, but it doesn’t stop them from turning their anxiety outwards against each other.

They’re fighting more often now. Over little things, like who drank the last can of melon soda or whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher, but the air between them feels prickly more often than not. Fighting seeps the fun out of practice, wiping away smiles and laughter until all that matters is how clean their movements are, how closely they turn in time and slide across the floor.

Ricky didn’t dance as well as the others today. He thinks he’s coming down with something, a winter cold or just general fatigue, but his steps were just a beat behind everyone else, his eyes red-rimmed in the large mirrors.

No one chastised him for it. They corrected him in bitten-off words and showed him the choreo in pieces when he still couldn’t do it and once practice ended, they all filed out in silence.

It was worse than if they’d screamed at him.

Ricky gulps microwaved chicken soup straight from the styrofoam cup and then returns to the practice room without changing, sweat-damp hair still curling against his neck. His spine hurts from the hours of dancing and that pain has radiated across his shoulders blades and sunk into the nape of his neck, as if he’s pinched a nerve somehow.

He hurts, but he’s going to keep dancing until he can get it right. Until he’s better, until he’s no longer a burden to his members.

*****

February 2027

They all go, on the day of Jiwoong’s enlistment ceremony. It’s gray and chilly and overcast, the sky the same shade as bleached bones, but Ricky thinks it’s fitting even as he huddles deeper into his fluffy coat. It feels right that the world should be sad on the day their hyung has to leave them.

He hadn’t slept well the night before— not that any of them are, anymore, not with how many hours they need to practice— and there’s a crick in his neck, a knot of tension he can’t soothe away. Ricky leans his head against the cool window and lets his vision blur, uncaring to study the bleak brown-gray of the winter frozen countryside. The car is quiet, Hao and Yujin and Gyuvin sleeping or looking at their phones.

Ricky remembers when car rides used to be lively, used to be full of traded snacks and arguments over blankets and excited chatter about the other idols they’d finally watched perform. On nights in foreign countries when city lights blurred like spilled neon and eight other boys were the only familiar thing left, they’d crowd into one sterile hotel room together and play music, play games, play with each other’s hair until they fell asleep.

Even when Ricky was far from home, even when he was surrounded by signs in languages he didn’t understand, he hadn’t been sick for home because of them.

*****

April 2027

The nosebleeds begin to happen more frequently. Ricky gets into the habit of setting his alarm earlier than everyone else so that he has time to check his pillowcase for dried spots of coppery red; time to hide the cover deep in their laundry basket and time to wash the crusted blood from his nose and chin, pinkish-red water swirling down the drain.

He starts to taste iron even in his sleep, even on nights when his nose doesn’t bleed.

The pain in his spine and shoulders gradually grows worse too, though Ricky stubbornly tells himself this is simply an effect of spending so many hours in the dance studio. He explains away the headaches as dehydration and the lilac circles beneath his eyes as a common trait of all idols, all trainees desperate to debut.

He can’t quite manage to find a good excuse the first time he faints in the bathroom, gripping the cold edge of the sink as he lowers himself to the tiles while his vision goes black and his hearing fades away. It's not so odd for idols, fainting, but Ricky's just finished breakfast and hasn't stepped into the practice room yet, doesn't even have a fever-- but his forehead is slick with cold sweat and there's iron in the back of his throat, a trickle of wetness streaking down his face.

He starts to worry that maybe he isn't okay, but it's not the possibility of bad health that concerns him-- it's the impact of bad health on their debut, on his not quite-yet members who are dreaming and sweating and aching for another taste of fame and freedom. 

So Ricky decides that he simply isn't sick. Whatever's going on, whatever's causing the pain that sits in his bones like lightning and crackles down his spine with each turn of his head-- it simply isn't as important as making their debut. He buys new black sheets to hide the stain of his blood and he keeps bottles of painkillers in all his bags and sweatshirt pockets and the company car that takes them to the gym, learning to swallow the tiny white circles dry in a practiced motion. He works his way through every type of vitamin in the dorm bathroom and he tells Gyuvin he'll sleep more, when the other boy presses a fingertip to the circles under his eyes, and he learns to recognize the lightheadedness that means he's going to faint. 

Now, when he showers, he crouches on the slippery floor and folds his arms round his knees, letting the water pound his aching spine while shampoo and tears trickle down the drain. His head feels less fuzzy that way, and if he's already close to the floor-- well, it makes it less dangerous when he passes into unconsciousness for a few seconds. 

*****

Late September 2027

Ricky is the last one to arrive at the restaurant, though it isn’t on purpose. He spent too long agonizing over what to wear, trying to find something that would disguise how blue his veins are, and then his taxi got stuck in traffic.

They’re already gathered when he walks in, eight heads around a long table. It’s a sight so familiar that he forgets the year for a moment; it’s simply another team dinner in a foreign country where they don’t speak the language and all they know is one another, all that’s familiar resting in each other’s faces and voices.

Ricky’s never felt sick for home with his members but when he sits down at the table and meets their eyes, tired and curious and sad, he realizes the space between them is quiet now. No hands reach out for his, none of the hyungs move to pour him a drink or pile banchan onto his plate.

“Hi,” Ricky whispers, curving his aching shoulders inwards, tucking his cold fingers beneath his thighs.

He’s sitting between Taerae and Matthew— is it because they’re the only ones left who can stand him? They’re nice enough not to openly hate him, but then again Ricky never thought he’d come to expect pain from his precious members. They taught him love and honesty and the warmth of home but now he flinches when Jiwoong raises his beer in welcome.