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Yu doesn’t remember there ever being a moment when he and Sogeon decided to be close.
It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t a conversation. There was no line they crossed and no agreement they made. They simply… migrated. Like birds finding the same branch, like bodies seeking warmth without thinking too hard about why.
After Nizi project ended, life came at them fast and without mercy. Schedules stacked on schedules. Cameras everywhere. Expectations heavy enough to sit on their shoulders. They were rookies with eyes on them, still raw from weeks of competition, adrenaline crashes hitting hard once the dust settled.
All of them coped differently. Yu coped by going quiet, while Sogeon coped by reaching out.
Somewhere in the middle of that, they found each other.
Yu noticed it first in small ways. Sogeon sitting beside him at meals without asking, only sending him a beaming smile once he has already sat down. Him matching his pace with him when they walked back to the dorms. Leaning into Yu’s shoulder during late practice breaks, warm and comfortable, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Sogeon noticed it when Yu never pulled away. They were close even then, but something shifted after Sogeon suddenly started coming to Yu’s bed.
At first, it was disguised as a necessity. Long days. Loud thoughts. Nights that felt too empty once the lights went out. Sogeon would pad over with a blanket tucked under his arm, murmuring excuses he barely committed to.
“I just can’t sleep.”
“My head’s too loud.”
“I’m cold.”
‘’I miss home.’’
Yu always made space. Sogeon’s presence never felt like a burden. To Yu, giving up half of his bed so Sogeon could get a good night's sleep was a no-brainer.
What began as shared sleep slowly turned into shared time.
They would lie shoulder to shoulder on the too-small yet somehow, too-comfortable single bed, whispering into the dark so they wouldn’t wake the others. Sometimes they talked about their worries. About messing up, about not being good enough, about the fear that all of this could disappear if they slipped even once. Sometimes it was family. Sogeon talking about home, voice soft with nostalgia. Or it was Yu offering pieces of himself to Sogeon he didn’t hand out easily to other people.
And sometimes they talked about nothing at all.
Stupid thoughts. Half-formed dreams. Jokes whispered between yawns followed by delirious giggles.
Yu didn’t realize it at first, but those nights were when he truly let Sogeon in. The walls he kept carefully reinforced around himself, softened in the dark. He found himself waiting for night, for the moment Sogeon would slide in beside him and ask, softly, “You still awake?”
Those nights became the ones Yu cherished most.
But there weren’t just good memories. Yu remembered the bad ones too.
Yu was already asleep when it happened.
The door slammed open hard enough to rattle the frame. Yu startled awake immediately, heart kicking into his ribs, senses sharpening in a way they only ever did for one person.
Sogeon stood in the doorway, chest heaving, eyes red. He didn’t say a word, just crossed the room in uneven steps, breath hitching like he was barely holding himself together.
‘’I messed up Yu,’’ Sogeon bit his lip to keep from sobbing.
‘’I’m not good enough, I don’t belong here’’
Yu knew Sogeon had an extended dance practice session with their choreographer today, and he also knew his mid-term evaluation was today. Despite Sogeon already being in the group, the company (and Sogeon himself) were pushing him to polish his dancing almost unfairly, inhumanely.
The evaluations had gone badly. Yu could easily tell; he could see it in the way Sogeon’s shoulders curled inward, in the way his hands shook at his sides as he cried. Sogeon’s confidence had always been a fragile thing, built carefully, easily cracked when someone pressed too hard in the wrong place.
Yu didn’t say anything, he just lifted the blanket.
Sogeon stares at him, eyes welling up with a fresh onslaught of tears. Once given the permission he knew he didn’t even need, he slid into the bed like it was instinct, like he’d been running toward this moment the whole time. The second Yu’s arms came around him, Sogeon broke.
He cried into Yu’s chest, fingers clutching the front of Yu’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping him together. His sobs were ugly, raw, shaking through his whole body as he coughed and hiccuped from the force of it. Yu held him without moving, one hand steady at his back, the other smoothing through his hair in slow, grounding strokes.
“You worked so hard to be here Geon-ah. Of course, you belong here,” Yu murmured, voice low, barely louder than his breathing. Sogeon shook his head through his sobs, as if the words Yu was offering him made no sense.
‘’It’s okay Geon-ah’’ Yu would whisper into his hair, over and over. No attempt at fixing. Just presence.
Sogeon cried until his breathing evened out, until his grip loosened - but never let go completely. Yu stayed awake the whole time, keeping the world small and quiet, holding the space around them like a shield.
Right here, in this bubble they’ve created, nothing else could touch them.
This was safety.
For Sogeon, Yu wasn’t just comfort, he was his refuge. The place he ran to when everything else felt like it was collapsing. And Yu understood that instinctively.
After that, they were inseparable, not in a loud, obvious way, but in a gravitational one. They could spend the day apart, wrapped up in their own schedules and stresses, but they always returned to each other at night.
Back to the same room.
Back to the same bed.
Back to the quiet ritual of talking through the day before sleep took them.
It was domestic in a way neither of them ever named.
After a while in the old building, a year of promotions, the company changed buildings and moved into a bigger one. In turn, the group also changed dorms, from their dingy, small 3-bedroom apartment to an actual, proper idol dorm room that no longer felt like a prison and felt more like a home.
Upon the move, management had told them they could reshuffle the roommate formations if they so wanted. Apparently, that would open up a possibility for new dynamics, a fresh start with someone else. To bring the group even closer. Yu remembers the way the room went briefly loud with chatter and excitement.
He remembers glancing sideways at Sogeon, who was already looking at him. And the decision was made as easily as one simple glance between them.
No discussion. No “are you okay with this?” They stayed together because they always had. Because whatever they were doing worked. Because they were each other’s person in a way that didn’t need naming.
The new room was bigger. Familiar two single beds placed neatly in opposite corners, identical frames, identical sheets.
Sogeon’s bed didn’t last being used even for a week. Well, not really.
It became a couch more than anything, where Sogeon sprawled after practice, phone dangling loosely from his fingers. Or he used it as his dumping ground for hoodies and jeans when he was in a rush. A place his discarded jackets went to die. At night, though, his body always drifted back to Yu’s bed, like gravity had a preference.
They squeezed together for months.
Limbs tangled. Blankets twisted. Yu waking up with Sogeon’s knee hooked over his thigh, his arm slung heavy across Yu’s waist, holding on to keep from sliding off the edge of the bed. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it wasn’t sustainable either.
One night, half-asleep, Sogeon shifted closer, nuzzling into the crook of Yu’s neck, seeking warmth and the familiar scent of Yu’s shampoo. He mumbled, “We should just get one big bed.” Yu barely opened his eyes, chuckling into the darkness. “Yeah. We should”
They asked their manager the next day.
He stared at them for a moment, then sighed like a man who had long since stopped questioning anything about them as long as they kept it within the walls of their room. The other members barely reacted at all. Whatever weirdness there might have been between them early on had faded into fond resignation.
This was just Yu and Sogeon. It was normal because it was them.
They got their bed the very next day.
Year after year, their situation remained unchanged. Even if one of them fell asleep first, the other always followed, lifting the blanket gently, sliding in like it was muscle memory. Like it was where they belonged.
Yu liked to pretend it didn’t mean anything to him. He liked to say he didn’t mind it. That it was just because it was practical, or just because he wanted Sogeon to stay happy. He liked pretending Sogeon’s arm around his waist was just warmth, not comfort. That the way his chest settled every night was merely a coincidence.
But his body knew.
Even asleep, Yu would reach for him. Fingers brushing fabric, checking for heat, making sure Sogeon was there. Making sure he was covered with the blanket, making sure he was comfortable. He never pulled away when Sogeon clung to his shirt, never complained when he snored softly into Yu’s ear or mumbled in his sleep.
Yu cannot remember the last time he slept by himself. Sogeon has been a constant presence for years.
Until now.
When Sogeon mentions that he’s flying to Japan to see his parents during their scheduled break, it doesn’t land like a big announcement. It comes up casually, slipped into their conversation the way most things between them do, as if it’s just another small detail in the day.
They’re in the kitchen, both half-distracted. Yu is leaning against the counter, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, while Sogeon stands barefoot by the sink, hair still damp from a rushed shower.
“I’m heading home for a few days,” Sogeon says, almost absentmindedly. “My mom already sent me a list of things she made that she wants me to eat.”
Yu looks up, eyebrows lifting. “Oh. When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
Something in Yu’s chest shifts, but he brushes past it. Instead, he grins, easy and exaggerated, stretching his arms overhead as if the news has unlocked some secret prize.
“Finally,” he says. “I’ll have the whole bed to myself.”
He walks over to the couch in the living room and flops back against it for emphasis, spreading his limbs wide, like a starfish. “No snoring. No overheating. No one clinging to me like a human koala.”
Sogeon turns to look at him, narrowing his eyes. “You love my snoring.”
“I tolerate it,” Yu replies, shrugging.
“Liar.”
They laugh, the moment passing easily, but Sogeon’s gaze lingers on Yu a fraction longer than usual, soft and unreadable. Yu doesn’t notice, or maybe he does, and chooses not to.
The night before Sogeon leaves feels deceptively normal.
They move through their routine without thinking about it: they eat dinner with the other members, take showers in turns. By the time they’re in bed, the room is dim and familiar, the mattress already shaped to their bodies. Sogeon curls in close without comment, one leg draped over Yu’s, his warmth seeping in like it always does.
“Don’t miss me too much,” Sogeon murmurs, voice already heavy with sleep.
Yu scoffs softly. “Oh please. I’m going to sleep diagonally.”
Sogeon hums, amused, breath warm against Yu’s shoulder, and drifts off not long after. Yu stays awake longer than usual, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of Sogeon’s breathing. He tells himself there’s nothing strange about the tight feeling in his chest, nothing worth unpacking.
The first night alone almost convinces him he was right.
Yu comes home late from a night out with some friends, fatigue dragging at his limbs. He showers, changes, and collapses into bed without ceremony, stretching out instinctively. The mattress feels different without Sogeon’s weight beside him, but it’s not unpleasant, just unfamiliar. Sleep takes him quickly, deep and heavy, and when he wakes the next morning, he tells himself that means everything is fine.
The second night doesn’t let him lie so easily.
He falls asleep at first, but sometime past midnight, he stirs. Half-dreaming, his body shifts toward the empty side of the bed, arm reaching out automatically, fingers closing around cool sheets instead of fabric and warmth.
His brow furrows. He turns onto his back, breath hitching faintly, then drifts off again, only to wake once more, heart thudding, the absence beside him pressing in sharper now that he’s aware of it.
By the third night, it’s undeniable.
Yu lies awake, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion buzzing through him without ever settling. The bed feels wrong, too wide, too still, the sheets cooling too fast without another body there to anchor the warmth. Even the room feels altered, stripped of something essential. Sogeon’s cologne, faint but constant for years, has faded from the pillows, leaving the air neutral and hollow.
The realization sinks heavy and slow into Yu’s chest: this isn’t just discomfort. It’s loneliness.
2:07 a.m.
The time glares back at him from his phone, bright and accusing. Yu exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, trying to shake the restless ache curling under his ribs. He tells himself not to be dramatic, not to read too much into two sleepless nights.
But his thumb is already hovering over Sogeon’s name on his phone. He hesitates, just for a moment. Sogeon is probably asleep. Yu doesn’t want to wake him. Doesn’t want to admit, to himself most of all, that he needs this.
Then he taps the screen. The ringing feels impossibly loud in the quiet room. Once. Twice. Three times. Yu’s thumb hovers, ready to hang up-
-and Sogeon answers.
His face fills the screen, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and bright in the dim light of his childhood bedroom. He smiles immediately, unguarded and warm, like seeing Yu has eased something in him too.
Yu’s chest loosens on instinct.
“Hey,” Sogeon murmurs. “I was hoping you’d call.”
Yu blinks, caught. “You were?”
Sogeon shrugs, settling deeper into his pillows. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Yu doesn’t admit that he couldn’t sleep either, but it felt like Sogeon already knew in a way. Because Sogeon always knew, knew Yu better than he did himself.
Sogeon shifts in his bed, the camera wobbling slightly before settling again. He looks comfortable in the way he only ever does right before sleep, hair sticking up in places, cheeks still flushed from the heat of his room. Yu watches him longer than he probably should, the sight easing something tight in his chest.
“So,” Yu says quietly, “how are they?”
“My parents?” Sogeon hums, smiling. “Good. Intense. My mom keeps staring at me like I’m going to disappear if she looks away.” Yu exhales a soft laugh. “She’s probably deciding what to feed you next.”
“Oh, she’s fed me plenty,” Sogeon says, mock-suffering. “I said I was full, and she asked if I was sick.”
“That’s love,” Yu says solemnly, chuckling at the way Sogeon rolls his eyes. They lapse into a comfortable quiet after that, the kind that doesn’t need filling. Yu shifts onto his side, pulling the blanket higher, phone resting against his pillow like a stand-in for Sogeon’s presence.
“I keep rolling over,” Sogeon says suddenly. “Like I’m expecting you to be there. It’s really annoying.” Yu smiles faintly. “You’re dramatic.”
“You say that, but you’re probably doing the same thing.”
Yu doesn’t deny it. “Maybe.”
Sogeon squints at the screen, accusatory. “You always do that thing with your hand. Like you’re checking I’m still there.” Yu looks away, embarrassed. “Stop watching me sleep.”
“I can’t help it,” Sogeon replies easily. “You’re right there.”
“Not right now,” Yu mutters.
Sogeon’s expression softens at that. “I know.”
He shifts again, hugging his pillow, and starts talking. About the flight, about the kid who kicked his seat, about how weird it feels to be home and not have to whisper after midnight. His words tumble over each other, unfiltered, meandering the way they always do when he’s getting sleepy.
Yu listens without interrupting, eyes half-lidded now, breathing slow and even. The cadence of Sogeon’s voice is familiar enough to pull him under, the same way it always does when they’re lying side by side in the dark.
It occurs to Yu then, not sharply, not all at once, but gently, like a truth he’s been circling for years, that this is what happiness has always looked like for him. Not loud or overwhelming, not something that demands to be celebrated. Just this: shared space, shared quiet, the comfort of knowing someone is there.
Small, but certain happiness.
“…so yeah,” Sogeon murmurs eventually, voice dropping to almost nothing, “it’s weird without you.”
Yu exhales, the sound slow and heavy, as it comes from somewhere deep in his chest. His eyes are already closed when he answers, words slipping out unguarded, carried by the weight of everything he hasn’t said out loud before.
“I miss you so much Geon-ah” he says, voice rough with sleep but certain. There’s a pause on the other end of the line.
Sogeon stills, the faint movement of his chest visible as he takes a quiet breath in. The words sink into him slowly, settling warm and solid in his chest. Yu’s voice, soft, honest, unmistakably meant, wraps around him in a way that makes his throat tighten.
“…yeah,” Sogeon replies after a moment, just as softly. “I know.” He shifts his phone closer, like the distance between them is something he can close with enough intent.
“I miss you too,” he adds, slower this time, deliberate. “A lot.”
They stay like that, neither of them rushing to say anything else. The silence that follows isn’t empty, it’s full, shared, held carefully between them.
“Try to sleep,” Sogeon murmurs eventually, voice gentle. “I’ll stay.”
Yu hums in response, already drifting, the sound barely audible. “Okay.”
Sogeon keeps talking quietly after that, low and steady, telling Yu about nothing in particular, the sound of the wind outside his window, the way his mom rearranged his childhood room, the promise of food he’ll bring back for Yu. His words weave in and out, soft enough to fade into background comfort rather than demand attention.
Yu’s breathing deepens, evens out.
Sogeon smiles, watching him sleep through the screen, heart warm and full in a way that makes his chest ache. He settles back into his pillows, letting the phone rest near his face, listening to the quiet rhythm of Yu’s breath.
“Goodnight Yu-ya,” he whispers, even though Yu can’t hear him anymore, but he stays on the line.
And eventually, with Yu’s steady breathing in his ear, Sogeon drifts off too, both of them falling asleep together, tethered by a soft connection that distance can’t touch.
Just like always.