Work Text:
Before They Said Goodbye
The practice room had emptied hours ago. The mirrors were fogged with the breath of a long day, the floor still warm where bodies had moved, stumbled, pushed themselves past reason. The speakers were off, but the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt like something waiting.
Kaiwen sat on the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest. His hair was damp with sweat, bangs clinging to his forehead. His chest rose and fell like he’d been running, even though practice had ended already.
Jiahao dropped beside him, a bottle of water in hand. He didn’t say anything at first. He just passed it over, their fingers brushing for the briefest half-second.
Kaiwen didn’t look up. But the way he held the bottle was careful, like that touch had been something fragile.
“You’re pushing too hard again,” Jiahao said softly, trying for casual, but his voice shaped itself around concern in a way he couldn’t hide.
Kaiwen huffed a laugh, small, but tired. “You’re one to talk.”
Jiahao leaned his head back against the wall, letting the cool surface hold him upright. The ceiling lights flickered slightly, tired from the day. The city outside hummed like a distant ocean.
They sat there like that. Side by side. Close enough their shoulders would touch if either of them breathed too deeply.
Kaiwen finally spoke, voice thin at the edges.
“They said they might cut me from evaluations next month.”
Jiahao turned to him instantly, too fast. “What? Why? You’re one of the strongest dancers in the trainees.”
Kaiwen smiled. Not the bright one he used to have. A smaller one. The kind you wear when you’re trying not to cry.
“Strong dancers aren’t enough. They want someone who shines. Someone that pulls the room with him.”
He didn’t say someone like you.
But the words sat there. Heavy. True. Unavoidable.
Jiahao’s throat tightened.
“You shine,” he said. Quiet. Firm. “You shine the most to me.”
Kaiwen glanced at him then. Really looked. For a heartbeat, everything in the room shifted. Like gravity remembered something important.
“I’ll miss this,” Kaiwen whispered. “When you debut.”
Jiahao swallowed hard. His fingers curled against his knee.
“We’ll still see each other. I’ll come back. I’ll call. I’ll—”
Kaiwen shook his head, gently, not accusing. Just… tired.
“It won’t be the same.”
The silence that settled after wasn’t painful. It was full. Heavy with everything they never dared name.
Outside, streetlights flickered on. Snow had begun to fall, tiny flakes tapping against the window as though trying to come in.
Jiahao followed the pattern of the snow with his eyes before he spoke again.
He wanted to say Don’t go.
He wanted to say I need you.
He wanted to say Stay where I can reach you.
What came out was:
“On your birthday, let’s watch the first snow together. I’ll come to you. I promise.”
Kaiwen’s breath hitched, just once.
“Okay,” he said. And he smiled again. A real one this time. Soft. Warm. The kind that was meant only for one person.
He leaned his head onto Jiahao’s shoulder. Not asking. Not hesitating. Just doing.
And Jiahao didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak.
He let his head rest against Kaiwen’s. Their hands didn’t touch. Their hearts did.
The snow kept falling.
And neither of them confessed.
Because they believed there would be time.
_____
Three months.
At first, it wasn’t silence.
Just delays. Missed calls. Messages answered hours later with short replies.
“Sorry. Training.”
“I’m tired.”
“Let’s talk later.”
Jiahao always said sure, always smiled through the phone as though nothing in him tightened each time. Debut was close, and he needed to look strong. Professional. Perfect.
But he kept his ringer on at night.
Even during rehearsals, he’d glance toward the phone someone held for him in case the company needed him. He wasn’t waiting for staff. Or management.
He was waiting for Kaiwen.
Then one day, the replies stopped entirely.
No seen.
No delivered.
Just a grey bubble that never changed color.
Jiahao tried to be reasonable. Dorm inspections, evaluations, maybe Kaiwen’s phone got confiscated. Happens to trainees.
But the silence didn’t feel like inconvenience.
It felt like loss.
He would go to the dorm roof sometimes, where the city lights hummed like distant stars. He’d dial Kaiwen’s number again and again, pressing the phone to his ear as wind stung his eyes.
The number you have dialed is unavailable.
And every time, his heart broke in the same place.
He left voice messages anyway, voice softer than he ever let anyone else hear:
“Kaiwen… it’s me. I… I hope you’re eating. I know training is hard. Just, call me. You don’t have to say anything. I just… want to hear your breathing. Please.”
No answer.
Days passed. Weeks blurred. He smiled on stage. Laughed in interviews. Perfect. Shining. Untouchable.
But at night, he curled into his blankets like he was trying to hold onto something that was slipping through him.
One evening, one of the staff scrolled through a phone during break and frowned.
“Did you hear about that trainee in Beijing? The one who collapsed in his dorm?”
Jiahao didn’t know why his blood froze. The world didn’t stop. The director kept shouting. The lights still buzzed overhead. But something inside him went very, very still.
“What was his name?”
He tried to say it casually. He failed.
The staff squinted at the article.
“…Chen Kaiwen, I think. Something about sleeping pills. It says critical condition.”
Something shattered.
Something real.
The room went distant, muffled, like he was underwater. He barely remembered grabbing his bag, barely heard anyone yelling after him. He just ran. Out the studio. Down the street. Into the night.
He booked the first flight with trembling hands, vision blurred. He couldn’t explain to his manager. Couldn’t explain to anyone. There was no space for words.
Just get there.
On the plane, he held his phone to his chest. Whispering like a prayer:
“Don’t leave. Don’t you leave before I tell you. Don’t you go where I can’t follow.”
Beijing was winter-born and merciless.
Snow piled in grey heaps along the sidewalks.
People walked fast, eyes down.
Life moved on, uncaring.
The hospital was bright in the worst way. Too white. Too loud. Too clean. Like grief had nowhere to hide.
When he reached the room, Kaiwen didn’t look like the boy he left three months ago. He looked small. Faded. Like someone erased parts of him.
A nurse spoke quietly, like she was afraid her voice might break him:
“He has been under a lot of stress. Alone. He didn’t tell his trainers or roommates about anyone close to him. He… didn’t have contact listed. We almost had no one to call.”
Jiahao’s heart twisted.
He was no one to call.
He had let himself become that.
He stepped to the bedside, chest rising and falling too fast.
A sharp, aching inhale.
And then it broke.
He cried the way people cry when they finally understand they are too late. The way people cry when love turns into something with teeth.
He cupped the back of Kaiwen’s hand with both of his, like he could anchor him back into the world.
His voice cracked. Not loud. Not dramatic. Not like the movies.
Just raw.
“You didn’t burden me. You never were. I should’ve told you. God, I should’ve told you so many times.”
His tears slipped onto their joined hands.
In the quiet, machines beeped steadily.
Life, stubborn, still fighting.
He leaned close, forehead to Kaiwen’s temple. Breath ghosting his skin.
Not holding back anymore.
“I love you, Kaiwen. I love you. Come back. Just once. I’ll say it a thousand times. I’ll say it until it reaches wherever you are.”
And somewhere inside the coma, that voice rippled.
Carried like warm light under water.
A tear slid down Kaiwen’s cheek.
Not from pain.
But from hearing him.
Jiahao kissed that tear gently, like it was something sacred.
Then he climbed into the bed.
Careful. Gentle. Terrified.
He laid his head on Kaiwen’s chest, listening to the soft, struggling heartbeat.
He cried until sleep took him.
And when he slept, fingers moved.
Shaking. Weak.
But real.
They brushed his cheek.
Soft. Loving.
A touch that said:
I heard you.