Chapter Text
The morning air feels cold against Keeho’s face as he closes the door behind him, slinging his bag across his shoulder. The hallway is quiet — too quiet for a Friday morning — and the faint hum of the campus waking up doesn’t quite reach this corner of the dorms. He’s exhausted. Not from lack of sleep — though he barely got any — but from the weight pressing behind his ribs, dull and heavy. He adjusts his mask, ready to head to class, when a hand suddenly appears in front of him.
“Here.”
The voice is quiet, tentative, but familiar enough to make his chest tighten instantly.
Keeho blinks, lowering his eyes to the plastic bag being pushed toward him. He takes it automatically, confused, and when he looks up — he freezes.
Jiung stands there. Hoodie pulled over his head, eyes downcast, hands shoved in his pockets now that the bag’s no longer in them. He doesn’t look at Keeho — not even a glance — just stares at the floor like it might swallow him if he moves too much.
Keeho looks down at the bag in his hands. Steam fogs up the plastic slightly, and the faint smell of fishcake broth seeps through the thin layer. Warm. Fresh. Homemade. He swallows hard. “What is this?” he asks, barely above a whisper. His voice feels too fragile to come out properly, like even sound might shatter what little peace exists between them.
Jiung shifts on his feet, still not meeting Keeho’s eyes. “Your comfort food,” he says, playing with his sleeves. “I’m sorry,” he continues quietly.
Keeho blinks once, unsure he heard right. “Hmm?”
“I’m sorry,” Jiung repeats, this time louder — but his voice cracks halfway through, and he rubs his face with one hand, frustrated. When he drops it again, Keeho notices it — the redness around his eyes, the puffiness, the way the skin under them looks worn and tired. He’s been crying. For hours, maybe the whole night like Keeho too. The realization hits him like a slow ache that starts somewhere deep and cruel.
Jiung takes a small, shaky breath. “I’m sorry… for calling you that yesterday,” he says, his words tumbling out unevenly. “I’m… ugh—” he cuts himself off, biting his lip. “I don’t even know what’s wrong with me. I was angry. Jealous. Frustrated. I said something I didn’t mean, and I—” he stops again, exhaling through his nose as if he’s trying not to fall apart right there. “Still not an excuse, I know. I shouldn’t have accused you of cheating.”
Keeho stays still, the fishcake bag held loosely in his hands. The heat seeps through the plastic, into his palms. Warm, almost comforting, and somehow that makes it worse.
Jiung’s voice drops lower. “Especially when I’m clearly the main issue here,” he adds softly. “When I’m the one who keeps… ruining things.” His eyes are glassy again, and he blinks rapidly, trying to keep the tears from falling.
Keeho looks at him for a long moment. Then he steps closer, slowly, like the air between them might crack if he moves too fast. He reaches up and gently rubs the edge of Jiung’s eye with his thumb, wiping away the small tear that managed to escape. “I’m hurt, you know,” Keeho whispers. “Been thinking about it all night.” He lets out a soft, humorless chuckle. “Damn, you’d think I’d be used to it by now. Your distant self, your accusations, your… huh,” he exhales slowly through his nose.
He’s tired. Really. From all of this.
Jiung flinches, his breath catching. “Keeho—”
Before he can finish, he pulls Keeho into a hug. Tight. Desperate. The kind of hug that says please don’t give up on me yet. Keeho’s face presses against Jiung’s chest, and he feels the other’s heartbeat — fast, uneven, trembling.
“I’m sorry,” Jiung says again, his voice shaking against Keeho’s hair. “I shouldn’t have said that. I promised you I’d try. I said I’d change, that I’d do better, but—” his words falter, breaking apart in the quiet hallway. “I hurt you again. I always hurt you.”
Keeho closes his eyes, just listening. Jiung’s hand finds the back of his head, gently cradling it, and he presses a small kiss there — soft, trembling.
When Keeho finally pulls back, his voice comes out small. “Are we finally done?”
Jiung’s eyes widen instantly. “What?”
“Are we done?” Keeho repeats, a little firmer now. His tone isn’t angry — just tired. Bone-deep tired. “I don’t even know what we’re doing anymore, Jiung. It’s… tiring. To repeat this again and again.”
Jiung shakes his head before Keeho can say anything else. “No,” he blurts out. “No. We’re not done. We’re not—” his voice cracks, and he grips Keeho’s arms like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. “No, please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Keeho watches him for a long moment, eyes heavy, unreadable. Then he smiles — a soft, broken thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. He leans forward, resting his head against Jiung’s shoulder, his hands curling gently around Jiung’s waist. “It’s getting toxic, don’t you think? We’re both hurting, Jiung,” he whispers.
Jiung freezes. His arms tighten around Keeho. “No,” he says quickly, almost too quickly. “No. We’ll be okay. We’ll be fine. I’ll fix this. I’ll change, I swear. Just—” his voice breaks into a plea, desperate and raw — “just please, don’t let me go, okay?”
Keeho closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of Jiung’s hoodie — detergent and that faint warmth that used to mean comfort. His grip around Jiung’s waist tightens just a little.
Jiung presses another kiss to the top of his head, whispering again and again, “Please don’t let me go.”
And for a moment — just a moment — Keeho wants to believe him.
But somewhere deep down, beneath the smell of fishcake and fabric softener, beneath the apologies and the trembling hands, something inside him whispers the truth neither of them wants to say out loud,
it’s already breaking.
And this time, he’s not even sure how many amount of “sorry”s will stop it from falling apart.
The morning light spills across the campus walkways, golden and soft, painting the pavement with long, lazy shadows. Students pass them by in quiet clusters — laughter, the sound of zippers and sneakers, the usual morning murmur. But between Keeho and Jiung, there’s only silence. Heavy and taut, like a thread pulled too tight. Their steps fall in sync, but their eyes never meet. Keeho holds the strap of his bag a little tighter, his other hand tucked into his pocket, while Jiung walks beside him with his gaze fixed somewhere ahead. The air between them feels fragile, like even a breath too loud might break it.
For a while, it’s just the sound of their shoes against the ground. Then Jiung exhales, long and quiet, and finally speaks. “That Soul guy…” he starts, his voice unsure, careful — like he’s stepping into a room where he’s not sure if he’s welcome. He glances at Keeho briefly, searching his face. “He’s from where?”
Keeho turns his head slightly, eyes still half on the path. “Japan,” he answers simply. “He used to be my neighbour back in Busan. Back at Halmonie’s house.” There’s a faint smile tugging on his lips, the kind that comes when old memories resurface uninvited. “But then they moved back to Japan when he was like… five? Around that age.” His smile softens, eyes distant now. “I still remember, he cried all day when they left. Wouldn’t stop calling me ‘Stephen’ through the car window.” He chuckles quietly at the memory. “Cute, huh?”
Jiung nods slowly, eyes flicking toward Keeho. “And you guys are that close?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but there’s a small waver in his voice — something fragile, uncertain.
Keeho side-eyes him, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Depends,” he says, tone light but the words edged with something tired. “Will you say I’m a cheater again if I agree?”
Jiung flinches like he’s been struck. “No—” he blurts out, too quickly. “No, Keeho, I’m sorry, okay? I told you I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, I swear.” His voice trembles just enough to give him away — the guilt, the fear still clinging to him like a second skin.
Keeho lets out a soft laugh, the kind that’s almost genuine but fades too fast. “Sure,” he says, brushing it off, though Jiung can tell it still stings. “Oh, and yes,” he adds after a moment, “Soullie’s an only child. And his parents are quite…” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Hustling. With the whole immigration thing. They were always moving around, so they kind of… entrusted Soullie to us a lot. Maybe that’s why he’s like that.”
Jiung glances at him. “Like what?”
Keeho shrugs lightly. “Touchy. Clingy. He’s always been like that with me. I’m his only friend from when he was little.”
Jiung frowns slightly, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pocket. “Noona and Yechan?”
Keeho laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Little Soullie didn’t like them,” he says with a grin. “He always say, ‘They’re not fun, Stephen.’” He mimics the old childish tone with surprising accuracy, and for a fleeting moment, the heaviness lifts — just a little.
Jiung can’t help but chuckle too. The sound is small, hesitant, but real. “You still remember that?”
“Of course I do,” Keeho says softly, eyes warm but distant again. “That’s why I said he’s harmless, you know? He’s like a brother to me. Always has been. Cute little Soullie, who’s so attached to his big brother figure since forever.” He smiles faintly, tucking his hands into his pockets as they keep walking. “He’s a good kid.”
They walk in silence for a bit again. The wind picks up, carrying the scent of grass and the faint tang of coffee from the campus café nearby. Keeho’s hair moves slightly with the breeze, brushing against his cheek, and Jiung’s fingers twitch like he wants to reach out — but doesn’t.
Then, softly, Jiung whispers, “And I ruined it.”
Keeho glances at him, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Hmm?”
Jiung doesn’t look at him. His voice comes out small. “That friendship. That easy thing you had. I ruined it, didn’t I?”
Keeho hums quietly, tilting his head as if considering it. “Yeah,” he says finally, with a tiny shrug. “Good luck trying to please Soullie now.” His tone is playful, teasing almost, but his eyes don’t match the smile that follows. “He said he’s mad you’re the reason he can’t kiss me no more.”
Jiung stops in his tracks, eyes snapping toward Keeho, panic flashing across his face. “He— what?”
Keeho grins, mischievous, but there’s no real spark behind it. “I’m joking,” he says easily, walking ahead again. “Relax, Jiungie.”
Jiung catches up, his steps quicker now, though he doesn’t laugh. His hand twitches by his side again, and for a moment, it looks like he wants to grab Keeho’s wrist — to pull him close, to hold him, to anchor him back — but he doesn’t. He just walks beside him in silence again.
The kind of silence that says too much —
apologies swallowed, fears unspoken,
and love that’s starting to hurt more than it heals.
The hallway hums with the faint echo of the after-class rush — the dull murmur of footsteps fading down the corridor, the rustle of books, the low thud of doors closing. Then, it’s quiet. Only Keeho and Jiung’s footsteps remain, sharp and rhythmic against the polished tile. They don’t speak again after that, letting the silence fill their walk. Their shadows stretch side by side along the wall, flickering with every step beneath the fluorescent lights.
Then, suddenly— a sound cuts through.
A dull, wet crack.
Jiung’s head jerks violently to the side, the impact snapping through the still air like a whip. His body stumbles backward, feet scuffing against the floor, eyes wide with pure shock. The burn hits a second later — hot, sharp, blooming across his jaw and down his neck. The taste of copper floods his mouth, the taste of disbelief. For a split second, everything goes white — sound, thought, balance — gone. Then it crashes back all at once. The pain. The confusion. And the sound of Keeho shouting another man’s name.
“Theo!” Keeho’s voice cracks, high and panicked, echoing down the corridor. His bag slips from his shoulder as he rushes forward, hands flying up to steady Jiung before he falls. “Yah! What are you doing?!” His voice trembles, shock tangled with something close to fear.
A few feet away, Theo stands rigid, his chest rising and falling fast. His right fist is still clenched tight, knuckles reddened, trembling from the force of the punch. His breathing is ragged, eyes blazing with something dangerous — fury, protectiveness, heartbreak, maybe all at once. “Something,” he spits out, his voice trembling with restrained rage, “something I should’ve done ages ago.”
Jiung blinks, breath stuttering as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. There’s a smear of red against his knuckles. His expression hardens, eyes narrowing. “What the hell—”
Theo cuts him off, voice rising, shaking now from how much he’s holding back. “What the hell do you mean by calling him a cheater, you fucking sick head?” His voice echoes, rough and raw, the words laced with disbelief.
Keeho’s eyes widen as he steps between them, heart pounding so hard it hurts. “Theo, stop—please—” He grips Theo’s arm tightly, his fingers digging in. “Don’t!” His voice trembles when Theo’s ready to swing another, but Theo doesn’t even glance at him. He’s locked on Jiung, seething.
Jiung straightens slowly, still rubbing his jaw, his breath coming uneven. Then he laughs. Not the warm kind — this one’s sharp, bitter, empty. It scrapes out of his chest like something broken. “Oh, look,” he mutters, the corner of his lip curling upward. “The infamous ex.”
Keeho freezes. His hands drop from Theo’s arm. “Jiung,” he says quickly, panic rising in his voice. “Don’t—”
“You told him again, didn’t you?” Jiung cuts him off, his tone slicing through the air. His voice is low, quiet, more dangerous than shouting. His eyes are burning holes into Keeho’s face. “You couldn’t help yourself, huh? Complain all my bad side to your fucking ex. Who’s still call you baby, by the way.”
“No,” Keeho stammers, his head shaking slightly, guilt flickering across his features. “No—Jiung, I—”
Jiung lets out another bitter laugh, one that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Always him,” he snaps, voice rising now, anger unraveling. “It’s always him, isn’t it? You know? I tried my best to understand that Soul guy, I really did, but this—” he jabs a trembling finger toward Theo, his voice dripping venom, “—this piece of shit is everywhere! What the hell is your fucking problem?!”
Theo takes a step forward, his jaw tightening, the veins in his neck visible. “Say that again,” he growls, low, dangerous.
Jiung doesn’t back down. He takes a step forward too, meeting Theo’s glare head-on. “What’s he to you, huh?” he says, voice cold, shaking with fury. “A fucking ex who’s hard to move on from?”
Theo moves before Keeho can react. He lunges, fast — his fist swinging again, missing Jiung’s jaw by inches this time as Keeho throws himself between them. The shove sends Keeho stumbling, and the hallway erupts into chaos. Shoes scuff hard against the floor, the sound of fabric tearing against impact, a half-choked curse spilling from someone’s lips.
“Stop it!” Keeho yells, his voice breaking mid-word. He’s caught between them, his arms pushing at Theo’s chest, then at Jiung’s shoulder, desperate to separate them. “Stop, both of you! Please!”
Jiung’s voice rises above the noise, ragged and furious. “What?! It’s not like I’m wrong. You still have feelings for him. You want him back, don’t you?!” His words come out like accusations fired from a loaded gun.
Theo’s fist connects again — not clean, not straight, but hard enough to make Jiung grunt and stumble. “Fucking shut the hell up, you fuck! Don’t fucking turn this into me,” he snaps, his voice cracking.
“Then why the fuck are you here?!” Jiung roars back, catching Theo’s collar in one hand, shoving him backward hard enough that Theo hits the wall. His chest heaves with every breath, anger flashing wild behind his eyes. “Why are you always where he is?! Why can’t you have some decency to make your way out from his life?!”
“Because,” Theo growls, grabbing Jiung’s wrist to shove him off, “unlike you, I actually care about him!”
Keeho’s chest feels like it’s collapsing. “Stop it! Please, stop!” he shouts again, voice hoarse, shaking. His hands latch onto Jiung’s sleeve, pulling with everything he has. “Please, stop—”
“Jiungie?”
A voice calls out.
Everything stills.
The sound of it — gentle, certain, intimate — slices through the noise like glass. Every movement stops. Jiung freezes mid-breath, Theo’s grip loosens, Keeho’s hand stills in the air.
All three turn toward the voice.
A girl stands at the far end of the hallway. The dim lights cast a faint glow around her — the white cap pulled low, the matching mask covering most of her face, only her eyes visible. A few strands of dark hair fall loose, brushing her cheeks. Her voice was confident when she said it, not hesitant even, the name she used echoes down the corridor with brutal clarity.
Jiungie.
Keeho’s blood runs cold. The sound of that nickname feels like a punch to the gut.
That name — the one Jiung forbade him from using. The one he got snapped at once in their fight. The one that had made Keeho doubtful to even say out loud in public.
And now this stranger — this girl — says it so naturally, so casually, like it belonged to her all along.
Jiung’s eyes widen. His face flickers — shock, guilt, recognition — all in an instant. His lips part, but no sound comes out.
Theo turns slowly, disbelief written all over his face. “Jiungie?” he repeats, his voice low, thick with incredulity, “now who’s this?”
Keeho doesn’t speak. He can’t. His pulse is deafening in his ears, his throat closing up as something inside him splinters. His gaze shifts between Jiung and the girl — searching, pleading, breaking.
Jiung’s expression falters. He opens his mouth, but whatever he means to say dies in his throat.
And in that silence — that unbearable, suffocating silence —
Something finally cracks for good.