Work Text:
Kim Taerae is not secretive. He just doesn’t overshare.
If no one asks, he doesn’t think to say anything; that's the way he's built. It’s how he’s always been—quiet, observant, content to exist without explanation. His coworkers know him as kind, reliable, and exceptionally good at his job. Taerae works at a modest vocal therapy clinic tucked between a dance studio and a small café, the kind of place people stumble into desperate and leave breathing easier. The clinic's walls are soft beige, the lighting warm, deliberately unremarkable.
His days are filled with singers recovering from nodules, teachers with chronic strain, and actors preparing for emotionally demanding roles. He listens more than he talks. His colleagues joke that Taerae speaks to patients the way one might speak to something precious that could break if handled carelessly.
What they don’t know is that he’s been in a relationship for five years.
In his defense, no one has ever asked. So when the clinic’s break room television is tuned to highlights from the 2030 MAMA Awards, and someone sighs dreamily, “Park Gunwook is insane this year—he’s literally everywhere,” Taerae doesn’t look up right away.
Another coworker adds, “Did you see that shoulder-to-waist ratio? That should be illegal.”
Taerae stirs his iced coffee, thinking absently about hydration schedules and recovery windows.
“He worked hard for that,” he says mildly. “Also went to a physical therapist when his muscles got sore.”
The room stills, several heads slowly turn toward him. “Didn’t know you were into idols, Taerae-ya.” Another one butts in, "You stalking him or what?"
“What?” Taerae somewhat felt offended that someone would assume he'd stalk such a soul. He probably would if he were too curious for his own good, but those skills aren't applicable to this current scenario. Of course not, he had better things to do than stalking a delicious singer, dancer, rapper, 6'4" hunk, who went to the laundry shop and politely told the person behind the counter to be careful washing his niece's duck plushie, too shy to admit it was him who owned the stuffed animal. Who would do such a thing? Am I right?
“No. He’s my boyfriend.”
The silence that follows is so loud, one might even hear the valves of Taerae's heart opening and closing.
“…Park Gunwook?”
“The idol?”
“The one trending worldwide right now?”
“Yes?” Taerae replies, unconsciously mirroring their tone. He gestures toward the screen, where Gunwook’s final close-up lingers—sweat-soaked, smiling, incandescent. “That one.”
A series of chaos follows after the revelation of Taerae's love life. Someone chokes on their drink, someone else laughs, assuming it’s a joke, and another coworker already has their phone out, furiously searching the net for validation.
Kim Taerae originally wanted to be a doctor.
He’d dreamed of it since he was small—before music meant stages, before singing meant applause. As the youngest in the family, he grew up watching his parents age quietly, learning early how to notice fatigue before it was voiced. He liked the idea of healing people, of being useful in a way that left tangible proof behind. He even made it to medical school, and for a while, he thought that was it, but life has a way of nudging you sideways.
The shift happened gradually. Anatomy fascinated him—but voices captivated him. Taerae wondered how something so small could carry grief, joy, fear, and love, how easily damaged they were, and how carefully they had to be treated.
What most people didn’t know—not even his colleagues—was that Taerae had once stood on the other side of the screen.
He’d trained as a vocalist in his teens, taken dance classes, and learned how to project confidence he didn’t feel. It was a series of auditions, practice rooms, and mirrors that reflected too much and too little all at once. He’d wanted to be an idol once.
Not for fame nor money—but for the feeling of being heard.
But he’d also learned something important early on: he didn’t want to live under lights forever. He wanted a slow and quiet pace—a life where his voice wasn’t constantly at risk of being consumed.
So he chose differently, and not even once did he regret it.
The thing is—Gunwook has never been a secret. Not to Taerae, at least.
They met long before fame became unmanageable. Back when Gunwook was just a trainee with an overworked voice and too much ambition packed into one body, Taerae had been recommended by a professor, who described the older man as someone careful and excellent with singers. Gunwook trusted the professor's words and had walked into the clinic unsuspecting of what the future held.
Over the years, Gunwook learns how to be understanding of Taerae, and Taerae learns how to open up to Gunwook.
Months after making things official, they’re curled together on Taerae’s bed, the city quiet beyond the windows. Taerae never once thought about being able to live the life he had once dreamed of. Gunwook is sprawled half on top of him, cheek pressed to Taerae’s chest, fingers curled into his shirt.
“Hyung,” Gunwook asks softly, voice already sleepy. “Is it okay if people don’t know?”
Taerae runs his fingers through Gunwook’s hair. “I don’t mind if they do,” he says honestly. “I just don’t need them to.”
Gunwook tilts his head up slightly. “Really?”
Taerae couldn't help but smile as he replied, “Besides, I like keeping some things… mine.”
Gunwook’s cheeks flush instantly, burying his face deeper into Taerae’s chest, muffling his voice. “Okay. I’ll be yours quietly.”
Taerae presses a kiss to his hair. Goodness, what could he have done in his past life to deserve this much happiness in the present.
For years, they lived like that. Years of late-night calls after rehearsals, years of Taerae treating Gunwook’s overworked voice with the same care he gives every patient—slightly more if you were to ask the people around them. Years of Gunwook falling asleep to Taerae singing softly in their shared apartment, never for anyone else.
Sometimes Gunwook would ask, “Hyung, do you ever regret not choosing the stage?” The younger imagines how the two would meet if Taerae had chosen differently, even thinking about whether the two would be able to perform together on stage. No doubt, Taerae will always captivate the audience with his beautiful voice; the dimples were a bonus. Gunwook always felt like a pirate being lured by a siren every time he'd hear Taerae singing inside their shared apartment. He'd always search where the source was coming from, clinging unto Taerae's voice like a lifeline.
Taerae always answers the same way. “No,” he says, fingers warm against Gunwook’s throat. “I'd still choose what I am now.”
Gunwook closes his eyes, relishing the feeling of their closeness.
When Taerae comes home after the clinic incident, he slips off his shoes by the door, careful not to let them thud too loudly against the floor.
“I’m home,” he says.
“Mm—welcome home,” Gunwook answers almost immediately.
He’s on the couch, hoodie slung low, phone resting loosely in his hand. The screen is still lit, their message thread open—Taerae’s earlier text sitting there, explaining what had happened. They already had this conversation before, expected this scene to happen sooner or later. What would it mean if someone found out? How much of themselves they were willing to let be known. Taerae trusted his coworkers, and they respected him enough to keep his private life private.
Gunwook looks up when Taerae walks closer. “Hyung,” he starts, then stops himself, huffing out a quiet breath. “They—did you end up telling them?”
Taerae sets his bag down, settling into the comfort of their home, and hums thoughtfully.
There’s a brief pause. Gunwook’s voice overlaps with his movement as he stands. “Are you—”
“I’m okay,” Taerae says gently, already answering the question before it fully forms.
Gunwook blinks. “You’re sure?”
Taerae nods, stepping into Gunwook’s space without thinking. “Yeah. I am.”
Gunwook exhales, tension melting out of his shoulders. “Okay. Good.” His hands find Taerae’s waist automatically. “I just—if it felt weird or—”
It occurs to Taerae then that he should be the one asking if Gunwook is okay. Taerae knows how fragile an idol’s career can be, how one relationship—one wrong rumor—can undo years of work. And yet here Gunwook is, worrying about whether it had been difficult for him. Funny. The thought makes Taerae smile; he couldn't help but feel giddy.
“It didn’t,” Taerae interrupts softly. “Just surprising.”
Gunwook lets out a small laugh, forehead dropping against Taerae’s shoulder. “That sounds about right.”
Taerae’s arms wrap around him, cheek resting comfortably against Gunwook’s hair. He speaks quietly, and only the two of them are meant to hear.
“You were never a secret, you know...” he murmurs. “Just something precious.” I want to cherish all to myself. As much as Taerae loves Idol Gunwook, he much prefers this fluffy, cuddly, and mostly teasing Gunwook. Although the public may also see this side of Gunwook, Taerae takes pride in knowing that only he gets to experience this specific man.
Gunwook tightens his hold for a moment, then pulls back slightly, brushing Taerae’s hair out of his face with his thumb. “You always say things like that,” he mutters fondly, before leaning in to press a gentle kiss to Taerae’s forehead.
Some voices are meant for stages, some are meant to heal, and some are meant to be kept. Lovingly.