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Hyui didn’t cry in front of others very often. He much preferred the darkness of his bedroom and under the cover of his blankets. The moments he did, he simply believed they were mere ‘moments of weakness’ – where his sentimental heart snatched the reins from his rational mind and sent his tear ducts into overdrive.
And he hated it. Partly because it always shifted the attention away from whatever was going on to “Oh no, what’s going on with Hyui?” as he lost control over his words and embarrassingly transformed into a blubbering mess. But most of all, he hated appearing vulnerable and overly emotional when he was supposed to be the put-together and reliable older brother for his siblings. Being one of the youngest but longest trainees in the company didn’t change things much, for Hyui quickly learned that he needed to be independent and work through challenges resolutely to chase his idol dreams.
After they debuted as NEXZ, Hyui found himself in tears a lot more frequently. He couldn’t help it – standing on stage was his dream, one he had sacrificed his childhood and spent precious time away from his family for. Watching their first-ever music video for Miracle, standing on their debut showcase stage…these were things he could only imagine as a young trainee, and to have it become a reality was well and truly overwhelming at times. When the emotions built up, Hyui also realised he was more comfortable with shedding some tears and showing a little bit of vulnerability. After all, he was surrounded by his members and his fans, everyone who loved and supported him with all their hearts. And perhaps he was alright with letting them see his weaker side at times.
When they were trainees, Tomoya cried more often than he did. In front of others, anyway. Still, Hyui never saw Tomoya’s tears as a sign of weakness. They were of frustration, of joy and of relief. In the quiet of the night, during their showcase dance practices, and in the vocal practice room – Hyui had borne witness to them all. The elder was an excitable bundle of energy when the mood was high, and shed tears through the emotional moments. Tomoya wore his heart on his sleeve, unafraid to showcase every side of himself. It was what made him the epitome of idol material, and Hyui could only wish he had the mental strength to be like Tomoya. They were only a year apart, but Tomoya was an inspiration, skilled in his crafts yet kind to a fault to everyone he interacted with.
Conversely, Tomoya seemed to shed fewer tears after their debut. There were still moments, each as heartwrenching as the next. But Hyui noticed that ever since taking up the mantle as the team’s leader, Tomoya held it in more. Even if his eyes were moist and his lips quivered while nervously monitoring their upcoming performance, Tomoya fought against his emotions with all his might. And if he couldn’t hold it in anymore, he would turn to Haru or Yu. Not letting the younger ones see.
But Hyui knew Tomoya better than the lines on the palm of his hand. And saw the way the burden of leadership had weighed the elder’s shoulders down over time, even if he took to it like a fish to water.
Hyui noticed.
Hyui sought Haru out once, when Tomoya had waved his concerns away with a wet smile and a forced laugh. Tomoya never did that.
“He’s worried.” Haru admitted, wrapping his arms around his knees as they sat huddled on the floor of their dance practice room. “We all are, but I think the responsibility he feels is hitting harder.”
“Plus, he’s been fighting to get opportunities for us to produce our own song.” Haru’s lips stretched into a wolfish grin at his surprise. “He’s been working hard without us knowing.”
Hyui frowned, an unfathomable ache settling in his chest. He’d been talking about writing lyrics for the team ever since they were trainees, but to think Tomoya was pushing himself to make this dream of theirs come true…In his mind flashed a memory of a younger Tomoya, fast asleep in the dance practice room with his notebook clutched possessively to his chest. They had left hours ago to get some sleep before practising their Miracle stage again, with Tomoya claiming to join them after cleaning up some formations. But he’d never left and stayed up all night finding ways to make their performance even better so they could all debut. And that was Niziu Project 2, before Tomoya unanimously became NEXZ’s leader.
“Is there…is there anything we can do to help?” Hyui whispered, his words sounding pained even to his own ears.
“Just keep doing you, Hyui.” Haru patted his shoulder gently with a reassuring smile. “You’re helping more than you realise.”
Hyui frowned, but didn’t push the matter further. How could he be helping when he’s not doing anything at all? Haru had been taking on more of the responsibilities during dance practices, and Yu was working hard to improve his choreographing skills. They were trying to reduce Tomoya’s burden. All Hyui could do was grit his teeth and push forward on his own, biting down every instinct to turn to his older members for help. He had to be independent and solve his problems himself, or he’d just add on to their burden.
Gradually, the exhaustion from their sleepless schedule and the frustration of not being good enough took its toll. Not hitting the moves at the right timing or angle despite Tomoya’s sharp reminders, not seeing the improvement in his vocals despite his many lessons. Far too often, amidst the gruelling grind towards their comeback, Hyui found himself near constantly on the brink of unshed tears, forcefully swallowing the sourness in his chest and the lump in his throat. Normally, he’d trudge wordlessly towards Tomoya with a sullen expression, and his leader would know to drag him into a warm embrace with a teasing smile. It would simultaneously annoy him and brighten the darkest corners of his mind. “Hyui-ya, are you crying?”
Instead, Hyui did his best to hide his weakness from Tomoya. He resorted to discreetly swiping away the wetness pooling around his eyes like it was sweat, and burying his face into Yu’s side when the emotions grew too much to hold back. Sweet Yu-hyung accepted the shaking bundle of tears without question and simply patted his shoulder empathetically. Sometimes, So Geon would catch sight of their cuddle pile and join in, his own frustrations springing to his eyes. Poor Seita unfortunately bore witness to many of his “moments of weakness” when the comforting darkness of their shared room brought Hyui’s walls crashing down. He’d tried to hold it until Seita was asleep, but the concerned gazes his roommate threw his way in the morning proved him wrong.
He reached a true breaking point of sorts just three days before they needed to film for their comeback show. They’d essentially become human computers and downloaded the choreography for three different songs within the week. Three songs that they needed to perfect. Two more they had yet to learn, alongside memorising lyrics for and recording their upcoming Japanese comeback.
Hyui had just wrapped up a disastrous vocal practice, deciding to instead vent his frustration with some solo dance practice. When he opened the door to their usual practice room, Yuki was already there, huddled in a corner with his head thrown back against the wall. His friend’s expression mirrored the same weariness running through Hyui’s body. Wordlessly, he slid into a defeated hunch beside Yuki, his head unconsciously falling into his hands. The duo sat together for a moment in a depressing silence.
“I’m shit.” Hyui sighed, his face still buried in his palms. Normally, this was the perfect opening for one of Yuki’s trademark dad jokes. A shame neither of them felt up to their normal antics these days.
“No, you’re not.” Came the quiet but firm retort. If anything, Yuki had always been one of the biggest supporters of his skills. And Hyui liked to think the same about Yuki, too. His vocals, his dance style and his personality – Yuki’s mere existence as his sole same-aged friend was a huge motivation and reassurance for him. Too bad both of them were always the most critical of themselves.
“Well, neither are you.” Hyui shot back almost instantly, a hint of anger bleeding into his voice. Anger at his friend for not knowing his worth or acknowledging his own skills. At that, Yuki fell silent. Hyui’s emotions weren’t directed at Yuki, and Yuki knew Hyui well enough to know that. They were both just massive hypocrites whose own frustrations were mirrored in their worries for each other. They sat quietly for another moment, each simmering in their own bottled-up feelings.
“This is about Tomoya, isn’t it?” It was phrased as a question, but Yuki wasn’t asking. “You’ve never had your walls up like this.”
Hyui shrugged. “He’s already got enough on his plate. I don’t want to add to it.”
Yuki’s brows furrowed in confusion. “He will always make time for us. Especially you.”
With those words, Yuki seemed to spell out the exact cause of Hyui’s worries and frustrations with Tomoya these past months. It was exactly because they knew each other better than anyone else and depended on each other even more so throughout all these years. Hyui knew the extent to which Tomoya could and would drop whatever he was doing if Hyui sought him out. The night before their trainee showcase, he had spent hours confiding in Tomoya, who’d simply given him 100% of his time and attention without complaint. Hyui found out the next day that Tomoya pulled an all-nighter to perfect his performance because of him, when he’d excitedly run up to celebrate together, only to find the elder had passed out in front of his untouched rice bowl. That knowledge shattered his heart into a thousand tiny fragments. At just 13 years old, he’d resolved to support Tomoya with his entire being from then on, to ease his burdens rather than add to them.
“Exactly.” Came Hyui’s hushed, horrified response. There was already a building pressure in his nose, warmth springing to his eyes. Yuki made a startled, pained sound at the broken expression on his friend’s face.
“I can’t do that to him. Not when he has so much to carry for us.”
𓏲𝄢
Then came their nomination for first place on a music show. The hours they had spent preparing for this comeback, the sweat and tears shed while pushing through the bone-deep weariness, and the hard work their fans put in so that they could finally, finally stand in front of the stage for the ending.
And up against such amazing competition, Hyui knew better than to hope for a win. But watching Tomoya – the amount of faith and confidence that Tomoya had in their skills, in their fans – it made Hyui believe just for a second that maybe they did stand a chance to win.
Naturally, it made the loss all the more painful. They were skilled seniors whom he deeply admired and respected. Hyui could only berate himself for being an idealistic fool. (Well, he’d always be a fool when it came to Tomoya.)
When the results were announced, the slight tremble to Tomoya’s shoulders had almost immediately triggered a wave of fresh tears springing to his eyes. Still, Hyui held onto his fraying emotions with gritted teeth, keeping his expression respectfully schooled as they congratulated their seniors and thanked their fans sincerely for even getting them to second place. In the waiting room, all the stoicness on stage vanished. The pressure, gratitude and disappointment swirled around them, strained smiles finally crumpling into uncontrollable sobs. Seeing their bubbly, confident and reliable leader fall apart was the team’s number one weakness. And Hyui’s heart too ached dearly at the sight, unable to hold back the wetness pooling in his own eyes as he too gave in to the swelling emotions in their waiting room. They had worked so hard, composing, choreographing, practising within such a short runway. They should’ve been so, so happy for even getting nominated. But somehow, second place always tasted so bitter compared to third.
That night, Hyui found himself sitting alone in the silent night, staring blankly at the vast expanse of stars from their company rooftop. The twinkling lights were almost comforting, reminding him of his own insignificance in comparison to the entire universe. Suddenly, his problems would no longer seem as daunting or insurmountable. It also reminded him of home, in the countryside. He’d go stargazing on the rooftop often, seeking to escape the stressors of the trainee and idol life. At the start, he’d drag Tomoya along with him. Sometimes, Tomoya would already be here, waiting for him or seeking out the comfort of the stars on his own. This had been Hyui’s space, but Tomoya had wormed his way into it just like he did with Hyui’s heart and settled in like he belonged. And since Hyui had basically held the door wide open, it was now theirs.
Debuting meant that they’d had a lot less free time to themselves. Every waking moment was spent preparing, practising or waiting. But the rooftop was able to bring a comfort that Hyui couldn’t seem to find anywhere else amidst their comeback preparations. (Well, there was one. But he’d been resolutely avoiding it.) Bathed in the soft moonlight, Hyui leaned back, resting his head against the cool concrete. The stars blinked back at him, specks of light against the dark sky.
The door creaked open with a groan, footsteps softly padding in his direction. The familiar scent of warm amber and vanilla gently washed over his senses as the person paused about an arm’s length away from him.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Hyui mused, his gaze still fixed on the universe’s masterpiece above them.
“Yes.” Tomoya breathed, a smile colouring his voice. Hyui’s head snapped up, and his eyes instantly met his leader’s soft gaze. They hadn’t hung out or had a proper conversation in days, partly due to their schedule and mostly by Hyui’s choice. Yet there was nothing but warmth in the way Tomoya looked at him. It had always been like this, for the past 6 years they’d known each other.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” A lump slowly grew in Hyui’s throat, his chest thudding painfully at the unspoken tension in the air.
“We’ve been busy.” Hyui huffed in mock annoyance, even as the tremor in his voice gave away his true feelings. “We spent every waking hour on schedules together. Isn’t that enough?”
Tomoya shot him a rueful smile. “Yuki told me.”
Hyui abruptly snapped his mouth shut and swallowed the sharp retort he had come up with.
“Fuck.” He muttered with great emotion.
“Fuck indeed.” Tomoya grinned. At Hyui’s lack of protest, he sidled up to him, arms wrapping around him immediately and buried his face in the crook of his neck. “I’ve missed this.”
Hyui said nothing and sucked in a shaky breath, his heart quivering in his chest. Something wet dripped onto his collarbone.
Tomoya was crying.
“I kept thinking I fucked up somehow, to make you avoid me like this for so long,” Tomoya whispered with a tremor in his voice. “But Haru kept reassuring me that we all just needed our space, to struggle on our own and grow from there.”
“It was so fucking hard, doing it without you. I didn’t want to show you that I was weak, but that weakness kept eating me out from the inside until there was nothing but this hollow shell of myself left.” Tomoya continued his monologue into Hyui’s neck. “I miss our banter. I miss talking about absolute nonsense, annoying you and making you laugh for me. I miss the way you’d turn to me first whenever you have something you want to say. I just…you always know what I need even before I realise it. I miss that.”
Hyui couldn’t fight the tears any longer, and they cascaded over his cheeks, finally free to make themselves known to the world. There was nothing he could say to comfort Tomoya, not when he’d shared the exact same thoughts that landed them in this situation in the first place. Going through thick and thin together, relying on each other through the years, they both knew acutely how much strength and support they could provide to the other. Hyui would sacrifice everything, including his own well-being, if Tomoya needed it. And Hyui knew with absolute confidence that Tomoya would do the same. But this also somehow translated showing weakness and seeking comfort into a source of emotional burden for the other, even if they would both vehemently deny otherwise.
“Come to me next time. We can cry together. Then I can tease the shit out of you. At least we know we’ll make each other laugh at the end of it.”
“That’s so cringey.” Hyui choked out a wet laugh, finally pulling Tomoya closer against him in a proper embrace. Burying his face in the soft pink strands and letting the warm vanilla of the elder’s perfume wash over him once again, Hyui let his eyes flutter shut.
“I missed you, too. And I’ll stop being a coward about it.” Hyui huffed after a brief pause. “Now let’s stop fucking crying man, I think my tear ducts are all shrivelled up by now.”
“Your eyelids look like water balloons.” Hyui cracked an eye open to glare at Tomoya for the offensive statement. Tomoya hadn’t even lifted his head from where it was buried in Hyui’s shoulder. How on earth would he know what Hyui’s eyelids looked like? Ridiculous, he thought to himself with an affectionate huff.
“Like you’re any better off. You look like you just lost your pet goldfish.”
“Well, in that case, you’d be my pet goldfish and we'd just reunited! Can’t these be happy tears?”
“Do some heart-fluttering aegyo and maybe I’ll reconsider.”
And just like that, it was as though the tear tracks on both their cheeks faded into their usual cheery banter once again, dried by the warmth of good and familiar company. They’d struggled so much over the years, but just knowing they always had each other made things slightly easier. Tomoya would always be Hyui’s tear button – that would never change. He would never be able to set aside those overwhelming and sentimental emotions from the years they’d spent together, for the support he had received. But that also meant he could share the weight of their emotions with Tomoya, and that was a strength in itself.