Chapter Text
The first week of B2P felt like living inside a fluorescent tube — too bright, too loud, and no one sure where the air was coming from.
Geonwoo learned quickly that the internet could build you up just as fast as it tore you down. His name trended once for a small mistake, and that was enough. Overnight, his mentions were full of strangers who acted like they’d known him long enough to be disappointed.
He didn’t tell anyone it bothered him. He just practiced harder.
Then one evening, while everyone else was talking about camera positions, Leo slid into the empty chair beside him. He had that same easy grin he wore in every group interaction, but his voice was quieter when he said,
“Don’t read the comments tonight, okay?”
Geonwoo blinked, caught off guard. “You too?”
Leo tilted his head, shrugging. “Guess we’re both trending for the wrong reasons.”
That broke the tension. Geonwoo laughed — short, real — and Leo’s smile widened, satisfied.
They didn’t talk about it again. But after that, whenever Geonwoo’s energy dipped, Leo somehow found his way next to him — offering a piece of candy, a joke, or just a look that said you’re fine.
Team missions blurred one into another. Leo was the talkative one, the glue of their small practice rooms. He made friends easily, even with the trainees who eyed Geonwoo warily after the controversy.
It should’ve bothered Geonwoo — it used to, when people avoided him. But Leo had a way of sitting close enough that it didn’t matter.
One night, when their group stayed late rehearsing, Leo crouched next to him after a run-through.
“You’re frowning again,” he teased. “Scary.”
“I’m concentrating,” Geonwoo replied, breathless.
“Yeah, but like—” Leo made a face, mimicking Geonwoo’s expression mid-dance. “It’s giving ‘angry CEO.’”
Geonwoo choked on a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
Leo grinned, pleased to have pulled that sound from him. “But you’re hot when you’re angry, though.”
The words came out too naturally, like an afterthought. It took both of them half a second too long to realize it.
Leo coughed, eyes darting back to the mirrors. “I mean—intense. You look intense.”
Geonwoo just smiled, half amusement, half something else. “Sure. Intense.”
The air between them settled into something warm and familiar — not awkward, just different.
When Leo’s old footage resurfaced online, Geonwoo found him sitting in the corner of the dorm hallway, hood pulled up, eyes on his phone. The others gave him space, unsure what to say.
Geonwoo didn’t think. He just sat down beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
“Don’t read them,” he said quietly, echoing Leo’s words from weeks ago.
Leo snorted. “You sound like me.”
“Guess I learned from the best.”
Leo chuckled softly, the tension in his body easing a little. “I’ll survive. I always do.”
“I know,” Geonwoo said, meaning it. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
That made Leo look up. His eyes were tired, but they softened when they met Geonwoo’s. “Thanks, bud”
From then on, they became a quiet fixture around each other.
If Leo was laughing with someone else, Geonwoo would wander over eventually — pretending he had a reason, even when he didn’t.
If Geonwoo was too focused on getting choreography right, Leo would interrupt with a drink or a teasing “breathe, leader-nim.”
The fans later saw the chemistry and they ended up being called ‘WooRioz’.
But, inside those long nights of sweat and fluorescent light, it wasn’t chemistry. It was survival.
Leo’s praise hit differently — not loud, not performative. Just real. “You make it look easy,” he’d say after a perfect take. And Geonwoo, who’d been pushing himself to exhaustion to prove something, would believe it — because Leo sounded like he meant it.
He was the only one who never looked at Geonwoo like he was a headline.
The night before eliminations, the atmosphere in the dorm was restless. Some trainees stayed up talking, others quietly prayed. Geonwoo was half-asleep walking to the pantry when he realised he wasn’t alone.
Leo was there, a mug of instant cocoa in hand. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
“No. You?”
Leo shook his head. “Too many thoughts.”
They’re both look faintly— tired, nervous, but calm together.
“You think we’ll both make it?” Leo asked after a long pause.
“I don’t know,” Geonwoo admitted. “But I think you should.”
Leo smiled, that small, genuine one Geonwoo had started to crave. “Same.”
Something about that — the mutual belief, the shared exhaustion — settled deep inside Geonwoo.
He didn’t say what he was thinking: that if he had to keep anyone around him for a long time, it’d be Leo.
—
By morning, the moment was gone — replaced by camera setups and stylists and another day of pretending they weren’t terrified.
But sometimes, between takes, Geonwoo would catch Leo’s eye across the room — that easy smile, that wordless reassurance — and remember that night.
He didn’t know what it meant, not exactly. But in a show built on competition and cameras, it felt like the truest thing they had.
And for now, that was enough.