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It had been weeks since the last fight, and the quiet that followed was almost unbearable.
Eunjang’s hallways had forgotten how to echo with running feet, with fists slamming into lockers or voices barking names. The air hung too still, too clean. Peace, they called it. But to Go Hyuntak, it felt more like something unfinished — like a bruise that never turned yellow.
Union was gone. Baekjin was gone.
And Keum Seongje, who had once been everywhere — in his shadow, under his skin — was suddenly nowhere.
Hyuntak didn’t notice how restless he’d become until one afternoon when he caught himself walking home slower than usual, passing by streets he hadn’t meant to. His body knew something before his head did — some half-formed instinct, an ache for trouble, for a voice that could still make him snarl without thinking.
He found him again by accident.
A convenience store, near the old basketball court. Fluorescent lights, humming like a headache. Seongje was there, hair longer now, uniform gone but attitude intact — leaning against the counter, scrolling his phone. He looked up at the sound of the door, eyes flicking over Hyuntak in lazy recognition.
For a second, neither of them spoke. Just that old tension, sharpened but quieter now.
Then Seongje smirked, tossed a drink to the counter, and said,
“Didn’t think you’d last this long without someone telling you what to do.”
It wasn’t venom. Not really. But Hyuntak still rolled his shoulders like it was.
“Didn’t think you’d be this bored,” he muttered back.
Seongje laughed—low, careless, familiar. It sounded like the old days but felt nothing like them.
They didn’t fight. Didn’t have to.
When Seongje walked out, Hyuntak didn’t realize he was following until they’d already walked half the block in silence, parting ways only when the street forked.
That should’ve been the end of it.
But three days later, Hyuntak caught himself glancing over his shoulder—to his left, then right — half-expecting a flash of maroon, a certain gait, that tilt of a head he used to track in fights. Even the Eunjang boys noticed.
“Who’re you looking for?”
Juntae asked once, leaning over him. Hyuntak only shrugged, pretending to be lost in his notes.
“Thought I saw someone,”
He said, though he hadn’t.
Except he did.
Once a week. Then twice. Always somewhere unplanned—at the park, the court, outside a cafe neither of them admitted to frequenting. It started as small talk, clumsy as it was. Updates about nothing—how quiet school had been, how weird it was not to watch their backs.
Those talks stretched into longer hours. The space between them shifted from hostility to something softer, something that almost felt like a habit.
And though Hyuntak told himself he didn’t wait for Seongje, he still checked his phone more often on certain days. Still took the longer way home, just in case.
Peace had returned, yes—but not for them.
They were just learning new ways to fight it.
The first few weeks felt harmless enough — just small talk, quiet hours, the occasional smirk that lingered too long. But habits have a way of pretending to be harmless before they sink in too deep to undo.
It started showing.
“Tak-ah, lunch?”
Baku called once across the court, towel slung around his neck.
“Can’t. Gotta run an errand.”
Hyuntak replied without looking up from his phone.
Another day, Sieun cornered him outside the classroom.
“Suho’s asking if you can help him later.”
“Tell him I’ll make it up next week.”
He said, already tucking his notebook away.
They didn’t question it much at first—Hyuntak had always been the quiet, unpredictable one. But the pattern stuck: the rain checks, the half-smiles, the way he always seemed distracted. His excuses changed, but the destination didn’t.
Because whenever Seongje texted,
“You free?”
Hyuntak was.
Sometimes it was a bench behind the court, other times a cheap diner that played bad pop songs. They’d sit across from each other, laughing at nothing, trading insults soft enough to sound like care. Seongje would pretend to be bored, tapping his straw against the rim of his drink; Hyuntak would scoff, pretending not to notice how their conversations stretched longer every time.
It wasn’t friendship—not the kind Hyuntak knew how to name. It was something like it, but heavier. Something he didn’t know how to explain to the others, even if he wanted to.
And he did want to.
There were moments, walking home with the Eunjang boys, when the words almost slipped.
He’d start with, “There’s this guy I’ve been hanging out with…” But then he’d stop—because Sieun would look over, curious; because Juntae would grin and ask who; because Suho, quiet beside him, already looked like he knew.
“My…”
“Just someone.”
Hyuntak said once when Suho asked indirectly.
He didn’t say a name. Didn’t need to.
Suho just smiled, small and understanding, and changed the subject.
It should’ve made things easier, but it didn’t.
Every time Hyuntak canceled plans, every time he ignored Baku’s teasing, he felt a twist in his chest—guilt, maybe. Or fear. Because he knew the moment he said Seongje’s name out loud, everything would change. The peace he’d found—fragile, quiet, barely holdin —might crack wide open.
So he stayed quiet.
He kept meeting Seongje under half-formed excuses, giving him undivided attention like it wasn’t dangerous. Because for all his restraint, Hyuntak couldn’t rest when he wasn’t near him.
And if Seongje noticed—the way Hyuntak’s gaze lingered too long, the way he always showed up—he didn’t say it. He just smirked, leaned back, and said,
“You really can’t stay away, can you?”
And Hyuntak, as always, didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to. The silence between them said enough.
It changed again—quietly, the way all things between them did.
Hyuntak started saying no.
The first time, it was because Baku insisted on a game after class. The second, because Suho wanted company while Sieun was tutoring Juntae. The third, there wasn’t even a reason — just Hyuntak typing “can’t today” before he could stop himself.
He told himself it was better this way. That maybe they were spending too much time together, that he needed to balance things out, that it wasn’t fair to the others who’d always had his back. The guilt had been building anyway—every skipped lunch, every half-truth. Maybe if he took a step back, things would settle.
Seongje didn’t argue. He just sent a simple “sure” the first few times, no punctuation, no fuss. But it stuck with him—the quiet that followed, the space Hyuntak used to fill.
At first, Seongje told himself he didn’t care. That if Hyuntak wanted to play Eunjang’s loyal dog again, fine. He’d been that way long before Seongje ever bothered to look twice.
But then the silences stretched too long.
He’d catch himself walking by the basketball court after school, hands in his pockets, pretending he just happened to pass by. He’d linger outside the convenience store they used to haunt, only to find it empty. Sometimes he’d scroll through their messages and stop at nothing in particular—a photo, a half-typed reply, a joke that wasn’t funny.
It was pathetic. He knew that. And still, there he was—scanning every crowd, every hallway, for a glimpse of him.
Seongje, who once prided himself on indifference, now found himself stalking the shadow of someone who used to orbit him naturally. And every time he saw Hyuntak laughing with the Eunjang boys—with Baku (again), of all people—something unfamiliar twisted inside him.
Why did it matter?
Why did he matter?
He tried to reason it out.
Maybe it was habit. Maybe he was just bored. Maybe he missed the thrill of getting under Hyuntak’s skin.
But the truth came quieter, crueler.
Because every time Hyuntak smiled at someone else—even just stood too close—Seongje felt something heavy in his chest, like anger without direction.
“Why him?”
He muttered once, staring out the window of a classroom he no longer belonged to.
“Why Baku’s dog?”
He laughed to himself, low and humorless.
Because that’s all Go Hyuntak was supposed to be—Baku’s shadow, Eunjangs loyal boy, someone beneath his notice. And yet, somehow, Seongje had memorized the exact sound of his laugh. The slope of his shoulders. The way he’d look down and frown like he was fighting with words that wouldn’t come out.
His princess, he called him once, as a joke. A taunt.
It didn’t sound like a joke anymore.
So he let Hyuntak have his distance—at least, that’s what he told himself.
If Hyuntak wanted space, fine.
Seongje could wait. Watch.
He was good at that.
But he never stopped showing up in the places Hyuntak used to be, like some uninvited ghost still haunting what they never named.
Weeks slipped into months. The world didn’t change much but the distance between them had become its own language.
Hyuntak had gotten used to it, or so he told himself. He had his friends, his routine, the same walk home. But sometimes, when the air got too still, he’d catch himself looking at the city like it was missing something sharp and necessary.
Then it happened.
A narrow street, half-past dusk. He wasn’t even supposed to be there—just walking home from the pharmacy after buying things for Suho—when he turned a corner and froze.
There he was.
Keum Seongje.
Same face, same lazy posture, just a little more tired around the eyes. For a moment, Hyuntak didn’t move. He wasn’t sure if he should look pleased or guilty, but his throat went dry either way.
Seongje was the first to speak, voice deceptively calm, hands in his pockets.
“Finally done ghosting me, hm?”
He said it like a joke, but his eyes didn’t match the tone. They looked steady—too stead —like he was holding something back.
Hyuntak opened his mouth, breath hitching, but before a single word could form—
“Hyung!”
A voice cut through the tension. Suho appeared out of nowhere, cheerful as always, looping an arm over Hyuntak’s shoulder.
“Let’s go? Halmeoni is waiting.”
Then he saw Seongje.
Suho’s steps faltered, eyes darting between them, trying to piece together what he’d just walked into. The silence stretched, awkward and heavy.
Seongje’s jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. Everything he wanted to say was already flashing behind his gaze, and Hyuntak knew exactly what he saw: guilt. regret. The worst kind of apology—the unspoken one.
Hyuntak took a half-step forward, but Seongje beat him to it.
“Don’t bother,”
Seongje said flatly, already turning away.
“Wouldn’t want to keep your… friend waiting.”
He walked off before Hyuntak could call his name.
That night, Seongje didn’t go home.
He found himself in the middle of some street near the subway, heart pounding for reasons he refused to name. A group of kids—loud, bored, reckless—crossed paths with him, one of them laughing too close, looking too long.
It was enough.
By the time it ended, three of them were on the ground, and Seongje’s knuckles were bleeding. The rush was hollow, like fighting shadows. The anger didn’t leave. It never did.
He laughed under his breath, head tilted back against the wall, eyes half-closed.
“Pathetic,”
He muttered.
“Absolutely pathetic.”
Word spread, as it always did.
By morning, Hyuntak knew. He didn’t even ask how. Maybe it was instinct—maybe it was just the way his chest felt heavy, the way Suho’s look said don’t go and Hyuntak went anyway.
When he found Seongje, the latter was sitting on a park bench, hoodie pulled low, bruises blooming across his cheek.
“What now, princess?”
Seongje said without looking up.
“Gonna scold me?”
Hyuntak didn’t answer. He just knelt, set down the small first aid kit he always seemed to carry now, and reached for Seongje’s hand.
Seongje flinched—out of habit, pride, something in between—but didn’t pull away.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,”
Hyuntak cut him off softly.
“But I want to.”
The antiseptic stung, and so did the silence.
For once, Seongje didn’t fill it with sarcasm. He just watched Hyuntak’s fingers—steady, careful—brushing over bruises like they meant something.
When Hyuntak finally looked up, Seongje caught his reflection in those eyes again—the same look from that night, the one that almost said stay.
He didn’t. Not yet.
But for the first time in months, he didn’t leave either.
The weeks after were quieter—not the kind of quiet that healed, but the kind that filled the space between text messages that never got sent.
They’d found their way back to each other, in some small, stubborn way. Hyuntak would stop by after class; Seongje would pretend he wasn’t waiting. They didn’t talk about the fight, didn’t talk about the nights apart. They just existed side by side again—almost like before, but never quite.
Then basketball season came.
Suddenly, Hyuntak’s name was everywhere. Eunjang’s ace. Most points scored. Practice every afternoon. Practice matches every weekend. Practice, practice, practice.
Seongje didn’t complain—not out loud—but his patience was a thin thread he kept pretending wasn’t there.
He told himself he didn’t care, that Hyuntak deserved to do well, that this wasn’t about him. But one afternoon, after snapping at a lackey for breathing too loudly, he found himself walking to Eunjang anyway.
He told himself he just wanted to check.
The gym buzzed with noise—sneakers slapping against the floor, whistles echoing, laughter bouncing off the walls. From the top bleachers, Seongje sat alone, hood up, too far to be noticed but close enough to see everything.
Then he saw it.
Hyuntak, laughing, tired but bright in his Eunjang jersey—and right beside him, Kim Jiwon.
The kid had his hand at Hyuntak’s waist, steadying him as they walked through a narrow space between benches. Too familiar. Too casual. Later, when Hyuntak bent down to adjust his laces, Jiwon crouched first, tying them for him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Seongje’s fingers curled into his sleeves.
“You have to hold your teammate’s waist to walk through?”
“You have to tie his shoelace when it’s untied?”
Each motion was ordinary, harmless—in the way ordinary things twist when they belong to someone else.
And Hyuntak—damn him—didn’t even flinch. Didn’t push him away, didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t stop the kid’s hand from brushing his jersey. Just stood there, laughing, easy, like it meant nothing.
Maybe it did.
But Seongje couldn’t convince himself of that.
He stayed until the whistle blew, until the game ended, until Hyuntak was surrounded by his team, all smiles and noise and warmth. Then Seongje stood up and left, quiet as a bruise.
He didn’t wait for the score.
Didn’t stay for the handshakes.
Didn’t even let himself look back.
“Seongje.”
His name hit the air like a hook, pulled taut. Seongje stopped mid-step, half-turned, his jaw tight.
Hyuntak was still in his jersey, hair damp, towel hanging off his shoulder. He looked breathless—not from running, but from trying to catch up.
“You were here,”
Hyuntak said, more statement than question.
Seongje gave a low hum, uninterested, his eyes somewhere else.
“Hard not to be when Eunjang plasters your face all over the posters.”
Hyuntak frowned.
“Then why are you leaving like I lost?”
A laugh slipped out of Seongje—short, cold, almost cruel.
“You didn’t. You had someone to tie your shoelaces for you.”
Hyuntak blinked, thrown off.
“What?”
“Forget it.”
Seongje turned again, but Hyuntak’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist—firm, grounding. Seongje’s breath hitched, just for a second.
“Why are you mad?”
“I’m not,”
Seongje lied, eyes flicking down to where their hands met.
“You should get back to your— whatever that was. Teammate. Boy scout. Shoelace guy.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?”
The silence stretched, charged and sharp. Seongje could feel it—the stupid, infuriating pull between them but the words landed before Hyuntak could dodge them. His lips parted, breath catching, but Seongje was already walking away.
He didn’t look back.
Later that night, Seongje would crash—not the loud kind. Just the quiet one, where the world stops making sense for a while and everything hurts too much to name.
He’d shrug it off in the morning, like always. Pretend it was nothing.
Then he’d disappear again—unread, unseen, unreachable.
Because that’s what Seongje did best.
He left before anyone could say his name with too much care.
The week after the game was supposed to be routine.
Classes, practice, the familiar rhythm of Eunjang’s gym.
But Go Hyuntak couldn’t focus.
His passes were off, his shots short, even his defense—once relentless—felt sloppy. The court blurred. Cheers turned into static. Every time he blinked, he saw Seongje walking away.
He heard Baku from the sidelines, half-joking, half-worried.
“Oi, Gotak, you left your brain somewhere?”
Juntae frowned.
“You good, Tak-ah? You’re spacing out again.”
Hyuntak forced a grin, shaking his head.
“Didn’t sleep well.”
But Suho, watching from the bench, knew better.
He’d seen this before—the way Hyuntak shut down when he didn’t have the words for what he felt. The way he tried to play it off until it ate him alive.
That night, Suho found him sitting outside the gym, head bent over his phone, unread messages lighting the screen and fading out again.
“You wanna talk about it?”
Suho asked, quiet. Hyuntak shrugged.
“Nothing to talk about.”
“Then talk about ‘him,’”
Suho said, not looking directly.
Hyuntak froze.
Suho smiled faintly.
“You never say his name, but it’s always the same story. ‘He said this,’ ‘he did that,’ ‘I don’t know why it bothers me.’”
A long pause. Then Hyuntak exhaled, slow.
“It’s stupid.”
“Probably,”
Suho said.
“But you still care.”
Hyuntak didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Suho nudged his shoulder lightly before standing.
“Then go see him. Before you lose the game and your mind.”
The Ganghak vs. Eunjang match rolled around, and for the first time, Hyuntak didn’t show.
He told Baku he was sick. Told Juntae he’d overslept. But really, he was already halfway across the city, standing in front of Seongje’s door.
He didn’t know what he’d say—maybe nothing. Maybe too much.
The door opened before he could knock twice.
Seongje stood there, surprised, eyes sharp even in the dim hallway light.
“You have some nerve—”
He started, but stopped when he saw the look on Hyuntak’s face.
No bravado. No bite. Just quiet exhaustion and something fragile in his eyes.
Seongje’s jaw flexed. His fists curled once, reflexive, before his arms moved on their own.
He reached out—not to hit, but to hold.
“...You’re late.”
He muttered, voice lower, rougher than he meant.
Hyuntak nodded, stepping forward, just enough for Seongje to catch him when his balance gave out.
And for the first time in weeks, neither of them said anything sharp or cruel.
They just stood there—too close, too tired, too aware—while the world outside went on without them.
The apartment was dim, smelling faintly of smoke and rain. Hyuntak stepped inside without asking; Seongje didn’t tell him to leave.
For a while, neither spoke. The air between them was heavy, like the aftermath of a storm that didn’t know it was over yet.
“You look like shit.”
Seongje said first, tone flat, but his eyes gave him away too focused, too searching.
“Missed your match?”
Hyuntak just nodded.
Seongje laughed under his breath.
“So that’s where you’ve been. Couldn’t handle a loss, so you came here to what? Make me feel bad for you?”
“That’s not—”
Hyuntak started, but Seongje cut him off.
“Then what? You vanish for weeks, can’t even look me in the eye, and suddenly you’re at my door like nothing happened?”
Hyuntak’s jaw tightened.
“You’re the one who disappeared first.”
“I didn’t disappear,”
Seongje snapped, taking a step forward.
“You stopped showing up.”
Hyuntak met his glare, steady.
“You wanted me to stop.”
That landed harder than either expected. Seongje looked away first, jaw flexing.
“You’re so goddamn exhausting.”
“Then why can’t you stay away?”
Hyuntak’s voice cracked, low but shaking with something real, something raw.
For a second, Seongje almost answered—almost said because you’re the only one who looks at me like I’m not a monster—but he didn’t. He just clicked his tongue, muttering,
“You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah?”
Hyuntak shot back.
“Then you must like idiots.”
That did it. Seongje’s temper snapped, hand flying to grab Hyuntak’s collar—not to hit, just to feel something solid. Hyuntak didn’t flinch; he stepped in closer.
“Go ahead,”
He whispered.
“You always do this anyway.”
But Seongje didn’t. His breath hitched, his grip faltered. The anger melted into something else—frustration, fear, longing—all the things he’d never say.
“Shut up.”
Seongje muttered instead, but softer this time. His hands dropped, resting against Hyuntak’s arms instead of shoving him away.
The tension broke. Not cleanly, but enough.
Hyuntak let out a breath, shoulders sinking.
“You should sleep”
“Not tired.”
“Liar.”
That earned a faint, unwilling smile. Seongje turned away, walking toward the couch—Hyuntak followed without a word.
Minutes later, they ended up where they always do. Hyuntak sitting on the floor, back against the couch. Seongje sprawled half over the armrest, half against Hyuntak’s shoulder. Their fight still lingered in the air, but neither pushed it away.
“Don’t miss your next game.”
Seongje muttered, eyes half-closed.
“Don’t ghost me again.”
Hyuntak said back.
Neither promised. But they stayed.
Morning came slow—gray light spilling across the floor, soft and almost forgiving.
Hyuntak woke first. His neck ached from sleeping half-sitting, Seongje’s head heavy against his shoulder. For a minute, he just stayed there, quiet, watching the steady rise and fall of Seongje’s breathing.
It felt unreal—not the fighting, not the breaking, but this.
The stillness after.
When Seongje stirred, he didn’t pull away immediately. Just blinked at the ceiling and groaned.
“You’re staring again,” he muttered.
“You snore,”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
A pause—then a huff of laughter, muffled but real.
They didn’t talk about the night before. Didn’t have to. The apology existed somewhere between the steaming coffee on the table and the quiet clink of mugs. Hyuntak tended to the small bruise on Seongje’s jaw; Seongje brushed Hyuntak’s hair back without thinking.
For a moment, they could almost pretend it was easy.
It wasn’t planned. None of it ever was.
A few nights later, Hyuntak sent a quick message: “You hungry? Come over.”
He didn’t think it through—didn’t think the Eunjangz would still be there, crowded in his living room with takeout boxes and noise.
The knock on the door made everyone look up.
When Hyuntak opened it and Seongje stepped in—hands in pockets, expression unreadable—the room went dead silent.
Baku almost choked on his drink. Juntae’s jaw dropped. Sieun blinked like he was hallucinating. And Suho? Suho just smirked.
Hyuntak cleared his throat, awkwardly.
“Uh… this is Seongje. We’re… a thing. Now eat.”
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, Seongje sat down beside him, grabbed a pair of chopsticks, and said, perfectly calm:
“What my princess said.”
The table erupted. Juntae coughed, Sieun swore under his breath, Baku buried his face in his hands. Suho just leaned over and fist-bumped Seongje like he’d been expecting it all along.
And somehow, between the chaos and the laughter, it felt easy again—loud, real, alive.
For once, Seongje didn’t mind being seen.
For once, Hyuntak didn’t hide.
The apartment was quiet again after the Eunjangz finally left—laughter and teasing still echoing faintly in the walls.
Empty takeout boxes littered the table, and Hyuntak was still standing by the sink, hands half-wet, trying to calm his heartbeat down.
Seongje slumped onto the couch with a groan, head dropping back.
“What the fuck was that?”
Hyuntak froze mid-motion. The words hit sharper than intended. He blinked, towel slipping from his fingers.
“...What do you mean?”
Hyuntak asked carefully.
Seongje opened his mouth—something defensive, automatic—but when he glanced over, he caught it. The worry. The almost-hurt flickering across Hyuntak’s face.
And suddenly, the irritation melted.
He stood up, crossing the small distance between them, his hand coming up to cup Hyuntak’s face—thumb brushing the faint crease between his brows.
“Hey,”
Seongje said, softer now.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Hyuntak blinked at him, unsure.
Seongje exhaled, half a laugh, half an apology.
“Baby, what I mean is—you could’ve told me. So I could’ve prepared better.”
“Prepared?”
“I don’t know. Brought wine. Worn something that doesn’t make me look like I just crawled out of a fight.”
Hyuntak huffed a laugh, small but real.
“You did crawl out of a fight, Je.”
“Exactly my point.”
The tension broke, just like that. Seongje leaned in, pressing their foreheads together.
“I’m proud of you,”
He murmured.
“Even if you did ambush me with your entire friend group.”
“Didn’t plan it!”
Hyuntak mumbled, cheeks warming.
“Sure you didn’t.”
They stayed like that for a moment—no chaos, no sharp edges. Just breathing. Just them.
Outside, the city hummed on. Inside, for once, Seongje didn’t need to play, and Hyuntak didn’t need to hide.
They’d already been through the noise, the break, the jealousy, the mess.
What came after could finally be quiet.
And that quiet, somehow, was enough.