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A typical Friday night for them looks like popcorn on the table, blanket on the couch they bought for their dorm, a movie that has been on Sungho’s watchlist or years or a movie his professor told them to watch.
A typical Friday night feels like the only time where they can both be quiet and admire the movie or the song that was playing in a certain scene, making both their majors helpful for once despite the annoying murmurs “you won’t get anything out of it in the future” of society.
Friday nights are where they both recharge with each other's presence, something that they built together since middle school. The two of them are together so much that silence becomes a comfortable language whenever they don’t feel like speaking.
This Friday felt tiring; Jaehyun was drained from this specific prompt his professor gave him, Sungho dealing with those useless debates in his film class about how some film has so much meaning when it showed a clinché sunset that every other movie had.
This friday night was one of the rare nights where Sungho just picked a random, hopefully light, movie in his watchlist, the one he barely touches, but when he hears about a new movie, he prioritizes that one instead of those.
The two of them are just so fucking out of it, and this was the first time from the entire week to just take a break.
They were watching Ms. Congeniality, the two of them remember talking about it some time in highschool, having plans to watch it instead of focusing on their group project, but the day never came.
So here they are, 3 years later. in second year college, finally watching the movie.
“I bet 200 that Karen is a lesbian,” Jaehyun murmurs, putting popcorn in his mouth, making Sungho chuckle a bit.
“I can’t tell if you’re stereotyping lesbians or not…” Sungho said, eyes still on the screen, lips quirking despite himself.
Jaehyun shrugged under the blanket, unapologetic. “I’m just saying. She has the energy. Very—” he gestured vaguely with his popcorn, “—I hate pageants and love women type of vibe that’s going on.”
Sungho snorted, leaning back into the couch. Their shoulders pressed together, warm through thin cotton shirts. The couch dipped slightly in the middle the way it always did, like it had already memorized the shape of them over the years. “You’re projecting.”
“Am I?” Jaehyun shot back, turning his head just enough to look at him. “Because you said the same thing about that side character in the indie film last month.”
“That was different. She literally had a nose ring and a motorcycle.”
“And Karen has rage issues and a refusal to conform,” Jaehyun countered. “Same thing.”
Sungho shook his head, smiling, and reached for the popcorn bowl, fingers brushing Jaehyun’s for half a second too long. Neither of them commented on it. They rarely did. Little things like that had stopped being events somewhere around sophomore year of high school.
The movie played on, bright and stupid and comforting. Sandra Bullock tripped. Someone yelled. A makeover montage started, and Jaehyun groaned loudly.
“Oh, this is criminal,” he muttered. “They’re committing crimes against feminism.”
Sungho hummed. “Cinematically though, the pacing’s not bad. It’s doing exactly what it wants to do.”
Jaehyun glanced at him. “See? This is why Friday nights are for movies. You get to say things like that instead of arguing with people who think a sunset shot is revolutionary.”
“Hey,” Sungho said lightly, nudging him with his knee, “apparently, that sunset was ‘symbolic.’”
Jaehyun laughed, the sound low and tired but real, and sank further into the couch. The rain outside had started somewhere along the way, tapping softly against the dorm window, layering over the movie’s dialogue like white noise.
Sungho felt the tension of the week slowly loosen in his chest, the constant buzz of deadlines and critiques fading into the background. Jaehyun’s knee bounced once, then stilled. His breathing evened out.
“You okay?” Sungho asked quietly, barely louder than the movie.
Jaehyun nodded, eyes still on the screen. “Yeah. Just… tired.”
“Same.”
Another stretch of silence. Comfortable. Earned.
Jaehyun shifted, pulling the blanket up higher around them both, his arm brushing Sungho’s side as he did. Sungho didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned in just a fraction, like it was instinct, like it had always been.
On-screen, Karen smiled awkwardly. Off-screen, Jaehyun murmured, half-asleep, “I still think she’s gay.”
Sungho huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“Admit it,” Jaehyun said, eyes finally closing, voice soft. “You missed nights like this.”
Sungho didn’t answer right away. He watched the movie for another beat, then let himself relax fully into the couch, into Jaehyun’s presence. “…Yeah,” he said finally. “I did.”
The iconic makeover scene hit; Sungho recognized it instantly—the dramatic pause, the swelling music, the slow reveal like the movie itself knew this was the moment. He shifted slightly, already bracing himself.
“Oh no,” Jaehyun muttered, suddenly more awake. “Here we go.”
On screen, Gracie Hart stepped out, hair done, dress fitted, heels clicking against the floor. The room gasped. The movie wanted you to gasp.
Jaehyun scoffed. “That is not how hair works.”
Sungho laughed under his breath. “Let it happen.”
“I will not,” Jaehyun said, sitting up a bit, pointing at the TV with a piece of popcorn. “You’re telling me she just needed conditioner and confidence? That’s propaganda.”
Sungho glanced at him, amused. “You’re taking this very personally.”
“I’m an ally,” Jaehyun said solemnly. “To women with frizz.”
On screen, Gracie took her first shaky steps in heels. “I’m gliding here!” she yelled.
Both of them lost it—Sungho bent forward, laughter spilling out of him before he could stop it, shoulders shaking. Jaehyun laughed louder, fully, head tipping back against the couch, the sound warm and unguarded.
“That line,” Sungho managed between breaths, “that line has no business being that good.”
“It’s the delivery,” Jaehyun said, wiping at his eyes. “Pure cinema.”
The scene kept going—Gracie stumbling, recovering, owning it in her own way—and Sungho felt something soft settle in his chest. Not just nostalgia. Something steadier.
Jaehyun leaned back again, their shoulders touching once more, this time closer. His arm rested along the back of the couch, not quite around Sungho, but close enough that Sungho could feel the heat of it through fabric. For a second, Sungho thought about moving. He didn’t.
“See,” Jaehyun said quietly, eyes still on the screen, voice softer now, “I like this movie. She doesn’t actually change. They just… notice her.”
Sungho looked at him then, really looked—at the tired set of his eyes, the way his mouth curved when he wasn’t trying to be funny. “…Yeah,” he said. “They do.”
Their eyes met for a beat too long. The movie kept playing. The rain kept tapping at the window. Jaehyun’s arm didn’t move, but his fingers flexed slightly against the couch, like he was deciding something and then deciding not to.
Sungho turned back to the screen first, heart doing something stupid in his chest.
“Still think Karen’s gay?” he asked, voice light.
Jaehyun smirked. “Absolutely.”
Sungho smiled, pulling the blanket a little higher around them both as the movie rolled on.
The pageant scene came faster than Sungho expected. The lights on screen shifted—too bright, too polished—and Gracie was suddenly on stage, mic in hand, smiling a little too tight. Sungho felt Jaehyun straighten beside him the moment the announcer asked about her talent.
“Oh,” Jaehyun said slowly. “Oh no.”
Gracie hesitated. The crowd waited.
Sungho already knew. His lips twitched. “Here it comes.”
The music cut sharp, Gracie kicked, spun, yelled. Taekwondo. Full-on. Arms slicing the air, legs snapping high with zero mercy. The crowd on screen screamed in confusion.
Jaehyun choked on a laugh. “She’s losing her mind!”
“She warned them,” Sungho said, grinning. “She literally warned them.”
Gracie yelled again—something aggressive, something unhinged—and punched the air like it owed her money. Jaehyun doubled over, clutching his stomach. “Why is she screaming like that—why is this so violent—”
“She’s liberated,” Sungho said solemnly, though his shoulders were shaking. “This is feminism.”
On screen, Gracie finished with a dramatic bow. The audience sat in stunned silence before erupting into applause.
Jaehyun wiped his eyes. “I would’ve voted for her immediately.”
“Same,” Sungho said. “No notes.”
They settled back into the couch as the scene faded, laughter tapering off into something quieter. Jaehyun’s knee bumped Sungho’s, and stayed there this time. Neither of them moved it away.
“That,” Jaehyun said, voice still a little breathless, “is exactly how I feel every time a professor says ‘this film is about the human condition’ and it’s just a sunset.”
Sungho hummed. “You should do taekwondo during your next presentation.”
“I would,” Jaehyun said. “If you promise to clap.”
Sungho glanced at him again. Their faces were closer now—close enough to notice the way Jaehyun’s smile softened when he wasn’t performing, the way his eyes lingered just a second too long before flicking back to the screen.
“I’d clap,” Sungho said quietly. “Probably stand up, actually.”
The movie kept going, but neither of them was fully watching anymore. The popcorn sat forgotten on the table, the blanket pooled around their legs, the room warm in that particular way that only came from shared silence and shared laughter.
Jaehyun shifted, just slightly, his arm finally settling around Sungho’s shoulders like it had always meant to be there.
Sungho didn’t comment.
Friday nights were like that—small moments, no big declarations. Just the feeling of something steady, unfolding at its own pace, while the world outside stayed loud and demanding and far away; something peaceful, something they always look forward to whenever the week was gonna end.
The credits rolled—soft music, names scrolling, the glow from the TV washing the room in muted blue.
Sungho reached for the remote but didn’t turn the screen off right away. He let it sit there, the end theme playing low, like he needed the extra few seconds to come back to himself.
Jaehyun stretched, arms over his head, bones popping. “Okay,” he said. “That was solid. I stand by my lesbian Karen theory.”
Sungho snorted. “You stand by every theory that gives you an excuse to talk.”
“True,” Jaehyun said easily, then glanced sideways at him. “Movie number two?”
Sungho finally picked up the remote, thumb hovering as he scrolled. “Yeah. From my watchlist.”
Jaehyun tilted his head, curious. “What do you have in mind?”
Sungho stopped scrolling. The title sat there, understated, almost shy compared to the rest. “Lost in Starlight.”
Jaehyun blinked once. “Oh.”
Sungho shot him a look. “What?”
“No, nothing,” Jaehyun said quickly, but his tone softened. “I just— you’ve had that on your list forever.”
“I know,” Sungho muttered. “I keep saving it for the ‘right time,’ which is stupid because there’s never a right time.”
Jaehyun hummed, thoughtful. He tugged the blanket higher around them, shoulder pressing into Sungho’s. “Tonight feels… fine enough.”
Sungho glanced at him, then back at the screen. His thumb pressed play before he could overthink it.
The room dimmed again as the opening scene began—stars bleeding into the dark, music low and aching. Jaehyun went quiet almost immediately, the way he always did when something caught his attention for real.
Sungho noticed, and something in his chest loosened.
They settled in, shoulder to shoulder, the night stretching ahead of them—no deadlines, no debates, no expectations. Just another movie, another shared silence, another small thing added to the quiet archive of them.
“Oh— wait, pause, pause,” Jaehyun suddenly said, half sitting up as if the screen might run away from him. “Pause. I like that song.”
Sungho froze the movie mid-shot, the glow catching Jaehyun’s face in a way that made him look more awake than he had all night. “What?”
“That,” Jaehyun said, pointing vaguely at the TV. “The song. It’s nice. What is it?”
Sungho leaned forward slightly, squinting at the subtitles near the bottom of the screen. He read it once, then again, like he didn’t fully trust it.
“Bon Voyage, demo version,” he said.
Jaehyun frowned. “…That’s— that’s a demo version?”
“Apparently,” Sungho replied, glancing back at him. “Why?”
Jaehyun slowly sank back into the couch, processing. “That’s insane. Who puts a demo in a movie?”
Sungho shrugged. “Film people. They love unfinished things. Makes them feel profound.”
Jaehyun huffed a quiet laugh. “No, but listen to it. It feels… raw. Like you can hear the room it was recorded in.”
Sungho looked back at the paused frame, then unpaused it just enough for the music to spill back into the room. He listened this time—not analytically, not like a student, just listening.
“…Yeah,” he admitted. “It does.”
Jaehyun relaxed again, shoulder brushing Sungho’s. “Okay. You can unpause now. I just needed to know I wasn’t going crazy.”
Sungho smiled faintly as he let the movie continue, the song filling the space between them like it had always belonged there.
The movie shifted tones quietly, almost politely, like it didn’t want to warn them.
The argument came fast—Jay and Nanyoung’s voices overlapping, words sharpened by exhaustion and distance. It wasn’t explosive, not the kind with screaming or thrown objects. It was worse. Controlled. Careful. The kind where you can feel the end coming because neither of them is fighting hard enough anymore.
Sungho felt his shoulders tense without realizing it.
When they broke up, it was ugly in that muted, realistic way. No dramatic music cue. Just silence, space, and regret sitting between them like something neither of them could move around.
Jaehyun clicked his tongue under his breath.
Then—time passed. The movie did that thing where it trusts the audience to keep up. Jay on a plane. Jet lag. A flower shop. His hands hesitating before choosing the bouquet, like even now he wasn’t sure he deserved to show up.
When Jay finally stood there, halfway across the world, holding flowers that looked too fragile for everything they’d just gone through.
“Shit,” Jaehyun muttered, staring at the screen. “Commitment.”
Sungho snorted before he could stop himself. “High school you would never.”
Jaehyun turned his head slowly, eyebrow raised. “First of all, rude.”
Sungho kept his eyes on the movie, voice casual, too casual. “Second of all, true.”
“Well,” Jaehyun said, shrugging, “we were in an all-boys school.”
Sungho finally looked at him. “Yeah,” he said lightly. “And apparently, that never stopped you.”
Jaehyun smiled—not wide, not teasing. Just that knowing little curve of his mouth. “Wow. Drag me in front of cinema history, why don’t you.”
Sungho felt something twist in his chest, familiar and uncomfortable. The movie kept playing—apologies, reconciliation, hands brushing, the kind of tenderness that felt earned.
He shifted under the blanket, pulling it a little higher, like that might quiet the thoughts he didn’t like naming. Best friends. That was the word he clung to. Best friends explained everything. Best friends didn’t require confessions or consequences or God watching too closely.
Beside him, Jaehyun leaned back into the couch, close enough that their shoulders pressed together again, warm and easy like it always was.
The screen glowed softly as Jay handed Nanyoung the flowers.
Sungho swallowed. Though, he told himself he was just tired.
By the time the credits began to roll, neither of them said it out loud—but it settled between them anyway.
That was it. Last movie for the night.
The room felt heavier now, not in a bad way, just… full. The kind of full that comes after you’ve spent too long feeling too much without realizing it. The coffee table was a mess of popcorn kernels and empty cans, the blanket half-slipped off Sungho’s legs. Everything looked lived-in, end-of-the-day tired.
Sungho reached for the remote to turn the volume down.
That’s when he noticed it.
Jaehyun hadn’t moved. He was still staring at the screen, even though it was already fading to black. His jaw was tight, lips pressed together like he was trying very hard to keep something in. When he blinked, it was just a little too slow.
“…Did you—” Sungho started, then stopped.
Jaehyun sniffed once. Sharp. Embarrassed.
“No,” he said immediately, voice a little off. “I’m fine.”
Sungho looked closer. His eyes were glassy, lashes clumped ever so slightly. Not full-on crying—Jaehyun never did anything fully when it came to emotions. Just… leaking. Like he’d sprung a crack.
“She almost died in space,” Jaehyun muttered, like that explained everything. “And he was just—singing. In Seoul. He didn’t even know.”
Sungho let out a quiet breath through his nose. “You were scared.”
“Wouldn’t you be?” Jaehyun finally turned to him, defensive but soft.
Sungho didn’t answer right away. He watched the blank screen, thought about distance, about loving someone while being nowhere near them, about faith and inevitability and how unfair it all was.
“…Yeah,” he said eventually. “I would.”
Jaehyun wiped at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, clearly annoyed at himself. “God, this is why I hate space movies. Or romance. Or anything with stakes.”
Sungho reached over without thinking, bumping their knees together, grounding. “You cried more during this than the horror movie.”
“That was fear,” Jaehyun said weakly. “This was—” He gestured vaguely. “Existential.”
Sungho huffed a small laugh, then stood, stretching. “Come on. We should clean up before we pass out like this.”
Jaehyun nodded, finally pulling himself up too. As they folded the blanket and gathered the empty cans, there was a quiet carefulness to their movements, like neither of them wanted to break whatever fragile calm the movie had left behind.
When the lights were turned off and they headed to their separate beds, there was no need to say goodnight properly.
They cleaned up without talking much.
Jaehyun wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, a little too aggressively, like he was offended by the evidence of his own feelings. He made a show of blinking a few extra times, stretching, pretending he was just tired. Sungho didn’t call him out on it. He never did.
Sungho took the dishes to the sink. The water ran warm over his hands, soap bubbling up, the clink of ceramic grounding him back into himself. He washed everything slowly, deliberately, then rinsed his hands once, twice, like he needed the feeling to fully leave. After that, he went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, stared at his reflection for a second longer than necessary.
You’re fine, he told himself. This is normal.
When he stepped back into the room, the lights were dim now—just the small lamp by Jaehyun’s desk still on.
Then Jaehyun was on his bed—not sprawled out or anything dramatic. Just lying there on his side, blanket pulled up to his chest, hair still a little messy from the couch. He looked up immediately when Sungho froze in the doorway.
“Oh,” Jaehyun said, like this was obvious. “You took forever.”
Sungho felt something warm bloom in his chest before he could stop it. “You’re on my bed.”
Jaehyun smiled—soft, tired, unguarded in a way he rarely was this late at night. “Yeah. Is that illegal?”
Sungho exhaled a quiet laugh and walked over, sitting down, then lying beside him without really thinking it through. The mattress dipped, familiar, comforting. They fit there like muscle memory.
Jaehyun shifted closer, just enough for their shoulders to touch.
“Hey,” he murmured.
Sungho turned his head slightly. “What?”
Jaehyun didn’t answer. He just leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to Sungho’s forehead—brief, warm, careful. Like he was saying thank you without using words. Like he always did.
“Good night,” Jaehyun whispered.
Sungho swallowed, eyes closing despite himself. “…Good night.”
It was quiet, for a bit. They could hear the trees outside, people in the hallway coming back from a party. The two were slowly drifting to sleep.
“Jaehyun?”
“Mm?”
Sungho opens his mouth, then closes it again. Whatever he was going to say feels too big, too tangled, suddenly stupid in the quiet. The room hums softly—the aircon, the city far away, the echo of a movie that’s already over but still sitting heavy in their chests. “…Never mind,” Sungho mutters.
There’s a pause. A small shift of fabric.
Then Jaehyun turns behind him, careful, slow, like he already knows the ending of this scene. He presses closer, chest to Sungho’s back, arm slipping around his waist without hesitation. His hand rests there, warm and solid, fingers curling just enough to say I’m here without saying it out loud.
Sungho stiffens for half a second—pure reflex—then exhales.
Jaehyun tucks his face into the space between Sungho’s shoulder blades, nose brushing the cotton of his shirt. He smells like soap and popcorn and something familiar enough to make Sungho’s chest ache.
Jaehyun doesn’t say anything. He knows Sungho won’t respond. He knows this is the part where Sungho lets himself go quiet.
His breathing evens out, slow and steady, intentionally calm—like he’s offering it as a lullaby. Like he’s done this enough times to know exactly how long it takes.
Sungho’s shoulders loosen. His thoughts blur at the edges.
Jaehyun’s grip tightens just a little, protective, certain.
He smiles into Sungho’s back, already halfway asleep himself, knowing—just knowing—that Sungho will be out soon.