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Ten months since Doyoung enlisted.
Three months since the last time Taeyong heard his voice.
At first, Taeyong didn’t let himself think too hard about it.
Gangwon had dead zones.
Training schedules swallowed weeks whole.
Doyoung had always been the type to disappear into responsibility—head down, doing what needed to be done, trusting that Taeyong would understand without explanation.
So Taeyong waited.
He told the members the same thing when they started asking.
“He’s probably somewhere with no signal.”
“He’ll call when he can.”
“He’s fine.”
He said it so often it almost sounded true.
But two more months passed.
No late-night borrowed phone call.
No short, awkward voice memo passed through a manager.
Not even a message through someone else.
The worry crept in quietly—never all at once. It settled in his chest during rehearsals, during flights, during moments when the noise dropped and there was nothing left to distract him.
Haechan stopped teasing.
Mark stopped asking.
Even Johnny started watching him carefully, like he was afraid Taeyong might crack if someone said the wrong thing.
When they finally landed back in Korea after the Asia tour, Taeyong didn’t even go home first.
He requested leave the same day.
Didn’t explain why.
Didn’t think he needed to.
He drove to Gangwon alone.
The roads were familiar in a way that hurt—long stretches of trees, muted skies, the kind of silence Doyoung used to say felt “honest.” Taeyong had imagined this moment before: Doyoung in uniform, a little thinner, smiling shyly when he saw him, pretending the distance hadn’t been unbearable.
Instead, the base clerk frowned at his name.
“Kim Dongyoung?”
“Yes,” Taeyong said immediately. “I’m—”
The clerk shook his head. “He’s not stationed here.”
Taeyong felt it then. That subtle shift. Like the ground moving half an inch beneath his feet.
“Where is he?” Taeyong asked.
The answer didn’t come right away. Papers were checked. A phone call was made. Someone else came in, older, quieter, with the kind of face that didn’t offer reassurance.
“He was redeployed,” the officer said carefully.
“Five months ago.”
Taeyong’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Redeployed where?”
A pause.
“Afghanistan.”
The word landed wrong—too big, too far, too unreal.
“He volunteered for a security detail,” the officer continued. “Medical mission support. Guard unit.”
Taeyong barely heard the rest.
Five months.
Five months of silence suddenly had a shape, a reason, a weight that pressed down on his lungs until breathing felt like work.
“That’s why,” the officer said, almost gently, “communication has been limited.”
Limited.
Taeyong nodded, because his body remembered how to do that even if his mind didn’t. He thanked them. He walked back to his car. He sat behind the wheel without starting the engine.
Doyoung had been halfway across the world, standing watch while doctors saved lives, carrying a rifle heavier than anything Taeyong had ever imagined placing in his hands.
And he hadn’t told him.
Or maybe he had wanted to—maybe he had stood somewhere under a foreign sky, phone in hand, deciding Taeyong didn’t need the fear.
Taeyong rested his forehead against the steering wheel.
“Idiot,” he whispered, and didn’t know which of them he meant.
The engine stayed off. The world outside the windshield blurred into gray and green, trees stretching endlessly like they were trying to swallow the road whole.
His hands were still shaking when he reached for his phone.
He didn’t call a member.
Didn’t call a manager.
He dialed Gongmyung’s number.
It rang twice.
“Yongie?” Gongmyung answered immediately, voice warm, familiar. “You called—what’s wrong?”
“I’m in Gangwon,” Taeyong said.
The words sounded wrong out loud, like they didn’t belong to him.
There was a pause on the other line.
Then a long sigh—slow, careful, like someone who had just realized the moment they’d been dreading had finally arrived.
“You know how he gets,” Gongmyung said quietly. “He doesn’t want you to worry.”
Taeyong let out a short, humorless laugh. “He went to Afghanistan.”
Another pause. He could hear wind on Gongmyung’s end, the faint sound of a street somewhere far away.
“Yes,” Gongmyung said. “Five months ago.”
“You knew,” Taeyong said. Not accusing. Just tired.
“I did,” Gongmyung admitted. “And I hated keeping it from you. But he asked me to. He said… if something happened, he wanted you focused on your work. Not counting days. Not losing sleep.”
Taeyong’s grip tightened around the phone.
“He always thinks he gets to decide that,” Taeyong muttered.
Gongmyung gave a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “That’s my brother.”
Taeyong leaned back against the seat, staring at the sky through the windshield. It looked too peaceful for what it was hiding.
“Is he safe?” Taeyong asked.
Gongmyung let out a slow breath.
“I don’t know,” Gongmyung said quietly. “We lost communication four months ago. We just hope that he’s okay, Yongie.”
The words hit harder than anything else had that day.
Taeyong pressed his knuckles against his mouth, shoulders shaking as he tried to keep the sound in. His chest hurt—tight, sharp, like something was splitting open from the inside. He stared at the dashboard, vision blurring, refusing to let himself sob.
“Okay, hyung,” Taeyong managed, voice thin.
There was a pause, heavy with everything they weren’t saying.
“Drive safe, Yongie,” Gongmyung said softly.
The call ended.
Taeyong stayed there, phone still pressed to his ear long after the line went dead. Then he lowered it slowly, resting it in his lap like it weighed too much to hold.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees.
Inside the car, Taeyong finally let himself cry—quietly, brokenly—curling forward as if he could fold himself small enough to make the fear disappear.
———
One year and Four months since enlistment.
Seven months since the deployment.
Taeyong had started counting without meaning to.
Days bled into each other—practice rooms, recording booths, schedules stacked so tightly there was barely space to breathe. He threw himself into work the way he always did, hands moving on muscle memory, body doing what it was trained to do.
It worked during the day.
At night, it never did.
This night was no different.
Taeyong lay on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling, counting cracks he already knew by heart. The red numbers on his phone glowed 3:07 a.m. He should sleep. He knew that. His body ached for it.
But every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was Gangwon. Empty roads. Gongmyung’s voice saying we just hope he’s okay.
He exhaled slowly, turning his head toward the window.
Then—
A sound.
Soft. Mechanical. Wrong for this hour.
A code being punched in.
Taeyong frowned, heart stuttering once. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, listening. The apartment was silent except for that unmistakable beep, then another.
“Is it… the members?” he murmured to himself.
No one came unannounced. Not at this hour.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, bare feet quiet against the floor as he walked toward the door. He stopped just short of it, suddenly unsure why his hands were shaking.
The lock clicked.
Slowly, the door opened.
And there—
Doyoung stood in the doorway.
Military uniform, worn and creased like it had lived through too much. His right arm was secured in a cast, held close to his body. There were bruises blooming faintly along his jaw, exhaustion carved deep into his face.
But he was standing.
Breathing.
Alive.
Taeyong didn’t move.
Neither did Doyoung.
For a long moment, they only stared at each other—like if either of them spoke, the image might shatter. Taeyong’s mind lagged behind his eyes, trying to catch up, trying to decide whether this was real or something his exhaustion had finally invented.
Doyoung swallowed first.
His lips parted, then closed again.
Taeyong moved first.
Slowly. Carefully. Like he was afraid the moment would disappear if he rushed it.
His hand lifted, hovering for half a second before it touched Doyoung’s face. Warm. Real. His thumb traced along Doyoung’s cheekbone, down the line of his jaw, as if memorizing proof that he was here.
Alive.
Taeyong’s hand trembled as it slid lower—over the front of the uniform, down to Doyoung’s arms.
The cast.
That was when the breath left him.
A long, broken exhale tore out of Taeyong’s chest, and his shoulders collapsed inward as the sound turned into a sob. He bowed his head, pressing his forehead briefly against Doyoung’s chest like his body had finally given up holding itself together.
Doyoung stared at him, eyes wide, unreadable for a heartbeat.
Then he moved.
Carefully, Doyoung wrapped his left arm around Taeyong’s shoulders and pulled him in, holding him close—tight enough to ground him, gentle enough not to hurt. He pressed his chin against Taeyong’s hair, breathing him in like he needed the reassurance just as much.
Taeyong clutched the back of Doyoung’s uniform and sobbed harder, the sound raw and unfiltered now that he wasn’t alone. His whole body shook, grief and fear and relief crashing into each other all at once.
“I’m here,” Doyoung murmured, voice low, steady, meant only for him. “I’ve got you.”
“I hate you so much,” Taeyong whispered, voice breaking as he held Doyoung tighter, fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform like he was afraid to let go.
Doyoung didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
He only tightened his hold with his left arm, anchoring Taeyong against him, steady and unmoving. He let Taeyong press into him however he needed, let the sobs soak into his chest, let the words exist without correcting them.
Every so often, Doyoung lowered his head and pressed a gentle kiss into Taeyong’s hair. Once. Then again. Unhurried. Reassuring. Like a quiet promise repeated without sound.
Taeyong’s breathing stuttered with each sob, anger and fear and relief tangled together until none of them could be separated anymore. He clung harder, forehead buried against Doyoung’s collarbone.
Doyoung stayed exactly where he was.
Holding.
Breathing with him.
Kissing his head softly, again and again, until the shaking eased just a little—until Taeyong could finally feel that he wasn’t alone anymore.
When Taeyong finally calmed down, his movements slowed, exhaustion settling heavy into his bones. He helped Doyoung to the bathroom without a word, fingers careful around the cast, guiding him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The water ran warm.
Taeyong washed him gently—slow, deliberate motions, eyes focused anywhere but Doyoung’s face. Not because he didn’t want to look, but because if he did, he might start crying all over again. Doyoung let him, standing still, trusting him completely.
They dried off in silence.
No rush. No questions.
When they finally lay down on the bed, Taeyong curled instinctively into Doyoung’s side, fitting there like muscle memory had never faded. Doyoung adjusted his position carefully and wrapped his left arm around Taeyong, holding him close, solid and real.
“I missed you so much, Taeyonga,” Doyoung whispered into the quiet.
Taeyong sniffed, pressing his face against Doyoung’s chest, fingers clutching the hem of his shirt.
“I know,” he murmured, voice thick. “I know.”
And for the first time in a year and four months, sleep came softly—wrapped in warmth, in breathing, in the simple miracle of being together again.
Morning came quietly.
Taeyong woke to an empty space beside him.
His eyes flew open.
For a moment, his chest seized as he stared at the ceiling, the warmth still lingering in the sheets but the weight gone.
“…It was just a dream?” he whispered to the wall.
The words barely left his mouth when he heard footsteps.
“Hey, baby. What’s wrong?”
Taeyong’s head snapped toward the sound.
Doyoung stood by the bed, hair still damp, dressed in one of Taeyong’s shirts, cast tucked close to his body. Real. Solid. Smiling softly.
Taeyong didn’t think—he just moved.
He stumbled to his feet and crossed the space between them in two unsteady steps, arms wrapping around Doyoung like he needed to confirm it again and again.
“You’re real,” Taeyong breathed, voice trembling.
Doyoung chuckled, gentle and warm, pressing a kiss to Taeyong’s temple. “Of course I am.”
He pulled back just enough to look at him. “Come on. You have a schedule today, right?”
Taeyong froze.
“…Should I call in sick?” he asked, voice suddenly small, almost hopeful.
Doyoung tilted his head, amusement softening his tired eyes. “Come on, leader-nim. That’s not you.”
“But—” Taeyong started.
“Don’t worry,” Doyoung said, smiling. “I’ll be here when you come back.”
Taeyong exhaled slowly, searching his face like he needed the promise written there.
“…Promise?” he asked.
Doyoung leaned in and kissed his forehead, steady and sure.
“Promise.”