Archive of Our Own

I've been searching for an empty box, that's what I need
The memories you left in the drawer of my room

20th February 2024

Seonghwa sits on his bed.

Well technically, it’s Hongjoong’s bed, but it’s been his space for the past three years. The bedsheets are silk – his preference. The pillow are down – also his preference. There’s a small corner of the vanity crowded with glass bottles and carefully labeled skincare, a calendar on the wall marked in two inks, red for him, blue for Hongjoong: appointments, filming schedules, anniversaries. A drawer in the dresser holds his pajamas and loungewear and there’s a small box by the desk filled with his favourite snacks – chocopies and prawn crackers.

Evidence of a shared life.

But Seonghwa now sits alone in this shared space.

His hands rest folded in his lap, fingers laced so tightly they ache. He stares at the door as if sheer will could make it open.

It does – too late.

Six hours too late.

“You’re late.” Seonghwa’s voice is calm. He says it as a statement, like he’s reading the weather report.

Hongjoong freezes in the doorway. One sock on, jacket half-zipped. He is exhaustion personised – eyes heavy with sleep (or lack thereof), shoulders slumping like they carry the weight of the world, hair tousled and unkept. The faint smell of the studio’s artificial lavender air freshener clings to his leather jacket, mixed with the tang of stale coffee, like it’s all he’s had in awhile.

“Seonghwa look–,” He pinches the bridge of his nose, a tired habit. “I… completely lost track of time.”

Seonghwa lets out a breath that sounds more like a laugh. There is no humour in it. “What’s new?”

Hongjoong stiffens. He stands straighter, defensive, and drops his bag to the floor. It lands with a defensive thud, the only sound that graces the silence of the room for an extended moment.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” irritation sparks, quick and jagged. “Look, Seonghwa, I know–”

“Tonight. Seven.” Seonghwa’s voice cuts through the room, a blade wrapped in silk. It doesn’t make it any less deadly. “Come home by seven. That’s all I asked for.”

The words hang between them, heavy. Then Hongjoong sighs.

“The comeback is in three months, Seonghwa.” Hongjoong runs a hand through his hair, feet tapping into the floor. “I don’t have time. I have things to do.”

“Yes, of course you do,” Seonghwa says quietly, the kind of quiet that echoes and haunts you long after the sound fades. The kind that hurts. “Things that are more important than me.”

Hongjoong scoffs, a harsh, bitter sound that rattles in Seonghwa’s chest. “Don’t say that, that’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I didn’t forget,” Hongjoong insists, urgency bleeding into his voice. He steps forward, hands pushing the hair off his forehead. “I swear I didn’t. I just– I got caught up. They wanted to change the jacket filming date, I needed to fix the lyrics, the producers–” he squeezes his eyes shut and exhales loudly. “Seonghwa I’m drowning. Do you think I like this? Like disappointing you?”

“Hongjoong—”

“You know, you always do this.” His tone shifts, words cutting deeper. The blaming starts. “You wait until things spiral out of control, until things start to hurt, and then you unload everything onto me and expect me to make everything okay. I’m not a magician, Seonghwa, I can’t read your mind. How am I supposed to fix things when you don’t even tell me what’s wrong?”

Seonghwa lets out an incredulous laugh – the audacity.

“So now it’s my fault?” His eyes glint in the dim room. “Kim Hongjoong, things have been shit for months now. If you bothered, if you cared enough, you’d know how I’ve been hurting. And you’d know why. It’s not my job to teach you how to care for me. No one taught me how to love you.”

“What do you mean–” Hongjoong throws his hands in the air in surrender. “Seonghwa, don’t give me riddles now, please. I’m too tired for this. If you have a problem with me then just spit it out. Say it properly.”

Seonghwa flinches, but doesn’t look away.

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa closes his eyes, voice quiet but trembling, “You’re a great leader. The best we could ask for.”

“Seonghwa–”

“But you’re a shitty boyfriend.”

Hongjoong’s eyes flash, wounded pride flaring. “Oh, Park Seonghwa, that’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You know I’m doing this for us,” he snaps, voice rough. “For the group. For our future. For everything we worked for. You think I’m choosing work over you? You think I don’t miss you when you’re already sleeping by the time I get home?” He laughs once, humourlessly, “Seonghwa, this is my job. This is my burden to carry. There are things I have to do because I'm the leader– all the shitty, tiring things that no one else wants to or should have to do, because they’re my responsibility!”

“I know, Hongjoong, I know.” Seonghwa’s fingers tighten on his lap. “I know that everything you do is for us. I’m grateful, you know I am. But maybe… maybe it’s better if you stay my leader instead of my lover. I can’t keep pulling you in two directions and expect you to be everything for me when you’re already trying to be everything for the world.”

Hongjoong doesn’t speak. The only noise in the suffocating room is the quiet ticking of the clock. Each tick sounds like a countdown to something inevitable and irreversible that Seonghwa knows is going to break him.

“This… this was a mistake from the start,” Seonghwa says, quiet but unyielding, “We are too different, Hongjoong-ah. I’ve been expecting too much. I can’t keep asking you for things that you can’t give. It’s not fair to you.”

Silence crashes down.

Hongjoong’s chest tightens. His jaw locks. His hands ball into fists at his sides. “Park Seonghwa,” he snaps, sharp and jagged, “now you’re really pissing me off. Have I ever complained? Have I ever said that I don’t want to sacrifice for you? For us?”

“These aren’t sacrifices, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa says, head bowed, but there is nothing submissive about him. “The things I’m asking shouldn’t even qualify as sacrifices. All I’m asking for is for you to be here when it matters,” his lip quivers, tears gathering behind closed lids. “For you to think of me, to remember me in the things that you do. But now I just feel like an after-thought. A check-in you have to complete at the end of the day.”

“Oh… Park Seonghwa, don’t you dare say it like that.” Hongjoong snarls. “You know that’s not true. You know how much I try.”

“It’s not enough, Hongjoong-ah.”

“What’s not enough?” Hongjoong’s voice rises, waves in a storm. Seonghwa is suddenly incredibly grateful that no one else is home now. “So I’m not enough for you, is that what you’re saying? The late nights I pull, the meals I skip, the meetings I take so that the rest of you can rest early – none of that is enough for you?”

“No, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa lets a lone tear slip free, heart clenching painfully in his chest. His lungs burn like he’s breathing through water. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

“So what the fuck do you mean then?”

“Hongjoong-ah…” His voice cracks, “I just want you to be here.”

I just want you to remember that you love me.

“Okay so I’ll do it, I’ll come home on time, I’ll remember the things you tell me from now on, I’ll do whatever you want me to!” Hongjoong’s eyes are ablaze, raw rage, exhaustion burning in amber orbs. Seonghwa feels all the strength he has left in his bones belt at the intensity.

“Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa whispers, voice shaking now, “I’m so tired. I’m so, so, so tired.”

“Of what?” Hongjoong’s voice trembles. He takes another step closer, hands curling into fists. “Park Seonghwa what–”

“Did you know,” Seonghwa interrupts softly, “that since you walked in, you haven’t apologised?”

Hongjoong freezes.

His eyes widen, pupils blown wide, as though the words physically hurt.

“S–Seonghwa,” Hongjoong stumbles over his name like regret and an apology all in one. The shift is immediate. “I’m sorry I–”

“Neither have you wished me happy anniversary.”

The sound of Hongjoong’s jaw snapping shut is deafening in the silence that follows. His gaze shifts, slowly, dreadfully, to the calendar on the wall.

The twentieth. Marked in red with a heart. Marked in blue with a star. His handwriting and Seonghwa’s, side by side.

Silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

“Fuck Seonghwa I– I’m sorry I totally forgot I–”

Seonghwa laughs again, but it sounds wrong. It sounds too devastated to be real. His smile feels foreign on his face, muscles aching from holding it in place.

“It’s our anniversary, Hongjoong-ah.”

He shakes his head slowly, feeling the pain dull into something quieter. Crystal clear disappointment. “You didn’t ask why I wanted you home early. You didn’t ask why I cooked. Why I waited.” His voice is soft now, almost gentle, and that gentleness hurts more than anger ever could. “You walked in and started making excuses. You walked in and made this about you.”

Hongjoong’s mouth hangs open.

Seonghwa breathes. Broken.

“You didn't wish me. Not once. Do you know how much that hurts?”

He pushes himself off the bed, knees almost buckling at the heavy, disgustingly sticky tension in the room. He feels it clawing in his throat, choking him.

“I waited for you last night,” Seonghwa says. His voice is quiet, but it scrapes raw against the room. “Thought you’d bother to come home by midnight. I even entertained the thought that you’d bring me flowers.”

His fingers twitch at his sides, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

“But you came home at two. Hands empty.” His gaze is unfocused, like he’s talking to the wall behind Hongjoong. “You walked into the room, kissed my cheek, took a shower, and fell asleep immediately after. Then I thought – fine. Maybe you’ll wish me in the morning, maybe you had a belated surprise.”

A shaky step forward.

“But you didn’t. We went straight to practice.”

His eyes are on Hongjoong but he doesn’t register anything. Not how his eyes are wide open in shock, mouth hung open, words left unspoken, hands clenched into tight balls by his side that his knuckles have gone pale. His mind is fuzzy, going numb.

“And then when we were dismissed, I rushed straight home. I made your favourite food. I thought hey, it’s fine even if he doesn’t wish me. We’re beyond that now.”

Seonghwa covers his face, shoulders caving inward. His breath stutters, sharp and uneven.

“We’re beyond that,” he repeats softly, as though trying to convince himself.

The sobs hit him all at once. He presses the back of his hand to his mouth, teeth biting into skin as if he can physically hold the ache inside his chest.

“But I thought you’d at least… at the very least,” Seonghwa tilts his head up, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, lashes wet, cheeks flushed, willing the tears to the back of his skull. “I thought you’d come home. I thought you’d remember.”

“Seonghwa I–” Hongjoong starts, stepping forward.

“–So forgive me Hongjoong, for feeling tired.” Seonghwa closes his eyes. His voice drops to a pained whisper. “Because truly… I am.”

Hongjoong reaches out, his fingers barely brushing Seonghwa’s shoulder but Seonghwa flinches like he’s been burned, jerking away. The thought of Hongjoong touching him right now sends something nauseating through him, something bone-deep and twisting.

“I can’t do this anymore, Hongjoong-ah.”

Hongjoong looks at him, eyes crazed. “Don’t say it, my love... don’t do this.”

My love.

The intimacy lands too little, too late.

A beat. A broken breath.

“Let’s end this.”

The words fall into the room like a gunshot.

Hongjoong laughs softly, sharp and incredulous, tears fall from eyes swollen from the lack of sleep.

“So that’s it? One missed anniversary and it’s over? Just like that, three years down the drain?” Hongjoong swallows. “What happened to you and me? That it’ll always be us two?”

“Did you hear a word I said?” Seonghwa’s head snaps up, fury bleeding through the grief. “Why are you minimising this?”

“I’m not minimising anything!” Hongjoong shouts back, his composure finally shattering. “Look, I’m sorry I forgot our anniversary, and I’m sorry I didn't come home as promised. But my mind is everywhere at once, there’s so much going on. You know I work my ass off every day for this, for you, for everything we built. I thought we were in this together. And you… you just–” He combs his fingers through his hair so roughly it looks like it hurts. “…you just decide it’s not enough? That I’m not enough?”

Seonghwa looks up then, slowly, eyes red-rimmed.

“I know you’re trying,” he says softly, arms grappling at his arms across his chest – a feeble shield that’s too thin and flimsy and useless to actually protect anything. “But maybe I’m too much. I’m asking for too much.”

Hongjoong’s jaw tightens. “Seonghwa, that’s not–” Then he stops himself, jaw snapping back into place. He takes in a deep breath and tilts his head to the ceiling, eyes closed, silently surrendering this moment up to the universe and hoping that it will fix it for him.

Seonghwa’s lips curl into a smile that is beautiful and cruel all at once – like he’s seeing through every excuse, every justification Hongjoong has been feeding himself. “See?”

“Stop coming to your own goddamned conclusions.” Hongjoong snarls. “I get overwhelmed sometimes, yes, but I’m trying. Don’t try to negate everything I’ve done and twist this into some lousy excuse for your lack of faith in me.”

Seonghwa’s eyes snap open, wide and raw. The air around crackling dangerously.

“My what?” His voice rises, teeth clenched, trembling with fury. “Say that again, Kim Hongjoong. I fucking dare you to.”

He steps forward, jabbing a trembling finger into Hongjoong’s chest, hands shaking, body taut with grief and rage. “Don’t you dare turn this on me. I’ve been… I’ve been dying in silence for you for months, and you–” His voice breaks. “You think I’m just being dramatic?”

“Did I fucking ask for you to suffer in silence?” Hongjoong snaps back, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

“You didn't.” Seonghwa’s reply is soft, deliberate, cutting deeper than any shout. “But you’re hardly around enough to ask me for anything, anyway.”

“Oh, fuck you, Park Seonghwa.” Hongjoong laughs bitterly, sharp and jagged, shaking with frustration. “Fine. You want to leave? You want to make this about me not being enough? Fine.”

“I’m sorry, Hongjoong.” Seonghwa closes his eyes and lets the tears fall unchecked. There’s no idol here, no public figure. Just a boy in love whose dried out, aching heart is crumbling on the floor. “I can’t do this anymore. Not to you, not to me. I’m done.”

They stare at each other. In this moment, the quiet nights they spent tangled together don’t exist. The whispered I love yous against bare skin, the promises they made with sleepy smiles and soft kisses. Everything vanishes. In this moment, there is only disappointment, devastation, and the cruel gravity of a goodbye looming over their heads.

The clock continues ticking.

“Fine,” Hongjoong mutters finally, voice low and shaking. “Go. If you think that's easier than staying, then go.”

Seonghwa closes his eyes and stands slowly, like gravity has doubled. He picks up his bag – the one with their couple plushie hanging on it. The zipper sounds impossibly loud in the quiet room.

He passes Hongjoong, their shoulders almost brush.

Hongjoong flinches like Seonghwa’s presence is poison, and Seonghwa’s body jerks away on instinct. The space between them is suddenly not wide enough. He pauses by the door, hands clenching the handle.

“The last time you said I love you was on Christmas.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, door closing with a definitive click behind him.

Tonight he leaves behind three years of shared nights and tender kisses, three years of promises whispered into bare skin, of unabashed laughter in kitchens and heated arguments in studios that always ended in a soft forehead kiss and a heartfelt apology.

He also leaves behind forgotten dinners, broken promises, and a love that, somewhere along the way, stopped feeling like enough. That made him feel that he wasn’t enough.

He throws away the uneaten roast chicken and homemade yogurt on the way out.

It makes it feel like a rainy day
I think it’s time to let them go

25th February 2024

Seonghwa sits alone in the dance studio a few days later, clock ticking towards midnight. The mirrors reflect nothing but fluorescent light and a single figure folded in on himself. The overhead lamps hum faintly, a low mechanical buzz that fills the emptiness between breaths, his own breathing sounds too loud in the quiet.

The door creaks open and he stiffens, ready to cough out a lousy excuse to his manager. I couldn’t sleep. I just wanted to practice. I’ll leave soon.

He prays to the high heavens that it’s not Hongjoong.

But when wide, cautious eyes meet his, the tension drains from his shoulders almost instantly. The tight lines in his face soften into a small, relieved smile.

“Wooyoung-ah.”

“Hyung…” Wooyoung closes the door behind him, San’s oversized hoodie hanging off his frame making him look smaller than he is. He shuffles forward, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor. “Hyung… why are you still here?”

Seonghwa doesn’t answer. Wooyoung sits close, shoulders almost touching, and the room suddenly feels a little lighter.

Wooyoung fiddles with the cuffs of his hoodie. “Hyung… we… I heard, and I–” His words stumble. “What happened, hyung?”

Seonghwa exhales slowly, staring at the polished floorboards.

What happened? Indeed, what happened?

They were happy, weren’t they?

They fought over stupid things. Over tardiness. Over dishes left in the sink. Over texts not replied to fast enough. Over misunderstandings that could’ve been solved if they’d just… talked.

But they laughed more than they fought. They loved more than they complained.

But they made each other happy, didn't they?

So where did it all go wrong?

Seonghwa knows. He sees everything clearly now. He’s the one who was selfish, greedy, always wanting more than Hongjoong could give, wanting him in ways that the world would never see, in ways that no one else would understand.

He knew the stress Hongjoong carried. The deadlines, the responsibility he volunteered for even when he didn’t have to, the way he held the team together with bleeding hands and a steady smile. He knew that Hongjoong was trying – trying to balance being the leader and being Seonghwa’s.

He knew Hongjoong was doing his best. God, he knew he was trying. And Seonghwa knew he should be more understanding, more forgiving, more willing to accept the remaining pieces of Kim Hongjoong that the world allowed him to have.

But Seonghwa’s love wanted more, more than he deserved. And Seonghwa realises now, with wretched acceptance, that he did not deserve Kim Hongjoong.

He remembers that one night. He had woken up to an empty bed. At first it was only a small flicker of worry, Hongjoong rarely woke up in the middle of the night. But Seonghwa rationalised it – maybe he had a stomachache, maybe he just needed to get a glass of water.

But when Seonghwa reached out and brushed his hand across the pillow beside him, it was cold. Too cold, like there was no one sleeping next to him at all. Something was wrong.

Seonghwa slipped out of bed quietly, bare feet meeting the cool floor. The apartment was dark, the silence thick and unmoving. He cracked the bedroom door open just enough to peer through.

A small, harsh light spilled from their dining room.

Hongjoong sat by the table, hunched over, phone screen glaringly bright.

Hongjoong does not make noise when he cries. But light casts shadows, and Seonghwa could see them, could see the way his shoulders shook violently, see the way his back curled inward like he was trying to fold himself smaller. Silent sobs tearing through him without a single sound.

Seonghwa’s heart had shattered in slow motion.

And so he acted dumb. He purposely stumbled, pushing the door with more force, more noise than needed. Enough noise for Hongjoong to notice, enough noise to let him know that he wasn’t alone. That Seonghwa was awake, that he was here. A warning and a lifeline all in one.

Talk to me, Hongjoong-ah. Please. Tell me what’s wrong. You don’t have to hide from me. I’m here.

“My love,” Hongjoong had said immediately, voice hoarse but teasing, fake yawn stretching wide, “did you need something?”

As if his eyes weren’t bloodshot, as if his lashes weren’t wet.

As if his body hadn’t been shaking mere seconds ago.

Seonghwa’s heart stilled.

How unreliable had he been, that Hongjoong couldn’t even trust him to share his burdens with him?
How long had Hongjoong selflessly been bearing this pain alone, crying into the night silently, so that he worried no one else?
How long had he been hiding himself from Seonghwa?

Why are we even together?

Seonghwa wanted to scream. He wanted to claw at Hongjoong’s chest, to force him to admit everything. Why he was crying, why he remained silent, why he never came to him.

But he didn't.

Instead, he had walked over and draped an arm around his love, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head in hopes that it would say everything he couldn’t.

Hongjoong never spoke of that night. Seonghwa never found out why he cried.

So how can Seonghwa ask for more? What is a missed anniversary, a forgotten dinner, an ignored text, when Hongjoong is breaking like this?
How can he ask for the moon when Hongjoong is drowning?
How could he allow himself to be so selfish?

Seonghwa ruffles Wooyoung’s soft hair, the younger leaning into his touch. Seonghwa presses a kiss to his temple.

“We fought,” Seonghwa says softly. His voice trembles despite his effort to steady it. “And it was bad this time.”

Seonghwa feels Wooyoung stiffen immediately.

“But we’ll be okay,” Seonghwa adds quickly, whatever it takes to not make Wooyoung worry. Though the words taste uncertain, like a lie, bitter and heavy on his tongue. “I’m sorry we dragged the group into this. Just… give us some time.”

He feels the pain catch behind his ribs like a hook snagging fabric. His breath stutters. Then the tears he’s been holding back all day, all week, finally spill over. Hot and unending.

“Hyung!” Wooyoung jerks up so quickly in panic that his shoes squeak as they skid on the floor. He immediately throws his arms over Seonghwa’s shoulders, pulling him into his chest, pressing his face into his shoulder. “Hyung–”

“I’m fine, Wooyoung-ah.” Seonghwa heaves, throat tight and breath coming out in short, painful bursts that leave his entire body sharking, “I’m fine, I just– I’m so–”

“Hyung,” Wooyoong holds his shoulders fiercely, soothing his hair down and rubbing slow, comforting circles into his back. “Hyung it’s okay… shh… It’s okay… You can cry, let it out. You’re not alone, you’re not alone, hyung. I’m here.” Wooyoung kisses the crown of his head and gives him another small squeeze. “I’m always here.”

“I’m fine, Wooyoung-ah,” he repeats, this time a little louder, a fragile attempt to convince him, to convince himself.

He chokes on his tears. Behind closed lids, he sees it all – their memories together flashing in sharp bursts, sizzling into nothing but salt and snot and searing pain against the soft, grey cotton.

“I miss him already… God I miss him so much… but I–,” a hiccup, a wet cough, “it’s only been five days. How am I supposed to survive being without him for the rest of my life?”

The tears come faster now, burning, unstoppable. For the first time since that day, Seonghwa allows himself to fall apart completely. He buries himself into the younger’s chest, clutching at the soft fabric of his hoodie and feeling dull pain pressing in crescents into his palms.

“Tell me it goes away,” he pleads, lifting his head just enough to look at Wooyoung. His red, swollen eyes meet a watery smile and bitten lips. “Please tell me the pain goes away… it hurts so much, Wooyoung-ah.”

“Shh… it’s okay hyung…” Wooyoung murmurs softly, voice steady despite himself. “Everything will be okay. I promise, you will be okay.”

“I loved him. I love him so much, Wooyoung-ah,” Seonghwa cries, chest heaving unevenly. “I loved him too much…” Seonghwa forces oxygen into his lungs, “I was too much.”

Wooyoung wraps his arms tighter, rocking him gently. “No,” he says firmly. “You’re not too much. You were just loving him the only way you knew how.”

Seonghwa buries his face deeper, shaking against him. “I wasn’t good enough… I couldn’t save him, he said he was drowning, Wooyoung-ah and I… I made him think that he was alone but he’s not. I was always there but he didn't know that and I– I failed him Wooyoung-ah I–”

“Park Seonghwa!”

The way Wooyoung says his name wrenches him straight out of his spiral. He grabs his shoulders and forces him to look up. His large, shining, teary eyes burn straight into Seonghwa’s tired soul. His tone is fierce, angry, but only at the world – not at Seonghwa. Never at Seonghwa. “Don’t you ever say that again. Do you hear me?”

The grip is firm.

The hug that follows is even firmer, crushing. He pulls Seonghwa into his chest again and presses his cheek to the top of Seonghwa’s head. “You are enough,” he murmurs. “You have always been enough. Loving someone doesn’t mean you can fix everything for them. It doesn’t mean you failed if they didn’t let you in.”

Seonghwa lets the words wash over him. The tears burn, the sobs heave, but for the first time in days, the crushing weight in his chest feels a little lighter. And in Wooyoung’s arms, he breathes.

And I'll never miss you
I'll never miss you

5th March 2024

Seonghwa takes one look at the lyrics and he knows. He knows.

The paper burns his fingertips, letters going blurry as his vision goes watery and unfocused. His chest heaves tightly and he shakily pushes himself up, chair legs scraping against the floor when he stands too fast. He mumbles a lousy excuse of needing to use the bathroom and stumbles out before anyone can say anything, before anyone can look too closely at his face.

He can feel their eyes on his back as he leaves the room — six different gazes, all sharp in different ways, but all worried, all knowing. Seonghwa ignores them all and keeps walking.

He barely remembers which direction the bathroom is in, his body moving on instinct rather than thought. He yanks the bathroom door open harder than necessary and stumbles inside. The fluorescent lights flicker once before steadying, filling the bathroom with a sterile, clinical white glow.

Seonghwa catches himself against the sink, fingers gripping into cold porcelain and slowly looks up. A stranger stares back. Red-rimmed eyes. Flushed cheeks. Lips cracked from being bitten raw through too many sleepless nights, sweat beading along his hairline despite the cold air of the room. There’s something frantic in his expression, something unravelling.

Pathetic.

His fingers tighten against the sink until his knuckles go white, and his chest heaves as he tries to pull in a proper breath, but the air feels wrong somehow, thinner than it should be.

He stares at his reflection and tries to force himself to calm down. Pull it together. Pull it together. Not now, Park Seonghwa, not now. But the words on the page keep flashing behind his eyelids. Every lyric. Every line. Every quiet confession and regret disguised as art.

He doesn’t hear the door.

“Seonghwa?”

The sound slams through him.

Oh God.
No, not now. Please.

The plea repeats itself in his head in frantic rhythm, desperate and humiliating.

Please please please–

He takes a deep breath like he can inhale strength itself into his lungs. Then another breath follows, slower, steadier this time. When he finally opens his eyes, he sees him in the mirror. Hongjoong stands a few steps behind, not close enough to touch, not far enough to ignore. Just… there, hesitant, small. His eyes are dark, searching. Those eyes he thought he could read, eyes that once reflected his own heart.

Eyes that he now looks at and understands nothing.

“Seonghwa, I–” Hongjoong’s voice is low, hesitant. He looks down, looks ashamed, hands fidgeting in front of him, thumb rubbing against his team ring. The metal catches the fluorescent light above them, silver glint mocking him.

Why is he still wearing it?

He turns around too quickly and the room tilts slightly.

“Hongjoong… the song–” Seonghwa’s voice cracks. His hands scramble backwards for the sink in a desperate attempt to keep himself standing. The ground feels like it’s swaying beneath his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Hongjoong says quickly, biting the inside of his mouth, jaw tightening so fast it's as though he’s punishing himself. His voice trembles. “I just… got inspiration. I thought you-”

“It’s fine.” The words come out too fast. Too smooth. “I understand.”

Artists turn pain into melody, turn regret into bridges and choruses. It’s what Hongjoong has always done, it’s what he’s always been good at.

And Seonghwa deserves this pain, doesn’t he? After all he’s done, after all he’s not done.

He inhales slowly, drawing the air deep into his lungs and in that moment, transformation happens. The panic disappears, the eyes steady, and shoulders square. The frantic edge vanishes from his expression, replaced by calm composure he’s perfected over the years in front of cameras and audiences. In that moment, he becomes a performer again.

Without another word, he turns and leaves, footsteps quick and urgent, ignoring how Hongjoong’s outstretched hands hover uselessly in the air for a second too long, like he’s reaching for him.

Like he almost asked him to stay.

Hah, Seonghwa shakes his head. Park Seonghwa, you're delusional.

He re-enters the meeting room like nothing happened. His spine is straight, hands rest neatly in his lap. He doesn’t acknowledge the way the conversation has stalled slightly, doesn’t acknowledge the tension hanging over the table.

Doesn’t acknowledge Hongjoong when he returns to the room, eyes looking puffier than when Seonghwa saw him mere minutes ago.

When the discussion eventually turns to line distribution, he speaks softly, requesting the least lines.

A small mercy, please.

The meeting ends not long after that. Seonghwa is the first to stand, chair sliding back with a dull scrape, and leaves before anyone can stop him, silence trailing behind him like a haunting shadow. He can feel the tension sticking to him, clinging to his skin like humidity, crawling under his collar and into his lungs.

When the group files into the vans, Seonghwa lingers just long enough to hear:

“Kim Hongjoong, you’re cruel.” Wooyoung spits, voice sharp, venomous.

The words hang in the air.

Hongjoong doesn’t say anything.

-

That night, when the apartment is quiet and the lights are dim, Seonghwa slides the team ring slowly off his finger. For a moment, he simply stares at it resting on his palm, feels the weight of everything they were and everything they couldn’t be pressing into his skin.

Then he leaves it on the dining table.

He doesn't wear it again.

And I'll never miss you

3 April 2024

“Happy birthday again, hyung!” Mingi calls over his shoulder, his voice bright and booming as Yunho half-drags him down the corridor.

“Thank you, everyone.” Seonghwa smiles. It’s small but it’s real – an achievement. He doesn’t think he’s managed a genuine one since that night. Still, the warmth of the evening lingers faintly in his chest – the cake, the teasing, the ridiculous bunny candles Jongho insisted on lighting one by one even though the wax melted everywhere. The way Wooyoung had insisted on singing the birthday song three separate times because he “didn’t feel the energy was correct the first two.”

It was nice. It felt normal.

But now, exhaustion settles deep in his bones. He loves them, God, he loves them so much, but sleep calls to him now like mercy, he yearns for a few quiet hours where his thoughts might finally leave him alone.

Mingi’s laughter echoes faintly from the end of the corridor when Yunho tells him what Seonghwa thinks to be the worst joke in history. He’s validated by Jongho’s loud, unimpressed scoff. San and Wooyoung walk slowly behind them, fingers loosely interlaced.

The envy hits him before he can stop it. It’s sharp, unwelcome – and it leaves him feeling ashamed.

Yeosang is the last to leave. The blond sits on the small bench by the door, carefully finishing the laces on his boots with the same quiet poise he seems to apply to everything he does.

“Happy birthday, hyung.” Yeosang, ever beautiful and graceful Yeosang, steps forward and reaches out, letting his hands linger on Seonghwa’s for a moment longer than necessary, squeezing gently. “I hope you had fun.”

“I did, Yeosang-ah, thank you all for planning this.” Seonghwa smooths a stray lock of hair from his forehead, lips curving into a soft, grateful smile. “Though you all gave me so many presents, I’m going to have to figure out how to display them all.”

Yeosang hums, a low, knowing sound.

“Our presents aren’t the ones you should worry about, they’re all still pretty small.”

Seonghwa cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

Yeosang’s gaze flickers toward the hallway, then back.

“I think Hongjoong-hyung has one more for you.”

Seonghwa stills. Just for a fraction of a second – but Yeosang notices everything.

“Yeosang-ah… what–”

“Doesn’t he always?” Yeosang’s eyes crinkle in a smile. His voice is gentle, tender, as though letting Seonghwa in on a small, happy secret, a fragile hope that he believes will make him happy.

Seonghwa almost laughs. Yeosang, ever naive and forgiving Yeosang. He reaches out and pulls Yeosang into a brief hug, resting his chin on his shoulders.

“No,” Seonghwa whispers, voice catching, “Not anymore, but thank you, Yeosang-ah.”

Yeosang wraps his arms around Seonghwa’s waist.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs softly, for Seonghwa alone, “you underestimate how much people love you.”

Then he pulls away and leaves to join the rest of the boys on their very serious quest for gelato, letting the cryptic message replay in Seonghwa’s head. Seonghwa turns toward the door, still thinking, when a shadow flickers across his peripheral vision–

“Seonghwa–”

“Oh Jesus Christ, Hongjoong-ah!” Seonghwa yelps, stumbling back, hand flying to his chest as his heart slams wildly against his ribs. “You scared me!”

“Sorry, I…” Hongjoong hesitates, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, hands tightening around something hidden behind his back. “I just went back to the car to get this.”

Seonghwa thuds his palm against his chest, willing it to slow down – age is catching up to him. “What do you–” Seonghwa breathes.

“Oh.”

Marigolds.

Impossibly sun-bright against the dark backdrop of the night. The large petals spill into his vision like liquid gold, held in Hongjoong’s trembling grasp. He’s received the same gift from Hongjoong every year since they began, but this one is different. It’s bigger. Fuller. Like it’s trying to make up for something.

Seonghwa steps forward carefully, deliberately avoiding Hongjoong’s fingers as he takes the bouquet.

“They’re beautiful.” His fingers brush the petals, feeling the soft ridges, the tiny specks of pollen clinging to his skin. He holds them close to his chest, inhaling the scent. It’s sweet, sweeter than he remembers.

He sees Hongjoong’s gaze flicker up from Seonghwa’s trembling hands to his lips, eyes linger for a moment too long. He takes a small step forward. Tentative. Seonghwa feels his breath catch in his throat and he flinches, instantly pulling back. Creating space, distance.

Hongjoong notices instantly. Seonghwa sees his lips part, sees the way the words dance on his tongue, and feels his breath catch in anticipation. But his hand lowers instead, a quiet surrender.

“I… I wanted to…” Hongjoong’s voice falters, barely above a whisper. “I still wanted to give you these. I know we’re… not like that anymore. But it doesn’t mean that I can’t still give you flowers.”

Seonghwa swallows the hard, bitter lump in his throat.

“Thank you, Hongjoong-ah.” The words taste like ash in his mouth. The sweet scent of the flowers suddenly turn sickly and the petals, impossibly soft, burn into his skin like sharp, hot metal, searing into him a reminder what they had and what they’ve lost. What he threw away with his own two hands because he wasn't strong enough to stay.

Hongjoong swallows, lips curling into a small, sad smile.

“Goodnight, Seonghwa.”

A pause.

“Happy birthday.”

The usual I love you doesn’t follow.

And then he leaves.

The door clicks behind him, the faint trace of his cologne hanging in the air like a ghost.

A heartbeat, two, –

And Seonghwa drops to his knees. He hits the floor without grace, without dignity. The impact barely registers but the sob that tears out of him does – they’re raw, animalistic. He folds inwards, shoulders heaving violently, his forehead pressing against the door, tears falling heavy, thick onto the wooden floor.

The city hums below, indifferent, distant. Cars pass. A siren wails somewhere in the distance. Someone laughs faintly from another balcony. But oh, Seonghwa cries, uncontrolled and uncaring, mourning the space Hongjoong left behind. Mourning the version of them that no longer exists.

Marigolds crushed to his chest.

I'll never miss you

6 July 2024

“Hey.”

“Oh, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa looks up from the floor, startled but not alarmed. He’s seated by the speaker, phone balanced loosely in one hand, thumb sliding back across the progress bar. His hair is damp, clinging to his forehead, curls darkened by sweat. “Why are you here? It’s late.”

“I could say the same thing to you.” Hongjoong lingers by the door, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. He doesn’t move closer. “I just finished up at the studio, was on the way back when I saw the lights on.”

Seonghwa hums quietly in acknowledgment, attention drifting back to the phone in his hand as he restarts the track.

“I was practising,” Seonghwa says simply, wiping the sweat off his brow with his sleeve. “The concert’s next week but I’m still messing up my solo part…”

What a familiar scene. Hongjoong’s heart drums painfully in his chest. They’re back where everything started – the same place, the same time.

But everything’s different now. Everything’s now over.

And before he can stop himself, before he can convince himself that this is a terrible idea, something horribly selfish slips into his mind.

“I could…” he starts, then hesitates immediately. “I–I mean we could practise together.”

His voice comes out uneven, hesitant, like a toe dipping into freezing water. He coughs. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Then we can go off earlier, y’know? We have a long day tomorrow.”

Seonghwa blinks, once, twice. For a moment, Hongjoong thinks he might say no. Then, slowly, a small, hesitant smile curves his lips. Just enough. Just enough for Hongjoong to feel it like sunlight on bare skin.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Hongjoong looks at the ground because it’s easier to talk to wood than to him. “What are friends for right?”

He doesn’t see how Seonghwa’s face crumples.

“Sure,” Seonghwa says, voice soft but steady.

They rehearse.

Hongjoong keeps his distance, painfully aware of every inch between them. He doesn’t brush Seonghwa’s waist when they pass, doesn’t steady his shoulder, doesn’t linger where he used to. Before, they’d stood too close on purpose. Bodies touching even when the choreo never called for that, ending with them in a tumbled, giggling heap on the floor, lips and hands roaming.

Now, he measures every inch between them, careful not to overstep. But he watches and memorises everything.

The way Seonghwa’s shoulders go taut when Hongjoong points out a wrong step, how his jaw tightens and clenches when he concentrates on moving on the right beat, how his brows furrow tightly when he misses the same step for the third time.

Hongjoong remembers noticing, drinking all these minute details in all those years ago, back when he didn't yet have the privilege of calling Seonghwa his. Back when every glance Seonghwa gave him, every laugh Seonghwa that tumbled from his lips felt like a gift he didn't deserve.

But he got complacent, started taking Seonghwa’s presence as a given, as a default setting he never needed to fuss over because Seonghwa would always be around. Seonghwa was patient. Seonghwa was understanding. Seonghwa was a constant. Seonghwa would never change.

He started forgetting to notice, forgetting to remember.

“You did great, Seonghwa.” Hongjoong says as casually as possible when they drop to the ground, thighs aching.

Seonghwa smiles. “Thank you for helping me, Hongjoong-ah.”

He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling beneath a sweat-damp shirt. His hair sticks to his temple in messy strands. Shadows live under his eyes. There’s a tiny blemish on his chin, pores catching the harsh rehearsal lights.

Hongjoong swallows.

He thinks Seonghwa has never looked more beautiful.

Seonghwa is handsome, he’s always been handsome. Hongjoong remembers how his heart stilled when he first laid eyes on him all those years ago.

But this Seonghwa… not idol, not model, the Seonghwa who’s tired, messy, unguarded. The boy from Jinju who laughs too loud at his stupid, completely unfunny jokes, who forgets to wipe the sweat off his forehead, who sneezes in a way completely unfit for an idol.

In this moment, watching him pant, hair tousled, chest heaving, Seonghwa is the most beautiful Hongjoong has ever seen him.

He wants to reach out so badly it physically hurts. Wants to tuck that strand of hair away from his forehead. Wants to pull him close and press his lips there just like he used to. He imagines it – the soft protest, the faint pout, the way Seonghwa would pretend to be annoyed before melting into him, head tilting ever so slightly so Hongjoong could kiss him again.

But imagination is all he has now. He’s lost the privilege to ask for anything else long ago. So he merely smiles, small and careful, locking the love in his heart away, careful not to let it spill over.

“No problem, Seonghwa.”

I got to move on

29 September 2024

“Seonghwa?” Hongjoong’s voice crackles jerkily through the phone. “Where are you now?”

Seonghwa stills, fingers tightening around his phone in a bid to anchor himself.

“What do you mean where am I?”

“Are you still in the hotel?”

“I mean,” Seonghwa balances his phone between his ear and shoulder, hooking his jacket over his arm with a hand that feels strangely numb. “Yes, but I’m just about to check out. Did you need something?”

“I’m in the lobby.”

“The lobby?”

“Yes.”

Seonghwa pauses.

“My hotel lobby?”

“Yes.”

“Wha– why?”

There’s a pause. He can hear the world moving: footsteps, distant chatter, the faint echo of a large open space.

“I just…” Hongjoong exhales softly – like he's choosing his words with care. “I wanted to congratulate you. On your first fashion week.”

The words don’t register properly. They dissolve somewhere between his ear and his lungs, floating uselessly in his brain without fully settling.

Seonghwa stutters. And before his mind can catch up to his body, he’s already moving – grabbing his key and sprinting for the lift lobby, pulse roaring in his ears like static. His hands shake as he jabs the elevator button. Hongjoong’s voice goes fuzzy the moment he steps inside.

“Hongjoong?” He says his name, panic crawling up his spine, settling under his skin. “Hongjoong-ah, your voice is cutting off. Can you hear me? Where are you?”

The elevator mirrors catch a flushed, wide-eyed stranger. He barely recognises himself. He presses his palm against his ribs, ridiculously trying to still his heart.

Why am I panicking?

When the doors slide open, Seonghwa’s heart slams against his ribs. The lobby is bright, full of strangers, full of noise. His eyes dart about frenzied and the only thing he can think of in that moment is –

Hongjoong Hongjoong Hongjoong
I want to see you I want to see you I want to see you I want to see you–

And then he does. Feels life rushing back into his veins.

Hongjoong stands near the concierge desk, black coat draped over his shoulders, one hand in his pocket, the other loosely holding his phone, feet tapping against the marble floor.

He looks smaller than usual. Or maybe Seonghwa just feels bigger in this moment – too full of things he can’t say, of regrets, of love dwelling in his chest that he hasn’t yet learned to kill properly.

Hongjoong stills suddenly – Seonghwa didn't call out to him, but Hongjoong knows. He looks up.

For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the two of them.

It’s ridiculous how quickly everything else dissolves. The noise dulls. The light softens. It’s just the two of them, suspended in the kind of silence that only exists between people who once shared everything.

Every muscle in Seonghwa’s body begs him to close the distance. To hug him close and press his face into the familiar curve of his shoulder. To pull him into an embrace that would say I’m sorry, I miss you, I never stopped loving you without speaking a single word.

But he doesn’t have that privilege anymore, does he?

So he breathes. He forces his lungs to work. And he drinks in the sight of Kim Hongjoong like a starving man memorising the shape of water.

He doesn’t know how long he’ll be allowed to look.

They awkwardly, clumsily close the distance, two people relearning how to exist in the same space.

“Hey.” Seonghwa finally manages, aiming for casual but landing somewhere painfully stiff. “You–”

“Hi.” Hongjoong’s hands are in his pockets, posture awkward, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Seonghwa thinks he looks adorable. Too adorable. Painfully so.

“I really like your outfit.” Seonghwa swallows.

“I like yours too.” Hongjoong’s gaze flickers over him – quick at first, then slower, lingering on the collar of his shirt, the line of his shoulders, the way the fabric drapes over his frame. Half a second too long.

“You’re beau—,” he coughs, the word breaking off. His jaw tightens. His cheeks flush faintly, a soft pink blooming beneath the lobby lights. “You look good.”

Seonghwa smiles, “So… why are you here?” He tries to keep it light, but his voice cracks at the end of his question.

“I just thought we could commemorate this.” Hongjoong shifts, one foot scuffing against the marble. “I only have thirty minutes before I need to get to the airport.”

“And you came to find me?” Seonghwa’s voice is quiet now, hope rising dangerously.

“Yeah… I mean,” Hongjoong coughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought it’d be good to take some pictures to post on Instagram. ATINY loves this kind of content.”

Seonghwa’s smile twitches. He feels the searing pain in his gut.

Content, right.

Of course.

His fingers tighten around the strap of his bag, nails pressing into leather.

Park Seonghwa, don’t be stupid.

For a moment, he had imagined something softer. A quiet coffee. A private congratulations. A hug, maybe, that wasn’t for the cameras. Something that didn’t need a lens or a caption.

But that’s greedy, isn’t it?

He hasn’t changed. Not one bit – still wanting more than Hongjoong should ever need to provide.

They go to the rooftop, sunlight washing everything in gold, and each shutter is a knife in Seonghwa’s chest. He angles Hongjoong toward the light, adjusts his jacket, tells him to tilt his chin up – habits he never really unlearned.

“This one’s great!” He says happily, showing his phone to Hongjoong.

Hongjoong reaches forward, “Seonghwa you’re really good–”

Their fingers touch.

It’s barely anything. For a split second, neither of them moves.

Then Hongjoong immediately jumps away and Seonghwa’s heart breaks a little more, but he keeps smiling anyway. He wonders when he got so good at pretending.

“Sorry, Seonghwa-yah, I really gotta go.” Hongjoong checks his watch, but his eyes seem to linger, tracing Seonghwa’s face like he’s trying to commit it to memory too.

“Oh, okay.” Seonghwa’s voice is steady but his fingers aren’t. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, willing them to steady, hoping that Hongjoong doesn’t see the way he’s crumbling in his presence.

I wish we had more time together. The thought rises instinctively. But he doesn’t have the right to ask.

So he smiles. “Have a safe flight Joongi–”

Seonghwa clamps his mouth shut, the word caught on his tongue like a confession he never got to finish.

Joongie-yah?

He swallows it down. He smiles again.

“Have a safe flight, Hongjoong-ah. I’ll see you back home.”

Hongjoong lingers for just a moment longer, gaze searching, lips parting, a question hanging off his tongue. Then Hongjoong’s phone buzzes, reality intruding. Hongjoong glances down, exhales quietly, then looks back up. He gives a small wave, the kind that feels too polite for what they used to be.

“See you, Seonghwa. Have a safe flight.”

He turns away, footsteps fading toward the elevator.

Seonghwa watches until the doors close. Only then does he let his smile fall.

.

A few weeks later, Seonghwa scrolls through the photos Hongjoong took of him in the quiet of his room, the hum of the fan a soft, distant heartbeat beneath his own.

They’re mostly polished, taken from precise angles. Model Park Seonghwa embodied perfectly.

But the last one is different.

This photo is not posed. Not for the camera. Seonghwa doesn’t even remember Hongjoong taking it. He’s laughing – really laughing, the kind of laugh that makes his chest ache. His eyes are soft, corners crinkling and squinting, the kind of laugh that he hasn’t allowed himself in months.

And suddenly he remembers.

Hongjoong had tripped on a tiny step, puffing his cheeks in the most indignant little pout, grumbling under his breath. It was so stupid. So endearing. Seonghwa remembers the way laughter had burst out of him before he could stop it, loud and real. Hongjoong had turned towards him, mock-offended, pout deepening.

And in that very moment, while Hongjoong was still mumbling about how it was the step’s fault for being unsafe, Seonghwa felt it settle inside him, eased into his bones:

I love him.

Not in past tense, not nostalgically. Present, current, stubborn.

How, despite everything – missed anniversaries, the nights they went to bed facing opposite walls, fights that ended in tears wiped away in separate rooms, the quiet erosion of them, walking away – how utterly, completely, disastrously in love he still was with him.

It doesn’t make sense, Seonghwa thinks sadly, love should shrink under neglect. He should feel anger, resentment, hatred towards him. It'd be easier if he did. But he feels nothing but the quiet ember glowing stubbornly beneath layers of ash, refusing to die no matter how his brain knows that he should smother it.

Sometimes he remembers on purpose, replaying the arguments in his head, dissecting every harsh word thrown carelessly at him, remembering every broken promise that ended in half-baked apologies, to tell himself that he made the right decision. He lines them up like evidence and tries to make something solid out of them – proof that they’re over, that this all should be over. He’s the one who walked away, after all.

But now, even those memories seem softer than they should.

So when Seonghwa uploads the photos on Instagram, he chooses the song deliberately.

We could just slow down time.

A quiet plea, whispered to no one but the universe.

Let me hold on to this love for him, please.
I won’t ask for anything more, I won’t ask for him back.
I won’t ask for apologies, nor another chance.
Just let me continue loving him quietly, privately. I don’t care if it hurts.

Because not loving him hurts more.

He hits post.

The screen refreshes. The likes begin to tick upward almost immediately. Comments flood in – fans, friends, staff. He doesn’t read them.

He stares at the last photo instead and hopes Hongjoong doesn’t see it. Because if he does, he’ll know. He’ll know that in that split second, Seonghwa wasn’t posing, wasn’t thinking about lighting or angles or how he looked. Not at all, because all Seonghwa was thinking about was how endearing Hongjoong looked, how despite everything, Hongjoong still made him so happy. And beneath it all, certain and unchanging –

How I’m still so in love with you.

Traces filling everything

12 October 2024

They’ve been briefed — ask questions about the group’s future, how roles might shift, what’s coming next. Keep it light, keep it fun.

The fortune teller dribbles on, voice low and mysterious, describing how Jongho, Yunho, and Mingi are secretly harbouring ambitions of taking over Hongjoong’s Captain position someday. Mingi immediately smacks Yunho’s shoulder in mock outrage, the sound loud enough to echo. Yunho yelps, dramatically clutching his arm as tears gather at the corners of his eyes. Jongho just shakes his head, lips twitching in quiet amusement.

“But on the other hand,” the fortune teller continues, leaning forward slightly, “there’s someone who’s very compatible with you.”

Seonghwa stills, he can feel the air tightening.

He looks up.

Every eye in the room shifts toward him.

Every eye, including Hongjoong’s.

The Captain’s eyes flit to him for a split second — sharp, fleeting — then it’s gone. Seonghwa wonders if the editors will cut it from the final clip.

The room seems to be holding its breath.

“That person is Seonghwa-sshi.”

The reaction is immediate. A chorus of oohs and ahhs ripples through the group.

“They’re actually the team’s mom and dad,” Yunho blurts out, clapping his hands.

“Our personalities really don’t match…” Seonghwa starts, voice trailing off. His heartbeat is louder in his head than his voice.

“Yes, Seonghwa-sshi,” the fortune teller continues, eyes flicking between the two of them. “Temperamentally, you’re very different from Hongjoong. But your relationship… it’s that of a married couple.”

Yunho claps again, overexcited. Mingi looks momentarily stunned, as though he wasn’t expecting the fortune teller to actually say it out loud. Wooyoung murmurs something about how right the fortune teller is, disbelief and resentment lining his voice.

“The fans were right.” Hongjoong comments casually and Seonghwa’s heart squeezes painfully. It’s the tone that gets him. It’s too detached, like it doesn’t mean anything at all.

Indeed, the fans were right from the very start. He remembers watching MATZ edits all those years ago. The slow-motion glances, the comment threads analysing every interaction.

But lately the comments have shifted. They look so awkward. Hongjoong can’t even look Seonghwa in the eye without flinching. Something happened. MATZ divorce era babes, divorce.

Seonghwa thinks to himself how crazy it is that they could be this spot on. He wonders how obvious he is, how transparent his face must be for the cracks he’s tried so desperately to hide to be dissected out in the open like this.

Later, when filming wraps, they drift to the nearby park. Hongjoong sits with him by the picnic table, bottle in hand. The others scatter – Yunho and Mingi chasing each other across the grass like oversized children (they are), Wooyoung narrating something dramatically, San listening exaggeratedly intently. Jongho is slouched by a nearby bench, barely half-listening while scrolling through his phone, showing his screen to Yeosang ever so often who lets out the occasional delayed chuckle.

For a moment, it’s just noise and sunlight and the warm quiet after a long day. Hongjoong sits beside him, silent.

“Today was fun,” Hongjoong says eventually, casually, taking a swig from his bottle. “Now I know who to watch out for.”

Seonghwa laughs. “These fortune tellers are really accurate huh?”

Hongjoong huffs softly under his breath, something between amusement and discomfort. “A little too accurate.”

Hongjoong doesn’t elaborate immediately. Instead he stares out across the stretch of grass in front of them, watching the others with the kind of focus that suggests he’s trying very hard not to think about something else entirely. His fingers tighten around the bottle again, the thin plastic bending slightly under the pressure. Seonghwa hears the faint crinkle of it even over the distant shouting. Hongjoong clears his throat.

“This is the second time we’ve heard the same thing.” His voice comes out soft, the statement sounding more like a question than fact.

His eyes don’t meet Seonghwa’s. They’re trained somewhere ahead instead, on the stretch of grass where Yunho is currently trying to tackle Mingi to the ground. On anything but Seonghwa. But Seonghwa watches him instead, sees the tension sitting quietly in his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the way his mouth presses into a thin line like he’s holding something back.

Seonghwa chooses not to respond. What can he say?

He merely swallows, forcing his lips into something that passes for a smile. Pretending that the statement – your relationship is that of a married couple – spoken like truth but exists as the past, as a memory, doesn’t twist uncomfortably in his ribs. “Could you pass me a bottle of water?”

Hongjoong nods faintly. The silence tapers into something a little weighted. It’s not exactly awkward, not anymore, just… familiar. Familiar in a way that used to be comfortable, but not really anymore. Then it’s broken, by the sound of a zipper opening and a soft thud on the wooden table.

“Here you go.”

Hongjoong slides a bottle over without looking at him.

Seonghwa doesn’t question it. He hums lightly in thanks, fingers brushing the cool plastic. He misses the fact that it came from Hongjoong’s bag, not the shared water box by their feet. Misses the way Hongjoong’s fingers linger half a second too long before letting go.

He does, however, notice how Hongjoong shifts beside him, restless. Like there’s something sitting on the tip of his tongue. For a moment, he holds his breath, waiting (hoping) for Hongjoong to speak again.

Then –

“Yah! Song Mingi, are those my sunglasses?”

He’s on his feet instantly. “Take them off right now!”

Seonghwa watches him dash across the grass, sun catching in his hair, voice loud and alive. Mingi shrieks and bolts. He looks terrified. Yunho laughs a bit too loudly at his misery and Wooyoung, ever helpful, yells something entirely unhelpful and immediately throws one of his shoes at Mingi, who narrowly dodges it while still running for his life. San stares at his boyfriend in absolute horror while Yeosang and Jongho hardly spare the chaos a glance before they’re back to scrolling through TikTok together.

Seonghwa chuckles, and lifts the bottle to his lips. The first thing he notices is that the water is chilled, not lukewarm like the other bottles from the box.

The second thing he notices is the bright, sharp tang of lemon.

He freezes.

It’s got a lemon wedge in it. Just the way he likes it.

Across the park, Hongjoong finally wrestles his sunglasses off Mingi’s face. He shoots one last glare at Mingi, the taller shrinking back, before walking back. When he approaches the bench, Seonghwa dares a glance at him. Hongjoong’s eyes drop to the bottle in Seonghwa’s hand before their eyes meet.

Seonghwa doesn’t speak. He just lifts the bottle again and takes another slow sip, eyes still on Hongjoong as the cool water runs down his throat.

They are broken up. And yet Hongjoong still packs lemon water.

And Seonghwa still drinks it.

He doesn’t know what to do with this information, it doesn’t fit anywhere, doesn’t align with the clean edges of a breakup – it jabs awkwardly at the careful distance and boundaries he’s been trying so hard to maintain.

All he knows is that the love he’s been keeping hidden, tucked away in the corner of his heart, suddenly feels too big for his ribs.

He prays it never spills over.

.

The editors don't cut out how Hongjoong's eyes danced to him. Seonghwa would know. He replayed the scene twenty times.

I can’t even dust off what’s piled up

21 January 2025

They sit huddled together on the cold stone bench, shoulders brushing, but neither of them moves away. The warmth passes quietly between them, shared out of long habit rather than intention, the kind of closeness that once belonged to them so naturally they never had to think about it.

“This was fun.” Seonghwa smiles when he says it, a small curve of his lips that despite everything, still feels like home. “Thanks for planning this.”

Hongjoong nods, fingers jittering nervously in the pockets of his coat. The winter air feels thinner than it should, sharp in his lungs.

Where had it all gone wrong?

The question surfaces again before he can stop it.

It has lived in him for months now, heavy and constant, a bruise he keeps pressing just to remind himself it’s there. Though sometimes he tries to push it away, tries to tell himself that things simply change, that relationships shift and people grow apart in ways that don’t always have neat explanations. But the question always returns eventually, settling back into the same space in his chest with stubborn persistence.

He remembers the day they ended like it happened yesterday. The memory never learned how to face, it sits in his chest, raw and bright. But before that memory can settle into place fully, another one rises to meet it – softer, warmer, threaded through with something fragile and hopeful that feels almost impossible to touch now.

He also remembers, with painful clarity, the day they began.

.

“Mingi called earlier.” Seonghwa says, cross-legged on the dance studio floor, scrolling through his phone. Sweat clings to his temples, hair plastered stubbornly to his forehead. His cheeks are flushed pink from hours of practice, eyes bright even through exhaustion. “He played badminton with his friends today.”

“He did?” Hongjoong replies easily, stretching his legs and feeling his muscles scream from overuse.

“He sounded really happy.”

“That’s good.”

He notices how Seonghwa smiles fondly at his phone as he types a reply to their boy. It’s a small, private small, the smile that tugs at Seonghwa’s lips when he thinks about someone he loves.

And Hongjoong thinks, suddenly and helplessly – God, I love that about you.

He loves how Seonghwa loves. How he remembers everything. Birthdays, favourite snacks, preferences that people mention only one, tiny details no one else catches. How he notices when a member’s voice sounds off and checks in without making it about him. How he celebrates other people’s small improvements like they’re victories.

How he notices him.

“I love that about you,” Hongjoong says absentmindedly.

“Hongjo–”

The words slip out before his brain catches up. Before he can stop himself. Before he can bury them like he’s buried them for the past two years, because the words would ruin him, ruin them–

“– I love you.”

He freezes.

There’s silence.

There’s nothing but silence.

Hongjoong keeps his eyes glued to the floor, jaw locked, heart slamming against his ribs.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck what have I done?

“Hongjoong-ah, what…” Seonghwa turns to him, voice trembling, eyes wide. Hongjoong resolutely keeps staring at the scuffed wood floor, hoping it might swallow him whole. “What did you say?”

“I’m sorry, Seonghwa,” he blurts, biting his lip until he tastes blood. His words tumble over each other, frantic, messy, honest. “I didn’t—I mean, I did. I–I love you. Yes, I’m in love with you, God I've been in love with you for so long, but I didn’t mean to tell you. Not now, not ever. I mean the timing is terrible with Mingi away and everything and I shouldn’t have said anything and I swear it won’t fuck anything up, I swear, this won’t change anything.” His eyes dart about, unseeing, unfocused. “Ignore me, please, pretend I never said anything Seonghwa. I just— I’m sorry for burdening you with this, I didn't mean to I–”

Seonghwa kisses him.

Warm. Soft. Slightly salty from sweat. Completely, entirely unfamiliar.

Hongjoong’s brain shuts off.

“Kim Hongjoong,” Seonghwa breathes against his mouth when he pulls away, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His eyes are bright, certain. “I love you too.”

Hongjoong’s breath stutters. Then he leans in again and the studio disappears. The world narrows to the press of Seonghwa’s lips, the heat of his hands, the way his voice sounds when he says those three words that Hongjoong had never, in his wildest, most self-indulgent dreams, ever dared to hear spill from his lips.

And so finally they begin.

Years unfold after that moment. Years of laughter and quiet nights, of inside jokes and shared playlists. Years of tears in unfamiliar hotel rooms, of misunderstandings, of fights that ended with shaking hands and softer apologies. Of learning each other in ways no one else ever could. Of knowing each other in ways no one else ever would.

They loved each other fiercely.

Seonghwa starts calling him Joongie-yah.

Hongjoong starts calling him my love.

In private though – only in private, but it’s enough. It’s enough to remind Hongjoong of the love they have, of the man only he’s allowed to call his.

.

So where had it all gone wrong?

Perhaps it was when Hongjoong started forgetting things. As with most things, it started small.

Forgetting to give good morning kisses before he’s running out the door.
Forgetting to be the first to wish Seonghwa on special occasions.
Forgetting to buy flowers even though Seonghwa had reminded him.
Forgetting to ask how Seonghwa’s day was before launching into his own exhaustion, expecting Seonghwa to pick up the pieces before bothering to ask if his hands and heart were already full.
Forgetting to come home on time.
Forgetting to notice when Seonghwa started going to bed earlier.
Forgetting to notice when Seonghwa stopped waiting up for him.

And then it got worse.

When he forgot to turn up for dinner one night after their fanmeet because Maddox needed to run through the updated lyrics with him. Seonghwa had waited for him in the restaurant for two hours before he left.
When he forgot their second Valentine's and didn't apologise, giving the excuse that rehearsals left him too tired for him to remember. But Seonghwa had attended those very same rehearsals and still came home with a carefully wrapped gift and a shy smile.
When Seonghwa started hearing about Hongjoong’s plans through managers and group chats instead of from Hongjoong himself, like he was just another staff member, not someone he shared a bed with.

When he started replying to messages with short okays and noteds.
When he stopped replying to Seonghwa’s I love you messages, thinking that there’ll be another one coming soon.
When he stopped coming to Seonghwa with his problems because Seonghwa was too naggy, because Seonghwa got irritating when he cared too loudly.

When Seonghwa stopped complaining because complaining didn’t change anything.
When Seonghwa stopped telling Hongjoong about his worries, his nightmares, his insecurities.

But Hongjoong was the leader. And leaders had responsibilities. Had things to do. Had excuses.

And Hongjoong recognises with bone-deep sadness, that Seonghwa wasn’t the one who left him. He had already left Seonghwa, piece by piece, long before the words were ever spoken.

.

The MATZ Per Favore vlog is not a coincidence. Lake Como is not a coincidence.

Of course Hongjoong knows what it means to Seonghwa. How many times has Seonghwa explained Star Wars lore to him, eyes bright, hands animated, voice tumbling over itself in excitement? Hongjoong never understood half of it – but it didn't matter. He would nod along, smiling softly, letting the sound of Seonghwa’s excitement fill the room. Because loving Seonghwa meant loving the way he loved things.

They were supposed to be in Switzerland with their six boys. But Hongjoong had begged. Went straight to his manager’s room, knocked twice, and stood there with his hands clasped together like a child asking for permission. Just one day. That was all he asked for.

To explore the city.
To create content.

That’s what he had pitched.

His manager had raised an eyebrow, eyes knowing, as thought every lie and flimsy justification Hongjoong was telling himself was written plainly across his face.

The truth was simple.

Hongjoong just wanted one more day. Just one more day where they could exist as a couple. Even if it was under public scrutiny. Even if there were cameras on both sides of them, lenses dissecting every glance and breath. Even if everything was just for show. It was fine.

All he wanted was one more day where they could be together again. Even if it was only in his head. Even if he didn’t deserve it.

“No problem, Seonghwa.” Hongjoong scuffs his shoes into the gravel, heart thudding like it’s trying to escape his chest. “It’s been awhile since we’ve–”

Been on a date.

The words die on Hongjoong’s tongue before they’re even formed. He stares at the ground, jaw tightening, and forces the next sentence out instead.

“We can still be friends right?”

Ah, there it is.

The Captain of ATEEZ is reduced to a single fragile, trembling question. The smallest, most pathetic plea he’s made in his life. It’s nothing near to what he wants, but Hongjoong knows he doesn’t deserve to ask for more. Not after everything he’s done, after everything he’s not done.

He looks up. Seonghwa’s smile is devastatingly gentle, warm enough to kill him.

“Of course Hongjoong-ah, forever and always.”

He swallows, tasting dust and failure and accepts, with painful clarity, that he’ll never go on a real date with Seonghwa again. Never. Not like before. Not ever.

He exhales, slow and shuddering. Everything he wants to say – I’m sorry, I love you, don’t give up on us, please come back to me, my love – stay lodged in his throat, unsaid, impossible.

He can only smile.

Because loving someone also means knowing when you don’t deserve to ask them to stay.

.

Weeks later, he sees Seonghwa’s post.

Bestie.

That night, he finally breaks. The realisation settles in with brutal finality – they are truly, over.

He sinks to the floor and cries into his hands, tries to swallow it down, bites the inside of his cheek, presses his fist against his mouth to muffle it. But it doesn’t work, the grief is too big. It spills out of him in ragged, broken sobs tearing through his chest and he wails into the night, choking on spit and the sharp shards of a shattered heart.

The door bursts open.

Jongho – dearest Jongho, the self-proclaimed enemy of physical touch, who dodges hugs like they’re contagious – crosses the room in three strides.

He pulls Hongjoong into his chest without hesitation, without asking. He wraps him in an embrace strong enough to shield him from the world.

“Shh… it’s okay hyung,” Jongho whispers against the top of his head, cradling him. “Everything will be okay. I promise, you’ll be okay.”

“I loved him. I love him so much, Jongho-yah,” Hongjoong sobs, tears soaking into Jongho’s shirt. He’s not their Captain, not a leader now, he’s just a boy with a heart so broken he feels like it can never be fully pieced together again. “I didn't love him enough…” Hongjoong’s chest heaves painfully.

“I wasn’t enough.”

Memories trapped in my room that’s stopped in time
I’m going to let them go now, I’m opening the window

3 April 2025

“Happy birthday, hyung!” Wooyoung calls over his shoulder, already being half-dragged down the corridor by San, who has an arm hooked firmly around his shoulders to keep him moving.

Hongjoong sees Wooyoung shoot him a single dirty, pointed glare before he disappears around the corridor.

Hongjoong lingers, the last to leave. Their voices drift farther and farther away into the night, bickering over which gelato place is still open, whether pistachio is superior to chocolate, whether Yunho is banned from choosing after last time. Hongjoong distantly thinks of how ridiculous this would sound to the general public – world-renowned group, chart-topping, award-winning — reduced to heated debate over gelato flavours like teenagers. But he loves them nonetheless.

He looks at Seonghwa. He’s in his favourite white knitted jumper. The same one Hongjoong used to steal when he stayed over. The sleeves fall a little too long on him, but they’re the perfect length for Seonghwa, soft fabric pooling at his slim wrists.

Seonghwa smiles at him and Hongjoong’s heart bleeds. Even now, after all these months of separation, Seonghwa is still home packaged in a person, but it’s a home that he’s no longer welcome to stay in, it’s merely a house he can only admire and protect from afar.

“No gelato for you?” Hongjoong says softly, nerves packaged flimsily in a joke.

“Not tonight.” Seonghwa shakes his head. “I’m more into strawberry cakes nowadays.”

Nowadays.

An update. A by-the-way.

A painful reminder lodging in Hongjoong’s chest that Seonghwa’s life continues moving forward in ways he’s no longer part of.

“Nowadays?” Hongjoong repeats, trying to keep his tone casual. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, hiding the tremble in them.

“Yeah, there’s this new place that opened in Seongsu. Been wanting to try but the queue is mad.”

Hongjoong hums. He stores the information for a future he may never be invited to, a mental bookmark for a chance that will likely never come. But after failing him – failing them, so many times, he refuses to allow himself to forget anything ever again.

Even if all Seonghwa ever allows him again is friendship. He will take it greedily, gratefully.

“So um…” Seonghwa starts, rocking on his heels. A nervous habit. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yes.” The answer comes a bit too quickly. “I mean, it’s studio recording so of course I’ll be there. I mean I can’t skip right? And the comeback is soon and we need to practise but I’m nervous about the recordings because we have so many scenes and it’s not really like anything we’ve done before so–”

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa huffs out a small laugh. It sounds like church bells on Sunday.

“Relax, okay?” Seonghwa says gently. “I know you won’t skip.”

Hongjoong hesitates. His eyes flicker to the floor, then to Seonghwa, then back to the floor. He reaches behind it. Seonghwa’s hand flies to his lips, surprise materialising in a sharp inhale.

“Hongjoong, this is–”

It’s marigolds, as usual. But Hongjoong had gone against the norm, rebelled. He’d gone to his usual florist and slid a sketch across the counter, voice quiet and uncertain, eyes shifting nervously:

Can we add pink camellias, daffodils, forget-me-nots, and purple hyacinths as well?

The florist had stared at the paper, then at him, sad understanding dawning slowly, painfully: I’m sure they’ll love it.

Seonghwa holds the bouquet to his chest, touching the petals gently. “They’re different this year.”

Hongjoong swallows. “I… I just thought about changing things up. Saw this arrangement online and thought it was really pretty.”

“It is,” Seonghwa’s eyes light up, sparking fireworks in Hongjoong’s chest. “Thank you, Hongjoong-ah.”

Hongjoong wants – God he wants to reach out, to take his hand, press his lips against familiar bone and flesh. To show him how much he still wants this, wants them.

To say I still love you.

But his hands stay gelled to his sides, heavy and awkward and useless.

“Goodnight, Seonghwa. Happy birthday.”

I love you.

The words don’t come out. The words stay lodged in his chest. They will not see daylight, not now, not ever. He will bury them in the depths of his soul. But he knows – they will bloom anyway, thorns curling and twisting in his body, settling painfully under his skin for as long as he has breath in him.

He prays Seonghwa doesn’t have any interest in learning the meaning of flowers.

I got to move on

26 April 2025

For the first time in their careers, they’re all getting solo songs.

The announcement comes after Wooyoung’s successful Sagittarius solo, and the studio feels electric. There’s a kind of excitement and novelty in the air that they haven’t tasted in years and each member scrambles to brainstorm. No fixed concepts to work around, no pre-written lyrics to follow, no curated personas. Just the eight men and one month to decide how to pen themselves onto paper when no one else is giving directions and setting parameters.

Seonghwa hadn’t realised how desperately he needed that creative freedom until it was handed to him. He spent hours hunched over his notebook, his table lamp casting a small pool of gold over uncharacteristically messy handwriting and cancelled out lines, crafting lyrics that spoke of a side of himself that lurks in the shadows. He knows the K-pop industry isn’t ready for black and white, an outright confession, so he writes in metaphor and suggestion, allowing femininity to bleed into his words.

When he presented his first draft to the producers, there was a pause, a few raised eyebrows. Then –

“Are you sure?” one of them asked, tone polite, but tighter than what Seonghwa would like. “I don’t know if this is something that the public would… accept.”

Seonghwa felt the heat climb up his neck, the word cutting deep. Beyond the critique, it feels like an outright rejection to him, to his identity. Like someone tilting his chin away from the mirror and telling him he’s looked long enough, when he’s spent years learning to look at himself and not flinch. The flames burned in his chest, sharp words building on his tongue –

Hongjoong spoke before he could.

“I think the lyrics are perfect.”

He said it simply, like it’s a fact, like it’s obvious. The room goes quiet. And Seonghwa, unfortunately, fell a little more in love.

Hongjoong took it upon himself to work with each member on their tracks. Long nights hopping between rooms and studios, headphones perpetually around his neck, listening and tweaking, offering guidance but never imposing.

Watching him like this reminds Seonghwa of the beginning.

Of the fabled boy who used to lock himself in the studio for twelve hours straight, fueled by instant coffee and blind ambition. Of the way Seonghwa had first admired him from a distance — the pioneer trainee who breathed music like oxygen.

It was respect that had come first.

Then, as they trained together, lived together, went to hell and back together, the respect bloomed into fascination.

And then somewhere along the way, when they would huddle together on Seonghwa’s (Hongjoong’s) bottom bunk, spilling secret insecurities to each other that no one else knew about, sharing quiet stories of their lives before they were thrust into the spotlight, that fascination softened into something sweeter and far more dangerous, a quiet secret he had kept folded neatly in the corner of his heart that he had no plans of sharing.

Until that night in the practice room when Hongjoong let slip those three words into the stale air.

Now years later, they sit in the studio. Years of shared tears and heartbreak hanging between them, the closeness you would only feel with someone you’ve once had the privilege of knowing, but now can only watch from afar, pinching at his skin.

The final take of Skin plays through the monitors. His voice fills the room, wrapping around each lyric like silk, proof of his nights of hard work solidifying in notes echoing off the walls. When it ends, there’s a small silence before Hongjoong claps slowly, a proud smile spreading on his face.

Seonghwa’s heart does something stupid.

Hongjoong taps his pen lightly against his notebook. “I think it’s a wrap,” he says, satisfied. “You really killed it today. We can—”

“Thank you Hongjoong-ah.”

Hongjoong looks up, slightly startled. The beanie on his head makes him look softer than a leader should.

“For?”

Seonghwa shrugs, suddenly shy. “For helping me bring this to life.”

Their eyes hold for a second too long before Hongjoong turns his head, the way he stares at the volume knob makes it seem far more interesting than it is.

“This brings back memories.” Hongjoong muses under his breath, “Feels like when we were working on MATZ.”

Seonghwa’s ears burn. He remembers that project a little too vividly – the two of them bent over lyric sheets, microphones in hand as Hongjoong guided him through his parts. The way the tension had built, slow and heavy, until it snapped, Hongjoong’s lips crashing against his. The night ended with him moaning Hongjoong’s name into the pillow in the dark of the hotel room as the younger showed him exactly how he felt about Seonghwa rapping.

He clears his throat.

“Wanna get some supper on our way back?” Seonghwa asks casually, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Hongjoong’s foot drags slightly against the floor. His eyes flick toward the recording booth, then down to the console.

“I…” he swallows, “I’ll stay a bit longer. Wanna wrap up some things real quick. Get home safe, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa squints his eyes at his shifty tone, but doesn’t press. He knows Hongjoong better than he knows himself, knows when to stop asking. “Don’t stay too late,” he says instead, softer, and closes the door behind him.

.

In his room, he sits on his bed, one earcup of his headphones pressed loosely against his ear while the other dangles behind it. He scrolls through the group’s shared drive.

PSH_Skin_1003_Final.mp3

Pride washes over him. He connects his phone to his bluetooth speaker and plays, his voice filling the room again. He hums along, mouthing absentmindedly at the lyrics when he hears it. It’s terribly faint, almost buried, but he knows that voice too well.

I can hear your breath, faintly and trembling
I'm loving what I hear
The signs I feel from our brushing fingertips;
Only we know the rules

The air leaves his lungs and his eyes snap to the screen, scrambling for the file details.

Created: 1 hour ago.
Uploaded by Kim Hongjoong

Slowly, carefully, he drags the playback bar back, volume higher now, training his ears to listen with desperate focus. There, layered softly, not obvious nor loud enough for casual listeners, just enough for someone searching.

Hongjoong’s voice.

Added to his track, softly, not officially, just enough to exist beside him.

Seonghwa lets out a shaky laugh, disbelief buzzing through his veins.

His skin crawls and his heart flips stupidly in his chest. He feels himself falling deeper.

.

The next morning, when the final tracklist is circulated for approval, Seonghwa approves the version without hesitation.

He misses the way Hongjoong looks at him, eyes wide and shiny, with a devastatingly tight smile on his lips.

It's time to move on

6 May 2025

Spend a summer or a lifetime with me

Hongjoong’s breath catches in his throat, loud enough to be heard over the dull droning of car wheels over gravel. His hand tightens around his phone, aluminium painfully pressing ridges into his skin, knuckles whitening.

His hands fumble furiously over the screen, googling the lyrics to a song he’s never heard, foreign words sloshing and spilling into his mind. His hands freeze mid-scroll, heart pounding, the meaning stabbing through him and lodging there like barbed wire. It’s a confession packaged neatly in poetry – and it’s not for him.

Who the fuck is Seonghwa talking about?

The thought tears through him with savage force. It claws at the inside of his chest, rips through every fragile wall he’s built around himself over the past year, devouring every attempt he’s made to move forward.

The thought of someone else seeing Seonghwa the way he has, hear the laugh that was meant only for him, hold the hands that should fit only in his – Hongjoong’s ribs feel hollow. His heart has been ripped out and the pain settles, echoing in the empty chambers of his chest. His eyes burn with a familiar sting and his throat constricts painfully. He wants to scream, to cry, to demand answers from the universe, from Seonghwa, from anyone who might explain how the world could continue spinning if Seonghwa loved someone else –

– But he stops.

He doesn’t have the right to, does he?

He is a friend. Nothing but a friend.

He exhales in a shaky, trembling breath.

Next to him, Yunho notices.

“Hyung?” He leans forward. Tentative. “Everything okay?”

Hongjoong doesn’t answer, his eyes remain fixed on his screen, thought the words no longer make sense. Yunho’s eyes drop to his phone and he hears the faintest inhale.

“Yunho, is Seonghwa…” Seeing someone else? In love with someone else? Each possibility feels like gravel in his throat, scraping and painful.

Yunho presses his lips together and holds his breath for a moment. He knows exactly what Hongjoong is asking. He always does – Yunho is smart that way. Hongjoong thinks for a brief moment that he’s carefully weighing what to reveal and what (who) to protect. Then he exhales.

Hongjoong realises that he’s been holding his breath too.

“No, hyung,” Yunho says gently. Hongjoong’s heart is in his palm and kind, gracious Yunho grants him mercy, “He’s not.”

The relief is violent. Hongjoong clutches his chest, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Heartbeat rushing back to life like water over the valley after a drought. “Oh, Yunho-yah…”

“Hyung,” Yunho breathes. “You still love him.” It’s not a question, nor a theory, Yunho says it like it’s the truth, spoken from the lips of someone else who has been watching and observing for far too long.

It is.

“Yunho, I–”

I’m not? I’m not still in love with him? I’m not still bleeding and dying and yearning for him every moment of the day?

Protests, denial rises to his tongue instinctively but he swallows it, the lie lodges bitter and painful at the back of his throat, the truth settling further behind where it’s safer, unseen and unspoken.

Yunho searches Hongjoong’s face with the patience of someone who already knows the answer. “Don’t you?”

“... it doesn’t matter anymore.” Hongjoong mutters eventually, voice hoarse, phone still clutched painfully in shaking hands. “We’re over.”

Yunho doesn’t look away. His eyes are sharp but hesitant, like he knows more than he lets on, gaze holding judgement and empathy in equal measure.

Hongjoong’s gaze falls to his hands on his lap, feeling the gentle, constant pressure of metal wrapped around his finger. He twists it slowly, watching the late afternoon sun catch in polished silver, mocking him. A reminder of what he had, what he lost.

“He doesn’t even wear his team ring anymore,” he murmurs.

Yunho lets out a slow breath and for a moment it looks like he’s about to say something – his shoulders tensing as the words form on his tongue – something that might fracture whatever fragile balance Hongjoong is clinging on to. Instead, abruptly, he shoots up in his seat and rummages through his bag. The rustle of fabric and zippers pulling cut through the quiet.

“Here.”

He holds out a small container after a moment.

“Seonghwa-hyung made yogurt last night.” He explains a bit too casually, the sides of his lips curling up. “He told me to pass it to you.”

“Oh…” Hongjoong takes the container. It’s cold, heavy, like his heart pressing against his ribs. “Was he… trying out a new recipe?”

“You’re–” Yunho groans and leans back into his seat, eyes rolling on the ceiling. “Sometimes, I think you can be a bit stupid.”

Hongjoong doesn’t ask what he means. He doesn’t deserve to know.

Those shining memories that seemed like thеy would last forever
I’ll bury them in time and let them flow away

20 June 2025

“San-ah, did you see my team ring?” Seonghwa’s voice cracks on the last word, panic flooding his veins like ice. He’s already on his knees beside his cupboard, rummaging frantically past neatly folded clothes and labelled trinket boxes.

“Team ring?” San furrows his eyebrows from the doorway.

“Yes, I can’t find it.” Seonghwa doesn’t look up, voice breathless with urgency. He bites down on his thumb, anxious sweat on his tongue. “I forgot where I put it.”

San studies him before he disappears into his room without a word, before emerging mere moments later, a familiar velvet box in hand.

“Here you go.”

The relief that rushes through Seonghwa is so suddenly that it almost hurts.

“Oh, Sannie,” his voice softens immediately, relief washing over him in warm waves. He stands up and presses a quick kiss to his cheek. “Thank you baby. How did you know where it was?”

San looks up, eyes soft. “I kept it for you after… that night.”

That night – the memory returns instantly.

He remembers the way his fingers trembled as he tugged the ring off and let it drop carelessly onto the table, their love reduced to nothing metal on wood.

San’s voice pulls him back.

“Hyung… why do you want your team ring?” San’s eyes narrow slightly. His voice is careful, tentative but probing.

Seonghwa swallows, feels his Adam’s Apple bobbing.

The team ring is a cover. It was only ever created because Seonghwa had, just once, made a joke, a passing remark, that it’d be nice to have couple rings. Hongjoong hadn’t said anything in response at the time. But he had spent the next month, pencil on paper, shoving the notebook behind his back every time Seonghwa came near. And on Christmas, he presented the ring to him, except there hadn’t just been one, there had been eight.

The rings were all identical, an oath that they would all walk down the same path together, bound to one another by shared laughter, grief, failures, and success.

But there were two rings that were just ever so slightly different. No one else but the two of them knew of the secret carved into white gold, love welded into metal:

친구

So why indeed? Because he regrets everything? Because he would still burn himself to keep Hongjoong warm? Because he would give up everything just for another chance to make him smile?

Because, despite everything, after everything, he’s still so desperately, wholeheartedly, foolishly in love with him?

Seonghwa distantly recognises how pathetic he is.

He coughs. “Just… just felt like it.”

San eyes scanning Seonghwa’s face, sharp and soft at once. “Hongjoong-hyung has never taken his off.”

“Of course, Sannie-yah.” Seonghwa smiles, small and bitter, corners of his lips tugged tight. “How would ATINY react if our captain didn’t wear his?” His fingers tremble slightly as he opens the box, revealing the familiar ring nestled inside, the faint glint of metal catching the light.

San looks at him, gaze heavy with knowledge Seonghwa doesn't yet possess.

“Hongjoong-hyung has never taken his off.”

His voice is gentle, steady. It carries no accusation, no judgement, only the truth.

.

“I brought my members with me,” Seonghwa muses, self-conscious, fidgeting with the ring on his finger. He smiles sheepishly at the cameras, head ducking shyly as the crowd breaks into soft awws and laughter.

“Ah, your members always come first, don’t they?” A voice rises above the chaos, teasing.

Seonghwa’s smile shifts – softer, steadier. He lifts his head and turns back toward the crowd.

“No,” he says, raising his hand, the ring catching the light. “Kim Hongjoong comes first, of course.”

His voice is gentle, steady. It’s carries no performance, no pretence, only the truth.

.

Though he makes sure to never wear the ring around Hongjoong. He’s not ready for that conversation, and he doesn’t think he ever will be.

I know, the thread I kept holding onto
Was something I could never pull back anyway

5 August 2025

“It was amazing meeting you today, Ian-sshi.” Seonghwa’s voice comes out a little breathless, awe still clinging to it. His pulse hasn’t quite slowed. “I’m really… such a huge fan.”

“Oh, please, Seonghwa-sshi,” Ian laughs, the sound rich and contagious, bouncing off the corridor walls. “I’m the fan. I love your music, your style.” He grins. “I can’t wait to see you on the runway again.”

Seonghwa feels heat rising to his cheeks. He bows a little lower, trying to hide it, and Ian chuckles, loud and hearty, slinging an arm over his shoulders.

The weight is solid, warm.

Entirely wrong.

Seonghwa’s chest tightens immediately, sharp and instinctive, like thorns pressing inward beneath his ribs.

“You’re adorable,” Ian murmurs, playful, fingers hooking loosely around Seonghwa’s neck as he pulls him a fraction closer. “Are you sure you don’t have someone special?”

“S-Sorry?” Seonghwa yelps, startled. He swallows hard, heart hammering. The team ring presses harshly against his skin, burning into flesh.

“I… I don’t–”

Then, from the corner of his eye, movement.

A door opens somewhere down the corridor, the quiet click barely noticeable over the distant bustle of staff and equipment being moved around backstage. But the moment Seonghwa glances over, the rest of the hallway seems to fall away. The corridor is enveloped, shrouded with an aura so dark, so crushing, looming so large that Seonghwa forgets how to breathe.

Hongjoong.

He stands at the far end of the corridor, perfectly still, dark eyes locked onto Seonghwa like a blade. Seonghwa’s breath catches in his chest before he even realises it. For a second he forgets about Ian entirely – about the warmth of the arm around his shoulders, the warmth in his laughter. All he can see is Hongjoong standing there, eyes dark and unreadable, completely unfamiliar.

Then Hongjoong starts walking toward them. Each step slow, controlled, each click of his heels against the polished floor echoing faintly.

Seonghwa freezes, chest tightening. Every nerve screaming for him to run.

Beside him, Ian shifts slightly, following Seonghwa’s line of sight. The smile never quite leaves his face, though something curious flickers briefly in his eyes, sharp and observant. He notices nothing – or perhaps everything, but chooses discretion and ignorance.

“Ah,” Ian says easily once Hongjoong reaches them, as though nothing about the moment is strange at all. He slips his arm off Seonghwa’s shoulders and steps forward, extending his hand with the same relaxed confidence he’s carried all evening. “You must be Hongjoong-sshi. A pleasure. I’m DPR Ian – just Ian, please.”

“Likewise.”

Hongjoong doesn’t take the hand. He doesn’t even look at it.

His eyes remain fixed on Seonghwa and Seonghwa alone, unwavering, eyes speaking volumes and screaming words that he never could.

Seonghwa’s skin bites painfully, like ants nipping into skin. His body shrinks into itself. The sharpness in his gaze is not the same as the one Hongjoong sometimes shows when he’s irritated, nor the quick flash of temper Seonghwa knows how to read and soothe. This is something colder. Quieter.

Hongjoong says nothing else. After a beat that stretches just a little too long, he gives a curt bow, turns on his heels, and leaves. The sharp click of his heels – clean, final – on the polished floor echoing down the empty hallway long after he’s gone.

Only then does Seonghwa realise how tightly his chest has been clenched. Seonghwa’s heart rattles hollowly in his chest. They are no more. That truth settles heavily in his mind like a rehearsed line he’s repeated too many times. Hongjoong is his friend, and he, his. That’s all they are – that’s all they agreed to be.

So why does shame flood him so violently?

It crawls up his spine, thick and sticky, guilt blooming hot and crimson across his face, coiling around his throat until it’s hard to swallow, hard to breathe.

“Everything good?”

Ian’s voice breaks through the spiral of his thoughts. When Seonghwa looks up, Ian is studying him with a small, curious tilt of his head, eyes searching, knowing.

“Yes, of course.” Seonghwa forces a smile, tugging at his sleeves to hide the tremor in his hands.

“I thought you said you didn't have anyone special?” Ian’s tone is teasing, light. His eyes are not. He knows.

Seonghwa stiffens, shoulders rigid. “What?” His voice cracks.

Ian steps a little closer, voice dropping into a deliberate whisper, like a secret only meant for Seonghwa's ears. “He loves you, doesn’t he?”

“No I–”

“Only a fool wouldn’t be able to see that.” Ian says calming, pulling back and allowing the weight of his words to settle heavily in Seonghwa’s chest.

Seonghwa’s stomach knots. “He doesn’t love me,” he mutters, barely audible, as though speaking it aloud makes him not believe it. “Not anymore, at least.”

Ian’s eyes glint, almost amused.

“I didn't take you for a fool, Seonghwa-sshi.”

I've been searching for an empty box, that's what I need
The memories you left in the drawer of my room

16 August 2025

Their tour ends. And as they always do, the eight of them are huddled in a room – tonight it's San and Wooyoung’s – over cup noodles, alcohol, and way too much fried chicken. There are two more unopened boxes that no one has touched because they decided that having two cups of noodles each was a rational decision to make.

But somehow, Mingi still deems it necessary to fight with Jongho over the last nugget. There’re still five chicken drumsticks left! Shut up! Yeosang yells, then he’s back scrolling through concept pictures of his Legacy music video with Yunho, the taller nodding intently. Wooyoung has passed out, body curled and head resting on his boyfriend’s lap. San runs a careful hand through his hair, lips turned in quiet amusement.

In times like this, Hongjoong feels the gratitude in his bones. He's reminded of how lucky he is to have found a family in this unforgiving industry when all he started out with was loneliness, the quiet grind, and the nagging fear of failing. His eyes drift to Seonghwa who’s leaning back against the bed. The second-last nugget in hand, he chews thoughtfully on the little piece of victory he’d fought for as he scrolls through his phone, shoulders eased in the comfort of being offstage.

“Seonghwa.” Hongjoong’s voice comes out softer than he intends, tinged with an awkwardness he can’t quite smooth over.

“Hmm?” Seonghwa’s phone is immediately forgotten. He turns his full attention to Hongjoong and underneath his gaze – open, warm –, Hongjoong’s heart stutters embarrassingly.

He almost forgets to continue speaking.

“Do you… want to stay in LA a little longer?” he asks. “With me.”

Seonghwa blinks. Then his eyes widen slightly, the nugget halfway to his mouth forgotten.

“Hongjoong, what do you mean–”

The absurdity of it hits him all at once.

They are no more. They are friends. That was the arrangement, the agreement.

Yet Hongjoong had spent a little too much money to rent out a villa just because Seonghwa had mentioned in passing, offhandedly and thoughtlessly, over dinner three days ago that he missed swimming. Hongjoong’s manager had raised an eyebrow and Hongjoong laughed it off, said that it was to rewind and relax after a stressful tour leg.

Pretending it wasn’t desperation poorly disguised as generosity.

He recognises that he’s pathetic. Still pathetically in love with someone who will never give him another chance.

But if he can continue to provide for him, care for him, love him in his own quiet, selfish way, then heaven forbid that he indulge himself, just a little, every once in a while.

“I booked out a place,” he adds quickly, voice hushed. Afraid the other boys would hear. “We could just… chill, y’know? It’s been a tough few weeks.”

“Oh.” Something soft blooms across Seonghwa’s face and his smile turns shy. “Yeah. That sounds fun.”

They announcement they make the next morning that they’ll be flying home a few days later is met with exactly the reactions Hongjoong expects. Raised eyebrows, quirked lips, though Wooyoung gives him an openly judgemental, dark glare. But no one protests, no one asks questions they already know the answer to.

The days that follow are slow in the best possible way.

Skin grows warmer, darker as they drift lazily through a pool that glimmers like molten crystal beneath the afternoon sun. They attempt a barbecue one evening that goes disastrously wrong – one too many steaks sacrificed to the flames before Seonghwa sighs, marches over, and yanks the tongs from Hongjoong’s hands.

“Sit down,” he scolds lightly. “And stop destroying our dinner.”

Hongjoong obeys wordlessly.

Later, they lie on the grass, the air thick with the scent of chlorine and charred meat.

“This was fun.” Seonghwa giggles, eyes twinkling under the star-lit sky.

Hongjoong turns to look at him, eyes tracing the sharp line of his nose, the soft curve of his jaw, the way his hair frames his face, the faint freckles on his face.

They look like stars.

Stars that are far more beautiful than the ones above his head.

The sky stretches endlessly overhead, scattered with constellations that shine brighter than anything Hongjoong remembers seeing back in Seoul. The sight makes something in his chest tighten. How constant, how steady these stars are, that no matter where in the world he goes to, there will always be stars above him.

He drinks Seonghwa in quietly and makes a quiet plea, whispered to no one but the universe.

Let me be your star. Let me be your light in the darkness. Let me stay with you, watch over you. I’ll always be here.
It’s fine even if you never notice me. But if one day you do, know that nothing will change.

You’ll never be alone again.

“Yeah.” Hongjoong says quietly and he clenches his jaw shut before he can say anything else. Too many words hover dangerously close to the surface tonight – words he knows he isn’t allowed to say. His hand twitches and moves just an inch closer, their fingers now barely a breath apart.

He misses the way Seonghwa turns to look at him, gaze lingering, burning.

They sleep under the stars that night, wrapped in the warm summer air, fingers a breath apart. Close enough to feet heat, but not close enough to touch.

Still, he dreams of a warm embrace, familiar hands, familiar lips.

It’s the best sleep he’s had in months.

It makes it feel like a rainy day
I think it’s time to let them go

1 September 2025

Summer is ending. The second summer without Hongjoong lying next to him, complaining of the heat as he kicks the blanket to the floor, but rolls over and traps Seonghwa in his own body heat until Seonghwa inevitably complains and Hongjoong inevitably ignores him.

Seonghwa sits alone in an empty meeting room, pours through his book, the only noise accompanying him is his breathing, the air condition humming in the background, and the muffled city noise filtering up from far below.

Oh, and the sound of the door creaking open.

“Seonghwa?”

Seonghwa looks up from the page. “Oh, Hongjoong-ah.”

Eighteen months.

That’s how long it’s been since they’ve ended things. The pain has dulled into something manageable. It’s still there, it always will be, but he’s learned to live with it – he’s accepted it as part of him now – a scar instead of an open wound. At least now he can look at him without acid clawing up his throat, can talk to him without sputtering over his words because other secrets are crowding against his tongue, desperate to see light.

“You haven’t left?”

“No, I was…” Hongjoong shuffles his feet, hands tucked carefully behind his back, “I was looking for you, actually.”

Seonghwa pauses. “For me?”

“Yeah.” Hongjoong pushes himself off the door and closes it gently behind him. The shared silence settles around them, two sets of breathing instead of one. “Just thought we could… just spend some time together.”

Seonghwa sits up, book immediately forgotten. He slides it away and pulls out the chair next to him, palm open in invitation. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it?”

Hongjoong approaches slowly, movements hesitant, as if still negotiating invisible boundaries. He sits down and when his hands emerge from behind his back, he’s holding a familiar white box, the corners slightly dented from being carried around for too long.

“Some strawberry cake for you?”

Seonghwa’s eyes widen. “How did you get this?”

It’s from that shop in Seongsu. The one Seonghwa had mentioned all those months ago, the one with a queue that’s now three hours long instead of two.

Hongjoong shrugs, sliding the box forward with studied, practised nonchalance. “Manager-nim bought some for his daughter’s birthday yesterday but there were some leftovers. So he told me to share it with the team.”

“Oooooh I’ve been wanting to try this for so long,” Seonghwa giggles, light laughter fills the room, fingers eagerly tugging at the strings.

“I know.”

Seonghwa chokes on nothing. He can feel Hongjoong’s eyes on him, steady, unmoving.

But he doesn’t return the gaze, eyes locked on the cake instead. He notices how one strawberry has toppled over, smearing cream on the side of the box, how there’s condensation by the corners, how the cake slots perfectly in the box, cream looking too fresh for it to be from yesterday –

And then, he notices the receipt. Still in the bag but loosely, carelessly crumpled, as though someone forgot to throw it out. It’s timestamped an hour ago, familiar last four digits of a credit card he was allowed to use a little too often printed unmistakably in stark black on white.

His fingers still for a moment, hovering over the cake. Then he takes a small bite, the sweetness filling his body having very little to do with the dessert.

And I'll never miss you
I'll never miss you

6 May 2025

[14:24] Joongie-yah:
Thank you for the yoghurt, Seonghwa
It’s really good.

[14:35] Seonghwa (you):
No problem
Did you like it?

[14:35] Joongie-yah:
I loved it
Make more for me next time?

21 May 2025

[06:29] Seonghwa (you):
Are you running today?

[06:31] Joongie-yah:
Good morning, Seonghwa-yah :)
Yes
Just a short one before practice later
Why?

[06:35] Seonghwa (you):
Just asking
Stretch first, and take it easy
Don’t overexert your ankle
It was hurting last week, wasn’t it?

[06:35] Joongie-yah:
You remembered?

[07:03] Seonghwa (you):
Kinda hard to forget

[07:05] Joongie-yah:
:)
Thank you for worrying about me

[07:32] Seonghwa (you):
Someone has to

[07:35] Joongie-yah:
I like that it’s you

25 June 2025

[22:12] Joongie-yah:
Congrats again on your walk for Songzio!!

[22:19] Seonghwa (you):
Thank you
I was so nervous
So glad I didn't fall on my face

[22:19] Joongie-yah:
You’d never
You’re amazing

[22:30] Joongie-yah:
You looked so beautiful

[22:36] Seonghwa (you):
Don’t say that

[22:36] Joongie-yah:
It’s true
I’m so proud of you :)

[22:38] Seonghwa (you):
Thank you, Hongjoong-ah

9 July 2025

[22:12] Seonghwa (you):
Are you still at the studio?

[22:12] Joongie-yah:
Yes
Why?

[22:31] Seonghwa (you):
Wooyoung called you like 10 times but you didn't pick up
He’s gonna kill you
He left his earpiece by the coat rack

[22:31] Joongie-yah:
Ah ok
Saw it, I’ll bring it back for him later

[22:54] Joongie-yah:
I didn't pick up his calls and he thought to ask you to message me?

[22:57] Seonghwa (you):
Yes

[22:57] Joongie-yah:
:)

19 August 2025

[11:39] Joongie-yah:
[image attachment]
[image attachment]
[image attachment]
[image attachment]
[image attachment]
[image attachment]
[image attachment]

[11:39] Joongie-yah:
Thank you for joining me :)
You look very nice in the photos.

[11:50] Seonghwa (you):
You take nice photos
Thank you for inviting me to stay with you
It was fun

[11:50] Joongie-yah:
It’s my pleasure :)

[11:55] Seonghwa (you):
How much was it?

[11:55] Joongie-yah:
Not too much…

[11:59] Seonghwa (you):
Liar.
Stop spending so much.

[12:54] Joongie-yah:
I like spending money on you (edited)

[13:50] Seonghwa (you):
You’re banned from the bbq pit next time

[13:50] Joongie-yah:
Whatever you say :)
As long as there's a next time

28 August 2025

[14:12] Joongie-yah:
Did you lose your Ddeongbyeoli keychain?

[14:19] Seonghwa (you):
Omg yes
How do you know
I’ve been looking everywhere for him

[14:19] Joongie-yah:
[image attachment]

[14:31] Seonghwa (you):
Why is he on your bag
Why is Jjoongrami terrorising him???

[14:31] Joongie-yah:
They’re kissing

[14:46] Seonghwa (you):
Same thing
Give him back

[14:46] Joongie-yah:
Fine fine

[14:49] Joongie-yah:
[image attachment]

[14:56] Seonghwa (you):
STOP MAKING THEM MAKE OUT

1 September 2025

[22:31] Joongie-yah:
Are you home?

[22:39] Seonghwa (you):
Yes
Just reached home
Thank you for the cake
It was delicious

[22:39] Joongie-yah:
Okay :)
You’re welcome, Seonghwa-yah

[22:53] Joongie-yah:
Just wanted to say goodnight

[22:59] Seonghwa (you):
Liar
I know you aren’t sleeping anytime soon

[23:00] Joongie-yah:
Hahaha, you know me too well
I will, soon
Just finishing up some stage edits for Saitama

[23:01] Seonghwa (you):
Don’t sleep too late
You said that you wanted to go for a run tomorrow right?
Remember to pack your running shorts
And your running shoes
Not the white ones, the Mizuno ones. The white ones are falling apart
And take your vitamins only after you eat something

[23:03] Joongie-yah:
Yes yes
Okay
[image attachment]
All packed :)

[23:03] Seonghwa (you):
Okay good

[23:32] Joongie-yah:
Thank you, Seonghwa-yah

[23:01] Seonghwa (you):
Don’t sleep too late

[23:32] Joongie-yah:
I won’t, I promise

[23:46] Joongie-yah:
[image attachment]
See? Already in bed

[23:50] Seonghwa (you):
…
Your bed is a mess
Take off your glasses before you sleep

[23:50] Joongie-yah:
[image attachment]
Done

[23:56] Seonghwa (you):
Okay good
Goodnight

[23:56] Joongie-yah:
Goodnight, Seonghwa-yah
Text me when you wake up?

2 September 2025

[06:10] Seonghwa (you):
Good morning

And I'll never miss you
I'll never miss you

4 September 2025

“Hyung,” Wooyoung calls, cheeks full and chewing loudly.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Seonghwa smacks his thigh lightly, though his thumb rubs slow soothing circles immediately after, the thin fabric of his sweat bunching up beneath his touch. The younger grumbles a yes mom, but obediently swallows the mouthful of noodles Seonghwa had told him not to shovel in his mouth all at once. But he never listens, does he?

Wooyoung looks up from his bowl. “Have you ever thought of–,” a burp escapes him, completely unashamed, “–meeting other people?”

Seonghwa stills, chopsticks clattering in his hand. The ring presses in his skin, suddenly feeling too tight and too heavy. The background chatter from the restaurant growing and swelling loudly in his ear. “Where’s this coming from, Wooyoung-ah?”

Wooyoung shrugs, stabs at his noodles. “I just think… I’myou’ve only ever had the misfortune of being with Hongjoong-hyung.” His nose crinkles at the name, “You should meet more people. Then you’ll know how shitty a person he is.”

Seonghwa exhales slowly, letting the tension pool in his chest. He sets down his chopsticks, the metal clinking against the bowl rim. Appetite gone. “Wooyoung-ah, I’ve told you… It’s not his fault. We both had our issues. He tried his best.”

“Well his best wasn’t good enough.” Wooyoung snaps, voice sharp enough to cut. His knuckles are white as he grips the edge of the table. Voice sharp, slicing through the din of the restaurant.

“Does he even know how badly he hurt you? No, right?” He glares at Seonghwa, “Because you’re too busy protecting his feelings to tell him.”

“Wooyoung-ah, it’s complicated–”

“No, it’s not.” Wooyoung clips back, arms folded, chest rising with quiet fury. “I don’t see the point in holding on to someone who couldn’t treat you right. Leader or not, busy or not, there’s no excuse.”

His voice rises, eyes glossy with deep-seated anger. “Loving you isn’t difficult. Loving you isn’t a chore.”

“Wooyoung-ah, you know that’s not how things are. He tried, he really did.” Seonghwa soothes a hand up and down his arm, feeling his muscles tense. “And I was happy, truly, I was. He made me the happiest I’ve been in my life.”

“More than me?”

“Baby…”

“Don’t baby me.” Wooyoung huffs a slow, loud sigh. “I don’t know why you still love him.” His voice lowers into a plea. “You’d be better off channeling all the love you have to someone who’ll actually appreciate it.”

Seonghwa reaches over the table, brushing a strand of sweat-matted hair from Wooyoung’s forehead. His thumb traces a warm path across the skin. Wooyoung closes his eyes automatically, leaning into the touch, small exhale of comfort escaping him.

“Oh my baby,” Seonghwa whispers, voice barely audible over the low hum of the restaurant. “I couldn’t love another even if I tried.”

Wooyoung opens one eye, studying, judging.

“You should,” he says quietly. “You should go out, date someone amazing, and tell Kim Hongjoong everything he does for you, just to remind him of how shitty a boyfriend he was.”

“Wooyoung-ah, that would kill him.”

Wooyoung’s jaw clenches, eyes flashing fire.

“Good.”

Yeah, the silence and muted traces that time left behind
I'm still trying to ignore the lingering regrets

25 September 2025

“Park Seonghwa, how much did you drink?”

The beat in the pub is too loud, there are too many people, the lights are too bright and too dark all at once. The crowd pushes against him, Hongjoong flinches from the disgusting feeling of slick sweat and spilt alcohol dragging and rubbing down his forearms. Hongjoong hates places like his. His skin crawls with overstimulation. But none of that matters right now.

Right now, all Hongjoong can see is Seonghwa in front of him. Seonghwa is slumped against the wall just beyond the crowded table, face flushed red from drinking alcohol he was never good at handling, hair matted against his forehead, eyes glassy and unseeing.

“Joongie-yah…” Seonghwa smiles wide and unguarded, words slurring. He slumps his head against the wall. “What are you doing here?”

Hongjoong’s heart swells painfully.

Joongie-yah.

How long has it been since he’s called him that?

San watches from across the table, eyes darting between the two of them, hand clenching nervously on his shaking knee.

.

“Hyung,” San says, his voice sharp and urgent, barely audible over the chaos in the background. “Where are you now?”

“I’m having a meeting with the stage team,” Hongjoong replies automatically, pen still in his hand, eyes fixed on a lighting diagram. “Why?”

“Can you come pick Seonghwa-hyung up?”

Hongjoong stills.

“What do you mean?” he asks, voice low, controlled.

From San’s end, he hears it – the muffled thumping of bass, distorted laughter, glasses clinking, too many voices layered over each other.

“He’s drunk. Young-ah and I brought him out to hang with his friends, just to loosen up and have fun, but he had a bit too much. He’s already puked once, people approached him and–”

“Choi San,” Hongjoong breathes, voice frigid. “What did you just say?”

He’s already pushing his chair back. The legs scrape loudly against the floor and the stage team looks up, confused looks on their faces but Hongjoong doesn’t register anything else.

“Look hyung, I’m sorry but now’s not the time to be angry at us, please.” San’s voice pleading. “Seonghwa-hyung is drunk and I think you should come and–”

“Send me the address.” Hongjoong hisses.“Now.”

“Hyung–”

“Now,” he repeats, harsher this time.

The meeting room door swings open with a sharp click. Someone calls his name, but he doesn’t turn back.

.

Seonghwa tilts his head slightly, blinking slowly as he studies Hongjoong’s face with drunken focus.

“You came to find me?” He says softly. The words come out giddy and almost childlike, like someone who has just received a gift they had quietly wished for but never really believed they would get.

“Yeah,” Hongjoong swallows hard, “I came.”

Seonghwa hums faintly like that answer satifies him, then he pushes himself away from the wall. Bad idea. His balance disappears entirely, knees buckling slightly beneath him and his body tilts dangerously sideways.

Hongjoong’s arm is around his waist instantly.

The movement is so automatic it doesn’t even feel like a decision. His grip is firm and sure as he catches Seonghwa mid-stumble, steadying him with the kind of practiced ease that only comes from years of knowing exactly how this body moves.

Seonghwa melts into him like it’s instinct, like this is where his body remembers it belongs. His head drops against Hongjoong’s shoulder, lips close enough that Hongjoong can feel his breath.

Hongjoong freezes.

“Aren’t you busy… with your meeting?” Seonghwa murmurs, nose pressed against Hongjoong’s cheek. His cologne filling his senses, fogging his brain.

“No.” The answer is immediate. Hongjoong’s grip tightens, the fabric bunching under his fingers as he slowly lifts Seonghwa to his feet. “I’m never too busy for you.”

Seonghwa hums softly, content. His arms slide upward, curling loosely around Hongjoong’s shoulders as he leans his entire weight into him. “You’re warm,” he mumbles, voice thick with alcohol. “Drink with me?”

“No. We’re going home, Seonghwa.” There’s no softness in Hongjoong’s tone, no room for negotiation. He nods briefly at San in silent appreciation and turns –

“I can take him home.”

A stranger says casually from nearby. To Hongjoong, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

Hongjoong freezes. The anger that rises is immediate and visceral, hot and sharp, curling up his spine.

“No.”

The word is a whip, sharp and final, edged with steel.

The stranger blinks, then raises his hands in surrender. “Alright man, relax.”

Hongjoong doesn’t relax. He becomes acutely aware of everything at once – Seonghwa’s weight in his arms, the warmth bleeding through their clothes, the way Seonghwa leans without fear, without question. Like Seonghwa never learned how to stand without him there. Like he never had to.

“Joongie-yah.”

Seonghwa’s hand slips from his shoulder, unsteady with drink, and settles over Hongjoong’s free palm, grip clumsy but firm. “Will you… leave me again?”

Hongjoong feels something hard and cold press against his skin. He looks down and freezes, eyes flying wide.

Seonghwa is wearing his team ring.

“Seonghwa, you–” The words catch, die. His heart stutters violently, mind spiralling as hope and guilt and disbelief crash together so fast it’s dizzying. He stares at the ring like looking at proof of something he was too afraid to hope for.

Seonghwa is wearing his team ring?

“Please don’t leave me again, Joongie-yah.” Seonghwa mumbles against his cheeks, bringing Hongjoong back from his spiralling thoughts. His voice is so small, coiling around Hongjoong’s ribs painfully. “Don’t go…”

“No, my love.” Hongjoong breathes it out, letting the endearment fall naturally from his lips for the first time since that day. How he’s longed to say it again, taste each letter on his tongue. He presses his forehead to Seonghwa’s temple and brushes the damp hair from Seonghwa’s face, thumb lingering against warm skin – then against the ring.

“I’m not leaving you. Not now.” His thumb runs along the silver band. “Not ever.”

Seonghwa hums a soft, approving sound before he goes slack in his arms. The vow settles firmly in Hongjoong’s chest, heavy and absolute.

I can't close the box I opened without thinking
Would you like to take them out again for just a moment?

“Where are you taking him?” Wooyoung’s voice cuts low and sharp through the night. His eyes are narrowed into slits, body coiled tight like a spring. San hovers a few steps behind, hands clasped in front of him, fingers twisting nervously.

“Home,” Hongjoong answers simply, like this one word is enough to explain everything.

Wooyoung scoffs. He steps closer, the faint scrape of his shoes against the pavement a warning in the cool air. “San and I can do that. Get your hands off of him.”

Seonghwa stirs weakly in Hongjoong’s arms, face burrowing deeper into the curve of his neck. His breath spills out in tiny, warm puffs against Hongjoong’s skin. His fingers curl faintly into Hongjoong’s collar, clinging even in half-consciousness.

“Wooyoung please,” Hongjoong sighs loudly, strained. Seonghwa stirs at that and Hongjoong’s voice immediately quietens, afraid to wake him.

“Let me take care of him,” his voice teeters into a plea. “I promise I will.”

“Why?”

Hongjoong doesn’t answer – there are too many answers to that question. Instead, he simply pulls Seonghwa a little closer when he feels him shiver, his hand spreading protectively across the small of his back.

“You don’t get to magically appear here,” Wooyoung snaps, voice sharp enough to slice skin, eyes darting briefly to San, who visibly shrinks back under the heat, before locking on Hongjoong’s hand around Seonghwa’s waist, “and act a hero, to fan your own ego, after all you’ve done, after all you’ve not done.”

“Wooyoung I know,” Hongjoong feels Seonghwa shiver against him and immediately tightens his hold. “I know, I–”

“Do you?” Wooyoung cuts in immediately, stepping forward. “I don’t think you do, Captain.”

The title mocks him, iron clamped around his wrists.

“How many times have I had to hold him while he cried himself to sleep?” His jaw tightens. He doesn’t raise his voice and that somehow makes it harder. “How many nights have I been woken up because he was shouting your name in his sleep? Because he thought you were walking away again?”

Hongjoong’s breath falters. Wooyoung takes another step, eyes narrowing into slits.

“Do you know how much weight he lost after you broke up?”

Another step.

“Do you know why he started wearing oversized hoodies in July? Ever wonder why he had to wear a new set of clothes for the America leg of our Will To Power tour? Why our stylist noonas started pinning everything tighter backstage?”

He laughs, humourlessly.

“Of course you wouldn’t, he begged them not to make a big deal out of it.”

The images slam into Hongjoong’s chest – Seonghwa’s oversized sleeves swallowing bony wrists, collars hiding overly sharp collarbones. He remembers thinking Seonghwa was just trying out a new style, and remembers not asking. The pain is visceral.

“Do you know he cries every single time after singing Empty Box?” Wooyoung’s voice wavers for the first time, but only with sheer, unabashed anger. “He slips away from everyone and hides in the toilet. I only know this because I followed him once and I heard it, how he cried as quietly as he could in the cubicle. And when he came out, he smiled, and asked me if I needed anything. I almost broke down there and then. God, I wish we could erase that song from our discography. It belongs in the trash.”

His glare burns.

“Fuck you for approving it.”

San reaches for Wooyoung’s wrist, gentle and pleading, murmuring his name under his breath but Wooyoung shakes him off without even looking.

“I wanted to tear you apart. Hyung, I hated you.” Wooyoung spits, voice rougher. “Did you know that when you were still together, Seonghwa-hyung never once told us about your fights? He never told us about the nights he waited for you because you forgot to come home, nor about the times you forgot about special dates and brushed it off like it was nothing. Not once. ”

Hongjoong stops breathing.

Wooyoung’s eyes shine now, furious and wet.

“And after the break up? He still protected you. He said you were under pressure, said that you tried your best, said it wasn’t anyone’s fault.” A broken, wet laugh tears out of his throat. “Even after you destroyed him, broke his heart again and again, all he thought about was your reputation. Your image as our leader.”

Tears begin to streak down his face. “And even now, he won’t tell you how he’s lived with a hole in his heart, because all he cares about is how to make life easy for you, how to be kind to you. So that you won’t blame yourself.”

San is immediately by Wooyoung’s side, pulling him into his chest. Wooyoung resists for half a second before he melts into his hold – his umbrella in the rain, his rock in the storm – head leaning back to rest against San’s. San steadily soothes his hands up and down Wooyoung’s arms, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

A tear slips down Hongjoong’s cheek before he can stop it. He doesn’t wipe it away, too dazed, too disgusted with himself to move. He deserves to feel the proof of shame running down his face.

“Wooyoung I–”

“So forgive me, Captain,” Wooyoung chokes out against San’s jaw, turning his head just enough to glare again, eyes glassy and blazing. “For telling you to fuck off. You don’t know how your love has ruined him.”

Hongjoong can’t speak. His throat feels like it's been lined with glass and his heart feels like it's been flayed open, every private mistake he thought he’d buried now dragged out into the fluorescent glare of the parking lot lights.

Wooyoung’s eyes fall back onto Hongjoong’s arms clutching Seonghwa’s waist like a lifeline. He shakes his head slowly, voice dropping to a mere whisper carried in the wind, anger softening into fatigue. “Please, hyung, spare him. Don’t break him again. He’s gone through enough.”

“I would never.” Hongjoong’s voice is immediate.

Hongjoong’s hold on Seonghwa doesn’t tighten in defiance, nor does it loosen in surrender. It remains steady but gentle, careful. He’s already fractured him once and he will not hurt him ever again.

“I love him. God, Wooyoung, I’ve never stopped loving him.”

Wooyoung lifts his head slightly. Hongjoong hears a sharp inhale.

“I failed him, Wooyoung-ah.” Hongjoong admits quietly, stripped of ego and pride. “I thought if I worked harder… if I pushed more, wrote more, produced more… that I could build something solid for him. A stable future he wouldn’t have to doubt.” His laugh is hollow, barely air. “I thought if I gave him everything, it would make up for me not being there.”

His voice trembles. “I didn't realise that all he needed was me there with him. I realised too late.”

His turns his head, lips ghosting across Seonghwa’s temple. Close enough to feel heat but not touching. He doesn’t kiss him – he doesn’t think he deserves to. He just breathes him in, eyes closing briefly.

“I’m not here to play hero,” he continues softly. “I’m here because I will never let him be alone ever again. But if me being here hurts him, if letting him go means it’ll make him happy, then Wooyoung-ah, I’ll do it. I'll go. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make him happy.”

“But,” his voice drops and his wet eyes lift fully to meet Wooyoung’s. “Don’t tell me to stop loving him. That’s the only thing I can't do.”

Silence falls over the parking lot.

Wooyoung stills, chest heaving with unspoken frustration. His gaze is razor sharp, knives into Hongjoong’s skin but Hongjoong will stand still and let him cut, tear him apart piece by piece. His eyes take him apart – searching for cracks, for hesitation, selfishness. Hongjoong doesn’t look away. Wooyoung will find none.

Finally, Wooyoung exhales, slow and measured, fight draining out of his shoulders. Though his gaze doesn’t waver, a mess of warning, love, and exasperation tangled within his large eyes.

He takes one step back, then another – two measured, deliberate steps, giving Hongjoong the barest sliver of space. Hongjoong walks past them quietly, bending carefully to slide Seonghwa into the passenger’s seat, shielding the back of his head from the doorframe. Seonghwa murmurs softly, brows knitting for a second before smoothing out again. His fingers cling weakly to Hongjoong’s sleeve, refusing to let go even in sleep. Hongjoong pauses, letting him hold on for that extra heartbeat. Then gently, he slides his hand free and drapes his coat over Seonghwa’s shoulders, tucking it around him, adjusting the collar so the cold autumn air can’t reach his neck.

As Hongjoong closes the door softly, from behind him, Wooyoung’s voice drifts through the night, deliberately casual.

“Sannie’s coming over tonight, and Mingi’s only back from his parents’ place tomorrow evening.”

Hongjoong pauses. The words settle between them, suspended in the cool night air – a door left unlocked, an open window. A chance, clumsily wrapped in nonchalance.

Hongjoong turns around slowly. Wooyoung isn’t glaring anymore, what’s left is something quieter. His eyes are still guarded, red-rimmed, but there’s a bright spark that Hongjoong recognises to look stubbornly close to hope.

Hongjoong studies him for a moment longer before he speaks, voice low, earnest.

“Thank you.”

Wooyoung shrugs like he’s pretending this costs him nothing. But Hongjoong knows better. He knows how badly he hurt him, how much of the group’s quiet harmony he shattered with his own stubbornness and blindness.

“Don’t fuck this up again,” Wooyoung mutters, eyes not meeting Hongjoong’s as he leans further back into San. San’s arms are still wrapped around his waist, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Wooyoung is loud, reckless, stubborn. He is also defensive, sharp-tongued, and impossible.

But this – this quiet stepping back, mercy disguised as indifference – feels entirely undeserved. Wooyoung has offered him love wrapped in barbed wire, but love nonetheless, forgiveness unnamed, but forgiveness nonetheless. The difficult grace of letting someone try again.

And Hongjoong realises, as he watches Wooyoung lean into San’s steady warmth, that he has not loved Wooyoung more than he does in this single moment.

So far away, nothing new can fill it (like you)
The warmth can't reach this cold place (like you)

“Hongjoong?” Seonghwa’s voice trembles, thick with nausea. He grapples uselessly at the toilet bowl, feeling another sour belch heaving up his gut and burning into his throat. “Oh god…”

“I’m here, I’m here, my love,” Hongjoong soothes a warm hand down Seonghwa’s back, slow and steady. “Breathe for me, okay?”

My love.

The words hit harder than the nausea twisting in his gut.

Seonghwa gags, pressing crumpled tissue to his lips, the paper already damp and tearing. “Don’t–”

“Breathe, my love, breathe.” Hongjoong’s voice is firm but gentle, his fingers rubbing soft circles into the base of Seonghwa’s neck, exactly how he used to do it, like he never forgot.

“Don't…”

“Hmm?” Hongjoong brushes the longer strands of Seonghwa's dark hair off his sweaty temples, warm fingertips lingering against skin. “What is it, my love?”

Seonghwa chokes, vision blurred by tears mingling with sweat. “Don’t call me that… it hurts.”

Hongjoong stills immediately.

“What?”

“Don’t… call me that… when you don’t mean it.” He presses the soggy tissue harder to his lips, hands trembling. “It’ll make me think that you still love me.”

For a moment, Hongjoong just stares. His hand on Seonghwa’s neck falters, fingers curling as though burned by the contact.

“Oh, my love,” he whispers, devastation flooding his face. “I mean everything I say. Believe me. Please.”

Seonghwa lets out a shaky breath, chest aching. His fingers tighten around the tissue until it crumples completely. “Then…”

Their eyes meet, and Seonghwa’s are glassy with alcohol, unfocused at the edges. But beneath the haze there’s something else, a certain fire and desire, the kind that only alcohol in your veins would flame.

Sober Seonghwa would bury it beneath restraint and forced, careful distance. Sober Seonghwa would pretend everything was fine, hiding behind a polite smile until the moment passed.

Drunk Seonghwa, however, has never been very good at pretending. Drunk Seonghwa is also far more vocal.

“Hold me.”

Hongjoong’s eyes fly open, pulse spiking.

“What?” his voice catches in his throat. “Seonghwa… you’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying. Let’s get you washed up so you can sleep. Listen to me–”

“No, you pervert.” Seonghwa scoffs weakly, the insult softened by the slur in his voice. A half-laugh catches in his throat, tired and a little embarrassed. “I just… I mean I want you to just…” He exhales heavily. “Hold me…”

He gives up trying to stay upright and leans back, dizzy, allowing his damp head to fall against Hongjoong’s chest. The familiar heartbeat beneath his ear is too real. Hongjoong’s arms wrap around him immediately, cradling his shoulder.

“Just stay with me tonight. Please.”

Hongjoong troubles his bottom lip, eyes flickering with fear and want. “Seonghwa…” He shakes his head and whispers, almost to himself, “you don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

“I do,” Seonghwa mumbles, shifting closer instead of pulling away, head tilting further into Hongjoong’s chest, hair damp against his collarbone.

“I know I’m drunk,” Seonghwa says after a moment, voice hoarse. His breath fans warm through the fabric of Hongjoong’s shirt. “I know you think I’m not thinking clearly.”

Hongjoong swallows. “That’s because you aren’t.”

“I’m drunk, not stupid.” Seonghwa lets out a small, tired huff that almost resembles a laugh. “Being drunk just means I can’t lie to myself as well.”

The admission sits heavy in the small bathroom.

“Please…” Seonghwa says softly, “Just tonight.”

The words grow quieter with each breath.

“Don’t leave me.”

Hongjoong’s throat tightens, fingers pressing harder into his arms.

“You’re going to regret this in the morning.” Hongjoong shakes his head slowly, gaze searching Seonghwa’s face like he’s looking for a sign to stop. “Park Seonghwa, I know you.”

Seonghwa swallows, throat burning. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead into Hongjoong’s collarbone, voice barely above a whisper.

“Then you’ll know how much I need you here now.”

.

Hongjoong holds him close that night, cradling Seonghwa’s warm body to his chest, one arm tucked securely around his waist as though he’s afraid something might try to take him away. His other hand slowly runs through Seonghwa’s hair, soothing through soft strands. The room is twenty degrees – colder than what he prefers, colder than what he’s used to – but it’s how Seonghwa likes it.

Seonghwa’s face is illuminated in stripes by the soft moonlight streaming through his blinds. Hongjoong desperately studies him, commits him to memory – the long lashes fluttering against pale skin, the smooth arch of his brows, the sharp bridge of his nose, the faint flush of his lips, parts just slightly as he breathes lightly. The tiny scar just below his ear, pale freckles beneath his eyes.

Because he knows. He knows that this is borrowed time. Knows that in a few hours, when sunlight bleeds, inevitably, into the room, reality will come intruding and they will return to how they were, how they are supposed to be – friends, members, lovers who once shared a bed but now share polite, cordial distance. He will return to watching him from across the room, from across stages, silently protecting him, loving him.

His hand lifts, fingertips gently brushing over Seonghwa’s cheekbones. The touch is barely there, but Seonghwa stirs, instinctively leaning further into him. His arms tighten around Hongjoong’s waist, fingers curling into the fabric of Hongjoong’s shirt.

“Joongie-yah…”

Oh, he feels a piece of his soul being carved out. He chest caves in, squeezing painfully, fingertips going numb from the pain tearing his heart open.

He wants to confess everything. Wants to scream that no, he’s never stopped loving him. That no, he’s not made any progress at all in the past eighteen months, that all’s he’s done is fall deeper, bleed quieter. That he would do anything to go back in time and undo every mistake, swallow every ounce of pride, and do things right. He would choose him properly, love him correctly this time, he would make him happy.

How painfully the words prick at his tongue.

But he does none of that. Because morning is inevitable, because they are over, because if he says it, he might lose even this.

So he swallows everything, every plea, every confession is forced back down his throat, glass scraping against raw flesh. He simply holds him closer, relishing in how Seonghwa sighs again and burrows deeper, breath ghosting lightly over Hongjoong’s collarbone. Hongjoong presses his face into Seonghwa’s hair, breathing in the familiar faint lavender scent of his favourite shampoo.

His vision blurs – he knows he will not get this chance again. But he will not complain, he will not ask for more. He will take whatever Seonghwa gives him, and he will be grateful for it.

“I’m here,” Hongjoong simply whispers, voice barely louder than the quiet hum of the cooler. A tear slips through closed lids. “I’m here, my love.”

Even though it was chaotic, my heart had something to hold onto
This ending where everything is empty—end

26 September 2025

Seonghwa wakes with his face buried in fabric – warm, soft, rising and falling beneath his cheek. He groans, half-conscious, the heat too real to be his pillow. But his head throbs, every pulse echoing behind his eyes, so he doesn’t question anything.

He stretches, feeling his pajama sleeves tug up his arms, muscles stiff and sore. His arm drapes back around a familiar waist, fingers curling into cotton, into warmth. He nestles closer, nose brushing skin, breathing in a scent that settles something deep in his chest. Clean soap, light musk. Hongjoong smells just like home.

Seonghwa sighs, satisfied, arms wrapping tighter around his waist. It’s been so long since he’s woken up like this.

He lets himself sink into Hongjoong’s plush warmth, feels himself drifting off again–

Wait.

Wait.

Hongjoong.
Hongjoong?

Hongjoong?????

Seonghwa’s eyes fly open so fast the room tilts. He jerks back, shoving against a chest that feels impossibly real.

“Seonghwa?” Hongjoong bolts upright like he’s been shot, hands instantly on Seonghwa’s shoulders. His hair is doing something criminal, sticking up in violent directions, eyes wide and wild. “Are you okay? Do you feel nauseous? Does your head hurt? Is your stomach okay? Do you need water? Medicine? Should I call Jongho–?”

Oh Lord, so many questions.

“Oh my god stop.” Seonghwa groans, clamping his hands over his ears. “You’re so loud.”

He squints around the room. His room. His bed. His blankets. Hongjoong. Here. In his bed. Together. Sleeping.

Clothed, thankfully, but still – his heart stutters, traitorous and stupid, fluttering against his ribs like it’s delighted with the situation.

“You didn’t– we didn’t– right?” His voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper. He’s horrified at the realisation that he’s feeling equal parts fearful and hopeful.

“No!” Hongjoong shakes his head frantically, his hair flies comically out of his face. “We didn't do anything. I just sent you back home because you got too drunk.”

Seonghwa bites his lip, pulse roaring in his ears. “You didn’t have to. San or Wooyoung could’ve–”

“It was no trouble.”

Seonghwa looks down at his (thankfully) pajama-clad, very-clothed body. “... and you–,” he flushes beetroot red, “–you cleaned me up?”

Hongjoong’s face goes equally hot. “Yeah, I swear I didn't even look, I just made sure you were okay and –” He shifts back, deliberately creating space, like proximity itself is dangerous. Seonghwa hates this distance, feels it claw into his stomach. “I promise, Seonghwa, I didn’t do anything to you. I’m sorry, I should have been more firm last night.”

“More firm?” Seonghwa tilts his head, skull throbbing.

Hongjoong looks at him warily, eyes hesitant, searching. “You don’t… do you remember what you said to me last night?”

“Huh?” Seonghwa’s brows furrow, head throbbing with every blink. “Oh fuck, sorry Hongjoong can you get me a glass of,” a belch, “water–”

The glass is at his lips before the sentence finishes forming.

He drinks too fast and coughs, water spilling down his chin. Hongjoong wipes it away with his thumb, the touch gentle and automatic.

“Get some more rest,” Hongjoong murmurs, shuffling back and standing slowly, turning towards the door.

The shift is small. But it feels enormous.

Panic flares in Seonghwa’s chest. He doesn’t think. His hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around Hongjoong’s wrist. “Don’t go–”

The words come out louder than he means them to.

Hongjoong freezes, then his expression softens into something painfully tender. He turns his hand, threads their fingers together slowly.

“I’m not leaving, my love.”

The words settle into Seonghwa’s bones. Hongjoong lowers himself to his knees beside the bed like it’s the most natural place for him to be. Their joined hands rest on the rumpled blanket between them, and his thumb traces slow circles over Seonghwa’s knuckles.

“Let me get you some food, hmm?” he says softly.

Seonghwa leans forward without meaning to, dizzy, weak. Hongjoong catches him easily, guides him back down, tucks the blanket around him with careful hands – smoothing the edges, adjusting the pillow, making sure he’s warm. Safe.

The last thing Seonghwa registers is the faint press of lips against his forehead.

It passes and disappears, it leaves no trace
The hot night is gone, the warmth has cooled down

When Seonghwa awakes again, his room is bathed in evening light, darkness settling in the corners, orange dusk filtering through his blinds. The headache has dulled into a muted pain at the back of his head and he gingerly rubs his temples, silently swearing to never drink with Wooyoung and San ever again.

His hand fumbles across his bedside table, grappling blindly for his phone by his bed stand. He pauses when feels a familiar charging cord – did he charge his phone last night? He turns and sees something else: a pitcher of warm water and a glass.

He blinks. Water? Warm water? In a room that’s twenty degrees?

Clumsily, he pours himself a glass, careful not to spill any onto his blanket. He takes a gratified gulp, relishing in the warm liquid spilling into his dry, aching throat. He stills for a moment, then like a camera shutter –

Hold me.
Please… just tonight. Don’t leave me.

His face flushes, the memory sharp and mortifying.

Hongjoong.

Seonghwa kicks off his blankets, grace forgotten.

Is he still here? Where is he?

He stumbles to the door, fiddling with the doorknob in panic and yanks it open, feet thrumming on the floor. “Hongjoong–”

And there he is, perched on the sofa, pen in hand, scribbling words onto his notebook. The faint, familiar woody scent of his cologne lingering in the cool air. He looks up, glasses balancing precariously on his sharp nose.

“Oh,” Hongjoong smiles, voice soft. “You’re awake, how are you feeling?”

“Hongjoong why–” Seonghwa blinks, gapes, “Why are you still here?”

Hongjoong places his notebook gently onto the sofa and shuffles to the kitchen. “I got you some food but you were sound asleep and I didn't want to wake you,” he pushes a small container forward. “Your favourite kimchi stew.”

From the refrigerator, he pulls out another box. Small, white, familiar. “And your favourite strawberry cake.”

Seonghwa swallows painfully. “You didn't have to.”

“I wanted to.” Hongjoong says softly, like admitting to something he shouldn’t have done.

“Hongjoong…” “I told you I wouldn’t leave.” He says simply, opening the lid, the tangy aroma of kimchi and spices filling the air. Seonghwa inhales sharply, the familiar scent awakening memories from months when things were happier, simpler.

“Kimchi stew is best eaten during winter.” Seonghwa had claimed, teeth chattering, betraying his pride.

“Yes, my love, I agree with you,” Hongjoong blew hot air futilely into his gloved hands, “But did we really need to start queueing an hour before the stall opens?”

Seonghwa had smiled sheepishly, only taking Hongjoong’s hand and stuffing it into his own pocket. The grumbles completely stopped after that.

Hongjoong insisted on going again the very next day.

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa breathes, fingers digging into his palms. “What… what are we?”

Hongjoong’s hands go still over the container. He stares at the stew for a moment too long, the scent of kimchi and garlic hanging in the air like a fragile domestic illusion. Then he straightens, spine stiff, and turns to Seonghwa with an expression so soft it makes Seonghwa ache – to run forward, to collapse into him, to pretend nothing ever broke.

Say it. Seonghwa pleads, heart crumpling. Say you still love me and I’m yours.

Hongjoong’s mouth opens and Seonghwa can see his brain whirring, cogs clacking in place. Each word dying in his chest before they even make it to his tongue. He sees the tears glinting at the corner of his eyes, catching the dim orange glow of the setting sun.

“I don’t know.”

The words are quiet. They pierce Seonghwa’s heart anyway.

Seonghwa closes his eyes, disappointment seeping through him like ink in water. He presses a hand to his chest, grounding himself in the uneven hammer of his heart.

“Don’t do this…” His voice wavers, tight, throat closing up. “Don’t do this to me– don’t tell me things, do things for me that make me think that we’re more, that we can go back, when you can’t even tell me what I need to hear.”

“I’m sorry,” Hongjoong stutters, words spilling and tumbling, “I’m sorry Seonghwa that came out wrong I–”

Hongjoong pads forward, a hand raised in the air, a hair’s breadth from Seonghwa’s arms. Seonghwa doesn’t flinch this time and Hongjoong reads the room, hand gently touching him. Beyond the searing warmth of his palm, Seonghwa can feel his erratic heartbeat, the tremble that consumes every finger.

He can feel the cold, hard press of the ring on Hongjoong’s finger.

“Seonghwa, I fucked up.” Hongjoong starts slow, weighted with shame, regret, guilt, “I know I fucked up. And you deserve better than me. You deserve someone who can give you the world and more, who didn't disappoint you like I did." The grip tightens, as thought he's trying to hold himself together, like Seonghwa is the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely. “I never forgave myself, I hate myself, Seonghwa-yah, for hurting you, for not… not even knowing that I was hurting you for so long, for letting you suffer in silence. I’m so, so, so sorry.”

He takes a step forward and Seonghwa can feel the warmth enveloping him, heavy and suffocating, but so, so sweet. Hongjoong’s face is barely two inches from his own and Seonghwa’s lips part on instinct, breath slowing.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness– hell you’ve been so– so kind to me and my heart can’t take it, I don’t deserve you.” Hongjoong’s voice cracks. His eyes are red, raw with emotion. “You said back then that you were too much, well I’m telling you now that I’m not enough for you. I’m not good enough for you.”

He leans in and rests his head on Seonghwa’s trembling shoulder. Seonghwa can feel his body shake, restrained shivers that travel through Seonghwa’s bones. He can hear every breath stuttering shallow against his collarbone, feel the tension coiled through his veins like wire stretched to snapping.

“I don’t deserve your mercy...” His voice trembles under the weight of his plea. “But Seonghwa, I still want you near me. I want to be with you, care for you, protect you. Please, let me be selfish. I– God, Seonghwa, I don’t know what to do with myself without you. I didn't know then, and I still don’t know now.”

The fabric at Seonghwa’s shoulder turns damp.

“Seonghwa…” Hongjoong exhales, breaking completely. “I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Oh.

.

.

Oh…

Oh–

Oh, how had he dreamed of this day? Had hoped, had prayed that he would, one day, finally be able to hold him in his arms again and call him his again? How many mornings had he awoken with the ache from craving for this exact moment, when Hongjoong would lean into him like Seonghwa was his home? That they would find their way back to each other, that he would once again be allowed to cradle him to his chest, whispering words of love and comfort into his ear as he shielded him from the world?

It’s been too long and perhaps somewhere along the line, he had stopped giving himself the luxury of hoping.

Now that it’s here, Seonghwa’s heart swells as if it might burst from sheer, dizzying euphoria.

But now that it’s here, it’s terrifying.

I love you too. He wants to cry out, scream into Hongjoong’s chest. I've never stopped loving you too.

But Seonghwa suddenly feels like he’s standing at the edge of something vast, endless, bottomless. A cliff that drops into a void he can’t see, a void that will swallow him whole. He doesn’t trust himself to survive the fall, and he doesn’t know if he can trust Hongjoong to catch him if he chooses to jump.

His fingers curl into fists at his sides.

“So what do you want from me?” Seonghwa asks, voice hoarse. His hands twitch, muscles taut with desperate restraint. “What are you asking of me?”

Hongjoong’s hands settle on Seonghwa’s waist, tentatively, hesitantly, ring dancing across soft skin. His palms are searing, fingers barely pressing. The touch is so gentle but Seonghwa can feel it in his bones how desperately Hongjoong wants to pull him close. And it terrifies him how badly he wants the same.

“My love,” Hongjoong whispers against his collarbone, sending electricity through Seonghwa’s nerves. His thumbs rub the fabric of his hem, nervous. “My love, I would do anything, anything, for another chance with you. Please– I know I’m not enough for you but I’ll keep trying, I’ll be better.”

His fingers clench tighter around the fabric.

“I’ll prove it to you.” His lips ghost Seonghwa’s skin. “I’ll be someone worthy of your love, your time, your devotion. I’ll prove it to you, my love. I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you. I’ll love you correctly.”

Seonghwa closes his eyes, heart racing, eyes burning.

For a moment, he almost, almost says yes. The word teasing the tip of his tongue as his lips part.

But then like lightning in his veins, he feels, he remembers.

The hollow promises. The pain of feeling unseen, unheard. How he felt so lonely even when Hongjoong was standing right beside him. The tears he wiped away in solitude in the dark because Hongjoong wasn’t around, the hours he spent waiting fruitlessly for someone who had forgotten to come home to him.

He shrinks back. Hongjoong immediately stiffens, eyes widening in alarm.

“I’m scared, Hongjoong-ah.” His voice is brittle, hardly a whisper, as his gaze burns holes into the floor. His hands feel too heavy at his sides, useless.

“Seonghwa–” Hongjoong’s voice trembles dangerously close to breaking, his shaking fingers digging deeper into Seonghwa’s sides, ring pressing harder into flesh, a sharp punctuation of fear, of desperation.

“I’m scared you’ll break me again, Hongjoong-ah.” The words come quiet. Tears trace slow, wet paths down his cheeks, shoulder quaking with the tremors of grief.

Seonghwa forces himself to look up.

The sight devastates him.

Kim Hongjoong is ruined.

His Captain – the man who always held himself together for everyone else — is a complete, disgraceful mess.

His eyes are bloodshot, tears spilling freely, uncaringly down red and splotchy cheeks, mixing with snot and sweat, catching at his chin. His lips are bitten raw, trembling, chin tense and jaw clenched tightly. It looks painful, like he’s moments away from breaking completely.

“Seonghwa…” His voice frays into nothingness. “Please…”

“Hongjoong, you don’t know–” Seonghwa heaves, heart feeling like solid concrete in his chest. “You don’t know how much I want this, want you again. Every day, every night, I pray that one day, I can come home to you again. I want to be there for everything, the good, the bad, the messy, the ugly. I want to hold your hand, be with you. Love you.”

He takes a step back, painfully extracting himself from Hongjoong’s loose, hesitant embrace. The warmth vanishes instantly, leaving only a void of cold air and what-ifs and if-onlys. The room feels colder than it should.

“But now that you’re here… I–I’m so scared… I can’t handle the disappointment, the hurt again,” Seonghwa shakes his head slowly, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. His voice breaks. “I’m sorry… but I can’t give you what you want.”

Hongjoong’s lips part in a silent plea, wordlessly begging, hands still outstretched, reaching out for a lifeline that Seonghwa is not ready to offer.

His ring catches the light. Haunting, taunting, a reminder of promises that Hongjoong never kept, that Seonghwa cannot make.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Hongjoong-ah.” Seonghwa turns, tears streaming down his cheeks, chest bone dry and hollow, walking away from his own heart. He sees Hongjoong stumble back, hands falling uselessly to his side, eyes dazed.

“But I think you should go.”

It felt like meaningless time, carried away and left
I wanted you; I faded, wore out, and was thrown away

27 September 2025

Hongjoong doesn't leave the studio for three days.

What am I desperately looking toward?
Did I cry as the dam I built collapsed

30 September 2025

“Jongho-yah.” Seonghwa pulls his youngest baby into his arms when he opens the door. “I brought some fruit.”

There’s something unfamiliar in Jongho’s gaze, an edge Seonghwa can’t quite name. But in whatever balance exists between empathy and anger, it tilts dangerously towards the latter.

“Thank you, hyung.” He accepts the bag, stepping aside to let Seonghwa in.

Seonghwa’s eyes flicker to the living room, a split-second betrayal of nerves.

“Is… Hongjoong home?” He says as casually as he can manage. Pride taut in his spine, unwilling to reveal why he’s got three boxes of pineapples in hand. God, it’s not even pineapple season.

“Hongjoong-hyung is at the hospital.” Jongho says simply, like telling Seonghwa the weather. He eyes Seonghwa, jaw tight, expression unreadable.

Seonghwa’s neck snaps back. “What?”

“His fever was pretty bad, had to get an IV drip and all.” Jongho turns on his heels and walks ahead to the kitchen, footsteps sharp against the floor. It sounds louder in Seonghwa’s head, his thoughts dissolving into static, mind blank as he lumbers stupidly behind him. The glass of water Jongho offers him sways in his vision. His teeth nip at his thumb.

Hongjoong is sick?

“What happened to him? When did this happen?” The words crowd in Seonghwa’s mouth, desperate for escape. “Where is he now? Who was looking after him?” He taps his fingers nervously on the counter, the thought of Hongjoong being sick – alone and without Seonghwa – leaving shame and guilt and anger flourishing through his veins.

“You know he’s never good at looking after himself, Jongho-yah.” Seonghwa’s eyes skitter around the room, “Is he okay now? God I didn't know I…”

Seonghwa’s head droops low.

“He–” Seonghwa squeezes his eyes shut, “–didn't tell me anything.”

The words taste sour.

Jongho slows, glancing up at him mid-sip. There’s something sharp in his eyes, something disappointed, judgemental. Tired.

“Respectfully, hyung,” Jongho says quietly, “I think you should talk to him. Really talk to him.”

Seonghwa drops down onto the bar chair, shoulders slumped in defeat. “We already did. We’re over.”

Jongho sets his glass down on the counter with more force than necessary, angry thud reverberating off the walls. The counter vibrates.

“Is that so?”

“Jongho?”

“Because tell me why,” Jongho crosses his arms, eyes locking onto Seonghwa, “when he came back a few days ago – a pathetic, sobbing mess – all he babbled when he collapsed against me at the front door, again, and again, and again, was how much he loves you, how much he wants you back, and how sorry he is?”

Jongho’s tone is accusatory, bitter.

“Tell me why I had to hold him through the night as he cried until he lost his voice, before he disappeared the next morning for three days?”

“What do you–”

“He stayed in the studio, hyung.” Jongho shakes his head, disbelief and disapproval saturating each word. “He hid in the studio for three days. He didn't know how to face us, how to face you. He collapsed, hyung. Manager-nim found him unconscious in the studio, and had to rush him to the hospital. He begged him not to tell anyone. I only know because I happened to overhear their conversation. You think you were the only one who was worried?”

Jongho’s gaze hardens. There is no warmth, no understanding.

“So no, no one knew, hyung. You’re not special.” His tone slices clean. “But you of all people should know that when Hongjoong-hyung breaks, he breaks in silence. And then like the idiot he is, he silently pieces himself back together because he doesn’t want to burden any of us. Because he loves us.”

Jongho exhales through his nose. Resignation, desperation, exhaustion.

His eyes lift.

“Because he loves you.”

Jongho’s words hit him like a punch to the chest, breath slammed out of him.

The youngest’s chest rises and falls. He takes a sip of water as though it can douse the anger flaming through him. Then he leans across the counter, presence looming overwhelming, eyes unwavering.

“Do you know that he cries himself to sleep sometimes? And when things get really bad, he doesn’t sleep for days? Because when he’s awoken by nightmares of you leaving him again, he’s too scared to close his eyes, because he’s too afraid to dream of you walking away again.” Jongho takes another sip of water and sets it down on the marble countertop, the sound of glass rattling through the apartment.

“I–”

“Do you know how many bottles of melatonin supplements he keeps in his room?”

“What–”

The question doesn’t make sense at first.

What?

“I didn't either,” Jongho’s eyes flicker, fire behind them. “Until a few days ago when I was with him in his room.”

The pain in Seonghwa’s chest is physical.

“Jongho, what–”

“He’s got boxes, hyung. Boxes.”

The air is still. A tear slips down Seonghwa’s cheek before he even registers it.

Jongho tilts his head in a silent, mocking challenge. “Did you know that hyung?”

Seonghwa’s fingers curl in his palms. “No, I–”

“I didn't think so. So pray tell,” Jongho’s voice turns deceptively, eerily calm, “if you’re telling me, telling yourself that you’re over, then why do I have to deal with this nonsense?” Jongho stands up straight, presence large.

“Why do I catch him at two in the morning, sitting on his bed, scrolling through photos of you that he never had the heart to delete?” Jongho continues, eyes dark.

“I didn't–”

“Why are our cupboards still stocked with chocopies, even though none of us eat them? Why does he keep lemons in the fridge?”

“I–”

“Have you seen his wallpaper?” Jongho asks simply.

Seonghwa’s throat goes bone dry.

Jongho exhales slowly, like he’s been holding this breath, these thoughts, for months. “He’s coming back home today.”

Seonghwa’s head snaps up.

“He should be on the way back already. For the record,” Jongho continues, grabbing his phone from the counter and casually swiping a box of pineapples from the countertop – perhaps a kind of emotional compensation or sorts. “I’m going to Yeosang and Yunho’s to play games, and will probably be back tomorrow evening. And you know that Wooyoung will be in Namhae until Saturday.”

He says nothing more and walks out, leaving the door to fall shut behind him.

Leaving Seonghwa alone with his heartbreak.

Alone with the weight of knowing he has failed Hongjoong, just as Hongjoong has failed him.
Alone with the dizzying, relentless conviction that he will never – never, not ever – let the man he loves suffer in silence again.

What feeling is gripping and shaking me?
In the end, we ran towards separation

Seonghwa stays in the dim living room, knees to his chest, on a sofa he hasn’t sat on in months. He remembers spending slow mornings and quiet nights curled up against the armrest, book in hand or pencil on paper, letting the words flow into his notebook.

Wooyoung would join him sometimes, launching onto the sofa with no warning and hauling Seonghwa into a hug, arms bumping shoulders and elbows kneading into ribs. Seonghwa’s pencil would jerk, drag across the paper in jagged, chaotic lines. He’d click his tongue, complain about his ruined masterpiece, and gently hit his shoulder, but would always press a kiss to his temple afterwards.

Things were a lot more peaceful with Jongho. He would sit a respectful, socially-acceptable distance away, a mug of Seonghwa’s favourite tea in hand – iced in summer, warm in winter. He would pass it over to him – humming when Seonghwa ruffled his hair in thanks, and turn the TV on to Seonghwa’s favourite channel.

And with Hongjoong, well, it depended.

Sometimes Hongjoong would sit close, arms slung lazily around his shoulders, fingers absentmindedly twirling in Seonghwa’s hair while they rewatched their older performances. Sometimes Hongjoong would pull Seonghwa backwards into his chest, ignoring his half-hearted protests as he read Seonghwa’s book from behind his shoulder, falling asleep mid-sentence, eyelashes brushing Seonghwa’s neck.

Sometimes, though, after a fight, Hongjoong would sit at the opposite end of the sofa, a deliberate space between them, air thick with words neither of them would be willing to lower their pride down to say aloud.

So, they’d sit like that, sometimes for hours. Seonghwa with his book open but not reading a single word, Hongjoong scrolling through his phone with no notifications coming in. Seonghwa was there with him, after all.

Both stubbornly refusing to move, stubbornly refusing to leave the other alone.

Then, slowly, as casually as he could manage, Hongjoong would let his knee brush against Seonghwa’s – the most hesitant touch, a silent plea for forgiveness, for pardon. Seonghwa’s breath would still.

Then, with a half-baked side eye, he’d press back.

They’d sit a bit closer after that.

And sometimes, a few more times than appropriate, he remembers stolen, hidden moments of passion as Hongjoong pressed his face into the armrest, one hand gripping into his waist in a bruising hold as he littered hot, wet kisses down the column of his bare neck and shoulders. Seonghwa would cry out, babbling Hongjoong’s name against the leather like a prayer as Hongjoong brought him to heaven and back, the place only Hongjoong has ever touched stretching deliciously.

They always made sure to sanitise the sofa five times afterwards, Seonghwa muttering apologies to the other residents of the apartment as he wiped down the pillows.

And thank the Lord that Wooyoung never found out.

The rain patters against the window, dark gloomy skies a physical manifestation of Seonghwa’s mind. He fumbles absentmindedly with the ring on his finger.

Then, the door clicks open, light from the corridor filtering in. Seonghwa freezes. It’s a small sound but it’s deafening in Seonghwa’s ears. His heartbeat rises, eyes darting to the door, heart in his mouth.

Then he hears the cough – rough and wet, like it scraped its way out of a chest that didn't have the strength to keep it in.

Hongjoong doesn’t notice him, not at first. He’s bundled in a thick black coat, too thick for the mild autumn air, bag slung over his shoulders. He pulls down his mask and in the borrowed light outside, Seonghwa can see how ghastly pale he looks against the dark fabric of his coat – skin washed out, lips greyish and chapped like he hasn’t had water in days.

His heart drops, lips quiver.

Park Seonghwa, what have you done to him?

“Jongho-yah,” Hongjoong’s voice is hoarse, paper-dry, as if he's been swallowing smoke instead of air. He kicks off his shoes with forgotten poise, shuffling his bag off his shoulders with sluggish movements. “I’m home.”

He’s met with silence.

“Jongho?” He calls, louder this time, strain edging his voice.

Seonghwa takes a deep breath – he doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Anger? Hurt? Worry? Panic? Relief?

Love?

Hongjoong fumbles for the switch. The room floods with harsh white light, and Seonghwa squints, blinking at the sudden brightness. Hongjoong’s gaze snaps to the sofa.

“Oh– fuck!” Hongjoong yells, stumbling backwards, hand flying to his chest, panic flashing in his eyes. “Seonghwa? What are you doing here?”

Seonghwa feels a stabbing pang in his chest.

What are you doing here.

When he used to spend his days here. When this place used to feel like home.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at Hongjoong, letting the weight of everything settle between them like dust in the air, heavy and suffocating.

“Seonghwa?” Hongjoong looks at him like he’s half-dreaming, like he’s seeing a ghost. Eyes glassy, unfocused. “Why– how?”

Love. Definitely love.

Seonghwa blinks slowly, raising an eyebrow. “I heard you were sick.”

Hongjoong looks down at his feet, toe nudging into the ground – nervous habit he’s never outgrown. “I’m fine now.” He mutters, voice soft.

“Are you?” Seonghwa can feel the anger coiling in his stomach, slow and hot, lava under his skin.

“Yes.”

Seonghwa’s eyes widen. He rises to his feet, the sofa creaking under the sudden, jerky movement. “So collapsing and needing an IV drip is fine now?”

“How…” Hongjoong’s face contorts painfully. “How did you– who told you? Jongho?”

“Does it matter?” Seonghwa scoffs, breath coming out harsher than he meant to but God help him. He bites back the angry tears threatening to spill over.

“He wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“He should have.” Seonghwa shoots him a glare from behind wet lashes. “You should have.”

Hongjoong hesitates, taking a hesitant half step forward. He looks awfully small, frame swallowed by his oversized jacket. “Are you… worried for me?”

Seonghwa blinks, once. Twice.

“Am I worried for you?”

His nails dig painfully into his palms, ring indenting his skin. He glares at him, eyes burning.

“Am I worried for you?” Seonghwa parrots, exasperation weaving into each syllable, disbelief sitting hot on his tongue. “Of course I was– fuck you Kim Hongjoong I thought I was going to die from anxiety!”

Hongjoong startles.

“You didn't reply me for three days,” Seonghwa continues, pacing now, hands threading in his hair and tugging at the roots like he needs the pain to ground himself. “I… I didn't dare to ask any of the others because I didn't want to make a scene but God, Hongjoong, I kept checking my phone over and over, praying that you’d reply, you’d pick up my calls, but you never did. I was so scared, I thought something bad had happened or… or you hated me now and I–” His words stumble and his voice falters, flood gates bursting open. “I was terrified.”

He presses a hand to his chest, he can still feel the panic lodged painfully there. “And then I come by to find you and Jongho tells me you– you collapsed and that you were so sick but you didn't tell me so I didn't know and you were alone.” The words are coming out faster, slurred. He’s babbling now, knows that his words hardly make sense but he doesn’t care.

Seonghwa rubs his eyes with his sleeve, hard enough to burn. “What happened to you? How could you not tell me? How could you let me leave you alone? God Hongjoong-ah my heart,” he clutches tightly at the fabric above his heart, “please don’t ever do this again. Please, I’m begging you. I was so fucking worried.”

Hongjoong’s shoulders sag, the fight draining out of him. He shrinks into himself. “I didn't want to complicate things.” Voice small, timid.

Seonghwa shoots him the dirtiest look. “Your collapsing is complicated?”

“No I…” he rubs the back of his neck, “I wanted to give you space.”

“So you hid in the studio for three days?”

“I…” Hongjoong draws back. “I was scared I'd accidentally bump into you at the company or back at your place. I didn't want to make you angrier… so I just thought to stay in the studio, since you rarely come by.”

Seonghwa feels the world spin. He’s never hated himself more than at this moment.

Hongjoong collapsed because of him. Hongjoong was sick because of him.
Because he ran instead of staying. Because he assumed instead of asking.

Because he was too scared to trust the man whom he knew deep down would never again let him fall without catching him, keeping him safe in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Hongjoong says softly. “I didn't think you’d ever find out. Please don’t be angry with me.”

Seonghwa sighs. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Seonghwa–” Hongjoong’s ragged voice rises in panic. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? I’m sorry, just don’t–”

“Shh…” Seonghwa’s tone softens immediately.

He picks up Hongjoong’s bag from the floor and hangs it on the rack – muscle memory from a life that still aches under his skin. He studies Hongjoong’s messy hair, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his chest rises and falls too fast.

He reaches out and closes his fingers around Hongjoong’s wrist, touch gentle enough that Hongjoong could pull away.

He doesn’t.

Seonghwa tugs him along.

“Let’s talk later,” he murmurs. “I made some porridge for you.”

I've been searching for an empty box, that's what I need
The memories you left in the drawer of my room

Seonghwa rinses the bowls after Hongjoong finishes eating, slots them back in the same drying rack like he used to – motion swift, familiar.

Hongjoong sits at the dining table, elbows resting on the surface, fingers loosely curled around the rim of his mug. He watches Seonghwa without speaking, eyes tracking every small motion. Seonghwa takes the medicine packets from him, eyes scanning the dosage instructions before sliding two tablets across the table.

“Be careful, swallow them slowly.” He instructs.

Then he takes Hongjoong’s wrist and guides him toward the bathroom, fingers firm but gentle. Hongjoong opens his mouth to protest, but Seonghwa shoots him a look – just a glance, but enough to make him swallow the words and follow.

While Hongjoong washes up, Seonghwa gathers his discarded clothes from the floor. He pauses, staring at the pile – shirts crumpled, socks mismatched, trousers tossed without care. He dumps them into the washing machine, the drum door thudding shut with more force than necessary.

Then he notices the drying basket.

His eyebrow twitches.

There are too many clothes here. Too many that should have been folded days ago. Fabric stiff with air-dry wrinkles, collars bent, sleeves tangled together.

When was the last time someone folded these?

He imagines Jongho folding out of obligation, Wooyoung complaining, Hongjoong forgetting entirely.

Heck, when was the last time anyone ironed their clothes?

He gets to work, folds the clothes into neat, precise rectangles, aligns seams, smooths wrinkles with the heel of his palm. It feels like a privilege and a punishment all in one.

When Hongjoong emerges from the shower, hair damp and curling against his temples, Seonghwa is already there, towel in hand. He steps forward without asking, fingers threading into Hongjoong’s hair, ruffling it gently before patting it dry.

Hongjoong stiffens for a fraction of a second, as though afraid to let himself relax, afraid to let himself remember how life for them used to be exactly like this.

“Seonghwa…” Hongjoong’s voice is quiet. He doesn’t meet his eyes, gaze fixed somewhere over Seonghwa’s shoulder. “What… what is this?”

“What do you mean?” Seonghwa dries the back of his neck, thumb brushing briefly over warm skin.

“What are you doing?” Hongjoong looks anywhere but at him – floor, doorframe, towel rack. Anywhere but Seonghwa.

What is he doing, indeed?

Seonghwa’s hands still and Hongjoong’s eyes immediately flash with something wildly uncharacteristic of Kim Hongjoong – fear, anxiety. His shoulders tense beneath Seonghwa’s touch, as though bracing himself for impact, for disappointment, for the moment reality breaks through and tells him this is nothing more than a cruel joke.

Seonghwa lets out a soft exhale.

“Looking after you.” He says simply and wipes away the water rolling off his nape.

Like I always have. Like I should have.

Hongjoong doesn’t reply, but Seonghwa can see the faintest tug on his lips – the ghost of a disbelieving smile.

Then, hand around Hongjoong’s wrist again, Seonghwa brings him back to his room and tucks him into bed, pulling the blanket up to his chest and turning on the heater to twenty-five degrees. Just the way Hongjoong likes it.

“Get some sleep.” Seonghwa mutters, fingers brushing long stray hair out of Hongjoong’s eyes. He turns to leave, steps light against the wooden floor.

“Seonghwa, no, don’t leave me–”

Hongjoong sits up so fast the mattress creaks, blankets slipping messily to his waist. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, panic spilling into them so suddenly it cracks Seonghwa’s heart open.

“No, no,” he stumbles back immediately, as if pulled by gravity, hand landing on Hongjoong’s shoulder to steady him. He can feel the tension under his palm, Hongjoong’s muscles taut, pulse racing. “I’ll just be outside. I promise.”

And then he sees it – he sees the boxes that Jongho told him about. Right by Hongjoong’s bed, boxes of melatonin supplements. Seonghwa counts at least ten bottles. Some boxes are open, some bottles are half used. There’s one on his desk, two small tablets resting silently next to the purple bottle, patient and waiting. Seonghwa wonders if Hongjoong would have taken them tonight as well, if he wasn’t around.

Seonghwa squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to cry, feels the sting behind closed lids, feels the shame pool in his stomach. Every bottle, every tablet, is a quiet confession of nights spent alone, of tossing and turning, of staring at ceilings and counting minutes until dawn. Nights when Hongjoong couldn’t sleep, when his body betrayed him and his mind wouldn’t quiet because Seonghwa wasn’t there to soothe him, to hold him, to remind him that he was safe and that he’s not alone.

All because Seonghwa left him.

“I promise,” he repeats, voice softer now, like he’s speaking to a frightened child. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Hongjoong studies his face, searching for cracks, for lies. Seonghwa cups his cheek, thumb brushing under Hongjoong’s eye where shadows cling stubbornly.

“Sleep, Hongjoong-ah. I promise, I won’t leave.”

Hongjoong leans into the touch, breath leaving him in a quiet, shaky exhale, shoulders finally dropping.

“Okay.”

Hongjoong lets himself be lowered back into the pillow. Seonghwa waits, thumb tracing slow circles against his cheek, listening to the heater hum and Hongjoong’s breathing slowly even out. He waits until Hongjoong’s eyelids droop, lashes fluttering, before carefully pulling his hand away.

Then he steps out, leaving the door slightly ajar.

.

Seonghwa busies himself over the next few hours thoroughly sanitising.

There’s food in the fridge that expired in December 2024, labels peeling, a black hair tie under the TV console that’s gone chalky white from dust. One side of a sock stitched San trapped beneath the sofa, lint clinging stubbornly to the fabric like it’s been abandoned for weeks.

There’s a vacuum in the cupboard that he’s confident has not been touched in months, but he’s not using it now. The motor is too loud, it would wake Hongjoong. So he opts for the broom and quietly sweeps two-week-old dust off the floor.

Then he hangs their clothes up to dry, carefully spacing them out so they won’t wrinkle. The other half of San’s embroidered sock turns up in the pile, its twin reunited at last. He pauses for a moment, holding the pair together, then clips them to the rack like a quiet, domestic victory.

He wonders offhandedly why the heck San’s socks are even here.

He fluffs up the sofa pillows, wipes down the countertop until it smells faintly of citrus and keeps the dried dishes, stacking them in their proper places – Hongjoong only ever drank from two mugs which Seonghwa arranges neatly right next to the water pitcher.

Then, when he’s finally satisfied, he drops down on the sofa. Fluffed-up pillows sighing under his weight.

He stares up at the ceiling, eyes tracing the faint crack near the corner, the one Hongjoong once joked looked like a constellation. His fingers twitch.

He thinks of the boxes.

Of the melatonin.

The thought is almost unbearable – just how long has Hongjoong been relying on these for relief he couldn’t find anywhere but in pills? How many nights had Hongjoong sat exactly where he’s sitting now, staring at the ceiling, praying for just one night of peaceful sleep that never came?

Seonghwa swallows. His heart pulses with grief for the quiet suffering of the man he loves that he caused with his own two hands. The ache settles in his chest, rattles against his bones at the thought. He remembers the times when Hongjoong would appear for practice and rehearsals looking like he’d fought a battle with death and lost twelve times over, even though they had an early end to the day before. Seonghwa remembers feeling confused.

Now, with bone-deep regret, he knows.

Seonghwa exhales slowly, like the weight is settling in his chest. He walks to the kitchen and pours warm water into Hongjoong’s mug –

“Seonghwa-yah?” He hears. The voice is small, hesitant, almost unsure if it deserves an answer.

Seonghwa’s head snaps up instantly. Hongjoong stands in the hallway, hair mussed, eyes still glassy from sleep.

“Did I wake you?” he asks, already walking towards him, mug in hand.

“No, you didn't.” Hongjoong rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. Seonghwa has to physically hold himself back from crushing him to his chest. “I feel much better now.”

“Okay good, but you should rest more.” He reaches out, hand returning to Hongjoong’s wrist and guides him back to the room, Hongjoong following without resistance.

Seonghwa settles him back under his blanket, tucking the edges around his shoulders.

He carefully places the mug on the bedside table and arranges the three tablets right next to it. “Take these before you fall asleep later.”

Hongjoong jerks upright, hand snapping around Seonghwa’s wrist. His grip is tight – too tight – fingers digging into skin as if he's afraid Seonghwa might vanish if he lets go. It's a foolish thought, Seonghwa ponders distantly – he's never going anywhere without Kim Hongjoong ever again.

“You’re leaving already?”

Seonghwa’s heart immediately tightens.

“No,” Seonghwa replies, a faint ache threading his words. “I’m just reminding you. In case I forget.”

He slides onto the edge of the bed, close enough that his thigh brushes against Hongjoong’s. He lowers him back onto the pillow, hands smoothing the blanket over his chest, patting his shoulder absentmindedly, muscle memory from having done this hundreds of times over.

“I’ll definitely forget,” Hongjoong murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll have to give them to me later.”

“Okay.”

“I sleep late.”

“I know.”

“I usually sleep at two. Sometimes three.”

“Mhmm, I know.”

“Three is too late for you to go back.”

Seonghwa freezes, hand hovering over the blanket. He looks into Hongjoong’s eyes, and finds a steady, intense gaze that pins him in place.

It’s far too awake for someone who just woke up.

“What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing.” Hongjoong's voice is soft, cheeky. Seonghwa feels his heart beat a little faster.

Seonghwa bends down, their foreheads touching. He tells himself he’s checking for a fever. The thermometer sits no more than a foot away on Hongjoong’s bedside table, untouched. “You’re still so warm.” Seonghwa mutters, pulling back slightly. “No practice for you for the next few days.”

Hongjoong huffs, pouts. Entirely boyish, entirely un-captain-like.

“Are you my mom?” he asks, half-laughing, half-defiant.

“No,” Seonghwa replies, tone lighter now, a quiet fondness threading through it. “But someone has to look after you.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Hmm?” Seonghwa feels himself shrink under the dark gaze of brown eyes.

“Don’t stop looking after me.”

Hongjoong’s voice is suddenly too near, too loud. Seonghwa notices then just how close their faces are. There’s barely an inch between them.

He can smell Hongjoong’s mint shampoo, the familiar laundry softener that used to cling to his clothes whenever Seonghwa stayed over.

He can see – count – every eyelash, every freckle, how his eyes turn a tad hazel when they catch the light.
He can see Hongjoong’s gaze flicker once, briefly, to his lips, then back up. Desire and fear threaded in his eyes.

He can feel Hongjoong’s hand resting cautiously on his waist, hesitant, a question left unspoken.

Seonghwa doesn’t think. Doesn’t know what comes over him. He leans down.

And kisses him.

.

.

.

.

.

.
..

It’s been 587 days.

587 days of restraint, of aching, of pretending he could survive without this.

Hongjoong’s lips are so painfully familiar. They’re still as soft and as warm as Seonghwa remembers, still fit against Seonghwa’s like they were made to. Seonghwa tilts his head just slightly, and Hongjoong’s lower lip catches between his own. It drags there for a heartbeat too long, warm and pliant, before slipping free. The contact sends a quiet spark down his spine.

Seonghwa exhales softly through his nose, the press of Hongjoong’s lips against his soothing something raw and restless deep in his soul. His lips move again, relearning the shape of him –

– and then he feels it.

Feels the hitch in Hongjoong’s breath before he hears it. Hongjoong freezes beneath him, the stillness slicing through Seonghwa’s haze – and reality crashes back into Seonghwa all at once. His hands resting on Hongjoong’s shoulder go cold, clammy. He screeches back, it’s barely an inch but it feels like miles, breath stuttering, chest tightening so sharply it almost hurts. Hongjoong’s eyes are wide open, staring straight at him.

What the fuck has he done.

“Hongjoong-ah I– I’m sorry I–mmh!”

The words are shoved back into his throat.

Hongjoong doesn’t just kiss like he’s desperate. He kisses like he’s starving. Like he’s dying. It’s a confession of all the words he couldn’t – didn't – say, poured into the heat of his mouth against Seonghwa’s. He flings his arms over his neck and in one smooth, seamless motion, flips them over, straddling Seonghwa’s hips, lips never once leaving his.

The kiss is deep and messy, full of teeth and want, hands roaming, touching, claiming. His hands trace the lines of Seonghwa’s throat, his collarbones, his waist, desperately relearning a map he thought he’d lost. Hongjoong’s body dips lower, pressing flush against Seonghwa’s torso. His tongue prods at Seonghwa’s bottom lip, fingers grabbing the roots of Seonghwa’s hair and Seonghwa shivers at the familiar ache. He wordlessly grants Hongjoong’s access, legs coming up to hook around the back of his thighs, arching into the kiss.

Oh, fuck, how he’s wanted this.

Hongjoong nibbles on his bottom lip, entire body weight on Seonghwa now. He rolls his hips, a slow, deliberate grind against the already-hard line of Seonghwa’s arousal straining behind his pants. The friction is brutal, exquisite. Seonghwa arches off the bed with a shattered moan, his fingers twisting in Hongjoong’s hair. It’s been so long, but Seonghwa has never once forgotten the delicious feel of Hongjoong’s skin against his. He’s spent too many nights thinking about his touch in the quiet of his room, hoping no one would hear him.

“F-Fuck, Hongjoong-ah,” Seonghwa mouths against Hongjoong’s lips, hands pushing weakly at Hongjoong’s shoulders. “Hongjoong-ah, you’re still sick–”

“I don’t care.” Hongjoong hisses, kissing up Seonghwa’s neck, hands roaming lower, memorising every dip, every curve. “Please, I can’t– I need you, Seonghwa, please–”

His hands palm Seonghwa’s strained, leaking bulge, rubbing into the thin fabric of his sweatpants. Seonghwa lets another moan tear through his throat, the sound echoing off the walls of the room. It sounds so obscene.

“Let me hold you please,” Hongjoong breathes against his ear. “Please.”

“We shouldn’t–” Seonghwa tries again, body betraying him when he arches his back, baring his throat to Hongjoong, the younger licking a hot, wet stripe up his neck in appreciation, “Fuck, Hongjoong-ah–”

Seonghwa’s resistance is a thin, fragile thing, and it shatters when Hongjoong bites down on the tender skin of his neck – a sharp, claiming pain that makes Seonghwa cry out and buck his hips upward, chasing friction. The mark will bruise. Seonghwa hopes it does.

“Seonghwa, please,” Hongjoong is begging now, lips ghosting against his sensitive earlobes. “Please, just this once. And then I’ll go. I’ll go, I promise. I’ll let you go. Just tonight, just one last time, please, Seonghwa.” His lips press a desperate kiss to his temples. “Please, let me love you.”

Seonghwa is straining in his underwear. He can feel the warm, sticky evidence of his arousal gathering in a small, shameful pool. He’s ached for this man. How many times had he touched himself imagining it was Hongjoong’s hands on him? How many times had he brought himself to climax, Hongjoong’s name falling like a broken record from his bitten lips? 587 days of phantom touches behind closed lids that he'd convinced himself would never become real again.

His body craves physical intimacy, but craves it entirely in one language – the language of Kim Hongjoong. His lips, his hands, his body. He has only ever known Hongjoong.

But wait.

A sudden cold, sick knot twists violently in Seonghwa’s stomach.

Was Hongjoong– did he, has he–?

The images are violent, unwelcome. A stranger’s hands where his had been. A stranger’s mouth learning the map of Hongjoong’s skin. The intimacy he’d thought was theirs alone, given away.

“Have you…”

“Hmm?” Hongjoong murmurs into the sensitive skin behind Seonghwa’s ear. “Yes, my love?”

“Have you… been with anyone else?” The words tumble out clumsily, like glass slipping from trembling fingers and Seonghwa can't bear to watch it fall. He stares fixedly at the wall behind Hongjoong's shoulder, bracing himself for impact, for confirmation that while he remained frozen in time, preserved himself for him like some tragic relic of a love that had long ended, Hongjoong had moved forward, had touched, had been touched by–

Hongjoong stills.

“Seonghwa… you–”

“Because I haven't,” Seonghwa whispers, the truth spilling out, words like gravel in his throat. “I couldn’t even think about it. The thought of anyone else… doing this with anyone else just… it made me sick. But I understand if you wanted to, if you… if you needed to–”

His voice breaks.

“–just tell me.”

Hongjoong’s expression crumples. A tear escapes, tracing a path down his cheek before he buries his face in Seonghwa’s neck. His shoulders shake.

“Is that what you think of me?” The words are choked, disbelieving. “Park Seonghwa, you think for one second… that I could? After all I’ve loved is you, I could let anyone else touch me?”

He frames Seonghwa’s face with trembling hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears Seonghwa didn’t even realise were falling. Seonghwa registers then the cold metal of the team ring pressing incessantly into his cheek.

It breaks him.

“My love,” he chokes out, the words muffled and broken against Seonghwa’s skin. “My stupid, beautiful love. Since that day, for every single day, I have ached for you. I have touched myself in the dark, pretending it was your hand too many times. I’ve dreamt of this moment so often I thought I’d gone mad.”

He lifts his head, eyes shining through the tears.

“There has been no one else and there will be no one else. If this is truly the last time I ever touch you, then I will take this memory to my grave and I will be grateful. But don’t you dare think for a second that my body or my heart has ever belonged to anyone but you.”

He kisses him again, but it’s soft. A silent vow, a devotion.

“You are my sun,” he murmurs against his lips, kissing the corner of his mouth. “My moon.” A kiss to his jaw. “My precious, precious star.” A kiss to his throat. “And if you allow me again, I will spend every second of the rest of my life on my knees for you, telling you, reminding you, as many times as you need and as many times as I have to that you are the only one for me.”

Seonghwa pulls him down into a deep, drowning kiss that tastes of salt and desperation, pouring every ounce of his own longing into it. His hips roll up, and he flushes crimson when he feels Hongjoong’s hard length drag against his thigh through their clothes. The sensation is electric, sending a jolt of pure need straight to his already-throbbing cock.

Hongjoong yanks back, breaking the kiss, breathing ragged. His eyes blown wide with want.

“Tell me to stop.”

“What?”

“Tell me to stop.” His voice is a raw scrape of sound. He grinds down again, making them both gasp. “You have to tell me to stop, Seonghwa. Because I am hanging by a thread.”

Hongjoong cups Seonghwa’s face with trembling fingers, team ring now burning against his cheek.

“Tell me to stop and I will. I promise I will. We will end it here. I will send you home, and we’ll go back to how things were. But–” Hongjoong’s voice quietens into a plea. He pulls back, eyes dark, terrified – Seonghwa doesn’t know what of, but he thinks it’s of himself. “–if you don’t tell me to stop, I am going to ruin you.”

He leans so close their lips brush with every shaky breath.

“So tell me. Please, my love. Tell me to stop.”

Seonghwa looks up at him – at the man who holds his heartbreak, his ruin, and his redemption in his hands. He sees love, fear, the desperate hope.

Seonghwa drinks in his gaze, melts in it. He reaches up and cradles Hongjoong’s tear-streaked face and brushes the wetness from his cheek. Then he brings their hands together, interlocking their fingers, team rings clinging softly against each other.

He leans in. Falls.

“Please.”

.

They lay together that night.

My love falls from Hongjoong’s lips more times than he can count as he takes Seonghwa apart slowly, thoroughly.

And when Seonghwa arches his back, spilling into Hongjoong’s hand, he cries out.

Joongie-yah.

.

Morning comes gently, soft light seeping around the edges of the curtains. Seonghwa wakes first, as he always does. He blinks once, twice, orienting himself to the extra weight, the extra warmth, the steady rhythm of a heartbeat against his cheek. Something that he hasn’t felt in so long.

Hongjoong’s bare chest rises and falls in slow, deep sleep and Seonghwa takes the moment to admire his face and remind himself that this is real.

His sweep of his long eyelashes, pointy nose, the sinful plushness of his lips.

Then his gaze drifts lower.

Dark red blooms decorating the entire column of his neck and collarbone. Undeniable evidence of last night’s hunger.

Seonghwa flushes and scoots back, the memories of last night hitting him all at once and he squeaks in sheer embarrassment.

This wakes Hongjoong. His eyes flutter open slowly, blurry and unfocused for a moment before they settle on him. A slow smile curves onto his lips.

“Good morning, my love.”

His voice raspy with sleep, low and warm, and fuck that sound goes straight to Seonghwa’s core.

“G–Good morning,” he replies softly, letting Hongjoong pull him closer to the solid heat of his chest. Hongjoong wraps his legs around his, a human cocoon. “We haven’t said it like this in a long time.”

“I’ve missed it.” Hongjoong mutters into the top of his head, pressing a kiss there. “I’ve missed you. So much.”

Hongjoong’s lips begin a slow, absentminded, lazy journey downwards. Butterfly kisses to his temple, his cheeks, the hinge of his jaw. Seonghwa squirms, shivers pleasantly working their way down his spine.

But when Hongjoong’s lips attach to his nape, kisses growing wetter, louder, accented with soft sucks and grazing teeth, Seonghwa moans softly, immediately feeling his interest stirring deliciously between his legs.

He feels Hongjoong smirk against his skin.

The fucker.

“Round five?” Hongjoong’s voice low, teasing.

Seonghwa’s dick twitches with traitorous interest.

“Kim Hongjoong!” Seonghwa flushes bright red, grabbing a pillow and smacking it over his face in protest. He huffs, turning around but he shifts too quickly and immediately winces, a dull ache in his hips and thighs reminding him of the previous night.

Hongjoong only laughs, the sound bright and unrestrained, and pulls him closer, Seonghwa’s back pressed completely flushed against his front.

“I’m joking, my love,” Hongjoong plants a lazy, placating kiss on Seonghwa’s bare shoulder.

Seonghwa hums, melting back into the embrace, fingers intertwining with Hongjoong’s where they rest over his waist, team rings gently knocking against each other. His breath slows as sleep beckons him back –

Then he feels something hard twitch at the cleft of his ass.

Hongjoong’s breath ghosts over his ear.

“Or am I?”

“Kim Hongjoong!”

.

“You really can’t do anything other than being an idol, can you?” Seonghwa clicks his tongue, reaching over to take the knife from Hongjoong. He cuts the pancakes (that he made and cooked and plated) into neat, precise squares in under ten seconds and slides the plate back across the table.

Here they are in the kitchen, two hours (and two rounds later). Seonghwa, the domestic goddess as termed by Hongjoong, had put together a kind of breakfast – pancakes, cut fruits, jams – that he thinks Hongjoong hasn’t had in months. When he passed the plate to him, Hongjoong’s jaw went slack.

Hongjoong stares at him like he’s just witnessed a miracle.

“I really can’t do anything without you,” Hongjoong sighs dramatically, attempting to stab a pancake square and missing entirely. His eyes are embarrassingly fond.

Seonghwa just scowls in return, taking a deliberate bite of his apple and turning his head to hide the flush creeping up his neck. “Just eat your food.”

Hongjoong grins dorkily from opposite him, popping his favourite pineapple into his mouth, humming happily as though he's been given a five-star meal.

“How are your hips?” Hongjoong asks casually, eyes twinkling over the rim of his fork.

Seonghwa doesn’t even blink. “Fuck you.”

“Again?” Hongjoong raises his eyebrows. “Are you trying to milk me dry?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

He does not, in fact, sound remotely apologetic.

Seonghwa’s hand rests on the table. Without hesitation, Hongjoong reaches over and covers it with his own. Hongjoong adjusts his hand just slightly, like he’s trying to line the bands up on purpose. His palm is warm – warmer than Seonghwa expects – familiar callouses from long studio nights and mic grips tickling his knuckles. Seonghwa turns his hand to slot his fingers into Hongjoong’s, their team rings pressing together softly, a small, distinct clink of metal against metal.

“Seonghwa-yah.”

“I told you to shut up.”

But Seonghwa doesn’t pull away.

Hongjoong’s thumb traces slow circles over his knuckles, absentminded and tender.

“My love.”

Seonghwa’s heart stutters.

“I told you to stop talking–”

“I love you.”

Seonghwa chokes on his orange juice.

“Don’t–!” He coughs violently, eyes wide, face burning all the way to his ears. “You can’t just say it like that!”

“Like what?” Hongjoong asks, blinking innocently. “Like it’s true?”

Seonghwa refuses to return Hongjoong’s gaze, but his fingers tighten around Hongjoong’s. “Just… give me a warning next time.”

Hongjoong’s smile widens, it’s softer now – less dork, more devotion.

“Okay,” he says. Fingers clasping Seonghwa’s tighter.

-

Seonghwa had never thought this day would truly ever come.

They sit on the sofa, the TV casting flickering light across the room. Some variety show chatters on in the background, laugh track rising and falling, but neither of them are watching. Seonghwa leans against the armrest, one leg tucked beneath him. Hongjoong is curved into his side, arms locked securely around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder as though it has always belonged there.

It’s the exact same scene. But it feels entirely different.

“Seonghwa-yah,” Hongjoong mutters softly, hand finding Seonghwa’s easily, running a finger along the band of his ring. His voice is low, careful. No hint of teasing in it. “Can we talk?”

Seonghwa straightens immediately. He turns, free hand cupping Hongjoong’s cheek. “What is it?”

“We should…” Hongjoong swallows. His jaw tightens. He looks down at their joined hands as if steadying himself. “Look, I meant everything I said.”

His fingers curl tighter around Seonghwa’s.

“I want this back, I want you back. I want mornings and nights with you, I want the stupid fights about the laundry and dishes and the cuddles after. I want the kisses before we go on stage and hugs after the shows end. I want life with you, my love.”

He leans forward until their foreheads press together.

“These past months have been hell,” he whispers. His lashes lower, and Seonghwa sees the faint sheen in his eyes, the way his throat bobs. “I never forgave myself for hurting you. I don’t think I ever will.”

His breath trembles. “But I’ll be better, my love. For you, with you.” The words come firmer now, rooted in something resolute. “I promise you won’t regret it. You’re worth everything.”

He closes his eyes, bringing their joined hands to his lips. The kiss he presses on Seonghwa's ring is firm.

“I don’t deserve it, but God, Seonghwa…” his voice is barely above a whisper, “if you’re willing to give me another chance, I promise – I swear – I will make you the happiest person on earth. My life, my heart, my everything, is yours. They’ve all always only been yours.”

Seonghwa’s chest suddenly feels too small for his heart.

“You sound like you’re proposing to me.” Seonghwa breathes, attempting lightness and failing.

Hongjoong stills, mutters something under his breath that might be a nervous laugh, might be a prayer. Seonghwa can't quite hear it. When he looks up, his eyes are shining.

“I won’t give up on us, not ever again.”

Seonghwa’s heart lurches so violently it almost scares him. He leans in first this time.

He presses a soft kiss to Hongjoong’s eyelids, one, then the other. To the tip of his nose. His cheeks. Then he hovers over Hongjoong’s mouth before he presses the gentlest kiss there. It feels like a promise that he intends to keep.

“We have a lot more to talk about,” Seonghwa murmurs against his lips. His fingers tighten in the fabric of Hongjoong’s shirt. “And… there’s still a part of me that’s scared.”

He feels it immediately, how Hongjoong’s body goes rigid, as though bracing for impact, for rejection.

“I understand,” Hongjoong says quickly, “I won’t force you into anything.”

“No, no.” Seonghwa cups his face again, urgency bleeding into his touch. He kisses his forehead, lingering. “You misunderstand me. I want this, I want you. You know I do.”

Hongjoong searches his face like he’s looking for cracks. For doubt. For escape routes. It’s a futile operation, Seonghwa thinks amusedly, for he will find none.

“Then we’ll take it slow,” he says finally. “I’ll prove it to you, that I’m worth it. You’ll never need to doubt anything ever again. I promise.”

The stretch of silence is thick, heavy with history. It’s filled with 588 days of unsaid things, of late-night arguments that never fully resolved, of tears wiped away in separate rooms. Of useless pride. Of fear. Of the kind of disappointment that lingers quietly and makes a home in your chest.

But Seonghwa looks at him – really looks at him – and for the first time in 588 days, there’s something that rises larger than fear, that dwarfs the bitterness and hurt that had taken root in his chest.

Hope.

It doesn’t erase what happened, doesn’t magically make everything okay. But it’s enough to make Seonghwa dare to believe in something that he had once thought impossible.

“Okay.”

Hongjoong eyes shine as he leans in to kiss his lips gently. Grateful.

And so they stay there, on the sofa that has held too many difficult conversations. Shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, hearts still bruised, still tender, but fuller than they’ve been in a long, long time.

.

“Seonghwa-yah.” Hongjoong says softly, looking up from Seonghwa’s lap.

“Mm?” Seonghwa hums, not looking away from the page, glasses perched on his nose.

“I’m going to tell you that I love you now.”

“Kim Hongjoong!”

It makes it feel like a rainy day
I think it’s time to let them go

2 September 2025

[06:10] My Love:
Good morning

[07:08] Hongjoong (you):
Good morning, Seonghwa
You’re up early
Did you sleep well?

[07:10] My Love:
Yes

[07:10] Hongjoong (you):
That’s good :)

[07:18] My Love:
Did you?

[07:18] Hongjoong (you):
Best sleep I’ve had in a long while

[07:20] My Love:
Ah
So it was you snoring
I scolded Mingi for nothing then

[07:20] Hongjoong (you):
Hey!
I don't snore
…
Do I?

[07:28] My Love:
Self awareness is an important trait to have

[07:28] Hongjoong (you):
:(
You never told me…

[07:30] My Love:
You talk in your sleep sometimes too

[07:30] Hongjoong (you):
???
I do???
Park Seonghwa, you're only telling me this now?????
What do I say?? Omg

[07:35] My Love:
See you at practice

[07:35] Hongjoong (you):
Seonghwa?!?!????!?!?!?!!

4 September 2025

[10:18] Hongjoong (you):
Do you happen to remember where I keep my cufflinks?

[10:24] My Love:
Grey cupboard next to your bedroom door, second drawer from the top
The one with the wonky handle
They should be in a silver box
Behind your ties

[10:25] Hongjoong (you):
By God you’re right
You’re amazing, Seonghwa-yah

[10:33] My Love:
I’m amazed that you even thought to ask me
I haven’t stepped into your room in months

[10:33] Hongjoong (you):
Well, you still remembered :)

[10:46] My Love:
I’ve cleaned the room so many times, it’s kinda impossible to forget
Your favourite silver flower ones are inside a navy pouch
If they aren’t together with the rest, then they’re inside your bedside drawer
Top drawer

[10:46] Hongjoong (you):
[image attachment]
You truly are amazing
What would I do without you

[10:50] My Love:
You'll survive

[10:50] Hongjoong (you):
I genuinely doubt so

11 September 2025

[09:11] My Love:
Have you packed your passport?

[09:11] Hongjoong (you):
Of course
What kind of person do you take me for

[09:20] My Love:
An embarrassingly forgetful one

[09:20] Hongjoong (you):
Well it’s a good thing that I have you around to remind me then :)

[09:28] My Love:
Learn to take care of yourself, please

[09:29] Hongjoong (you):
No
I don’t want to
Then you’ll stop looking after me

[09:56] My Love:
…
Remember to pack your travel adapters too.

[09:58] Hongjoong (you):
:)
[image attachment]
Packed!

[09:59] My Love:
Maybe you should pack one more
Since you’ll probably lose it

[10:00] Hongjoong (you):
Hey!
It’s fine
I won’t lose it
Have more faith in me :(

16 September 2025

[23:08] Hongjoong (you):
The Lotte World photos you posted on Instagram are really cute

[23:09] My Love:
Thank you
We’re literally seated side by side… in the same hotel room
You can tell me… to my face..?

[23:09] Hongjoong (you):
Thought this was cuter
I don’t want the kids eavesdropping
Did you have fun?

[23:10] My Love:
Yeah, Sannie is really sweet
I heard that you drank two litres of Han River water

[23:11] Hongjoong (you):
Wooyoung is a menace. I can’t stand him.
Worst date ever. Don’t know how San manages.

[23:13] My Love:
Haha
You still got such a nice car to drive him around in though
You’ve never even done that for me.

[23:13] Hongjoong (you):
Seonghwa?

[23:21] My Love:
Ignore me

[23:22] Hongjoong (you):
I’d love to
Go on a drive with you
I’d rent the nicest car for you, twenty times nicer than Wooyoung's
We’ll do whatever you want, go wherever you want
Can we?

[23:28] My Love:
Okay
Maybe
Can we eat beef?

[23:28] Hongjoong (you):
Of course
We’ll get whatever you want
:)
Just say the word and it’s yours

[23:34] Hongjoong (you):
Did Wooyoung just ask you who you’re texting?

[23:37] My Love:
Yes
Stop making my life difficult
He thinks I have a secret boyfriend

[23:37] Hongjoong (you):
Do you? :(

[23:45] My Love:
Don’t be stupid

[23:46] Hongjoong (you):
:)

[23:48] My Love:
I’m going back to my room to pack.
See you tomorrow morning.

[23:49] Hongjoong (you):
Okay
Great job again for Saitama :)
Goodnight Seonghwa
Text me when you wake up?

17 September 2025

[08:25] My Love:
Good morning

[08:26] Hongjoong (you):
Good morning, Seonghwa :)
I hope you slept well
See you in a bit
Are you at the gym now?

[08:35] My Love:
Yes, with Sannie and Yunho
Remember to bring your hoodie in case the airplane gets cold
And your vitamin C supplements. Don’t take them before breakfast later
Your extra pair of socks is in the front pocket of your Nike duffel bag

[08:36] Hongjoong (you):
Okay :)

[10:48] My Love:
Did you pack your adapter?

[10:49] Hongjoong (you):
Oh
Oh fuck!

24 September 2025

[20:35] My Love:
Wooyoung and San want to eat dinner tomorrow
Do you want to come too?

[20:38] Hongjoong (you):
I’d love to, but I have a meeting with the stage team
I think it’ll end pretty late
Close to 11, probably

[20:45] My Love:
It’s okay
Don’t work too late
And please eat your dinner at a socially appropriate time

[20:45] Hongjoong (you):
Yes yes
I will
Thank you, Seonghwa-yah :)
Have fun
Where are y’all going to?

[20:55] My Love:
It’s that barbeque place that’s trending on Naver
The one in Gangnam

[20:55] Hongjoong (you):
Ooohhh
Take pictures for me

[21:35] My Love:
Okay

[21:35] Hongjoong (you):

:)

25 September 2025

[07:25] My Love:
Bring a jacket out
It’s cold today

[07:26] Hongjoong (you):
Good morning :)
[image attachment]
Packed
Thank you, Seonghwa-yah

[19:25] My Love:
[image attachment]
[image attachment]
[image attachment]
The food is pretty good, meat is fresh
I think you’ll like their soups, they aren’t too spicy

[19:25] Hongjoong (you):
Oh wow
Looks really good!

[19:32] Hongjoong (you):
[image attachment]
I’m eating dinner now
Got take out from the tonkatsu place near our old building
The food is as good as I remember

[19:33] My Love:
Oh wow, I haven’t been there in years
Let’s go next time

[19:33] Hongjoong (you):
Next time?
Just you and me?

[19:57] My Love:
I’ll think about it

[19:58] Hongjoong (you):
I’d want nothing more :)

[21:08] Hongjoong (you):
Will San send you home first later before coming over?

[22:07] Hongjoong (you):
Text me once you get home?

29 September 2025

[11:38] My Love:
Are you at home now?

[16:15] My Love:
Hongjoong?

Missed call (3)

[23:15] My Love:
Hongjoong, is everything okay?
Please reply me

[23:46] My Love:
It’s cold tonight, remember to close your windows before sleeping.

30 September 2025

[02:15] My Love:
Goodnight

[06:38] My Love:
Good morning

[09:30] My Love:
Talk to me, please

[11:38] My Love:
Hongjoong I’m sorry for what I said.
Please don’t be angry at me
Are you okay?
Don’t scare me, please

Missed call (3)

[12:52] My Love:
Are you home?
Kim Hongjoong stop fucking playing. Pick up the fucking phone.

Missed call (4)

[13:11] My Love:
????
Hongjoong what’s going on?
You're scaring me

Missed call (2)

[14:32] My Love:
I’m coming over now.

[16:45] My Love:
Please come home safely.
I’ll wait for you.

2 October 2025

[21:38] My Love:
Have you eaten?

[21:38] Hongjoong (you):
Not yet
I will, soon
Just running through the final stage prep for Waterbomb
Will update everyone tomorrow

[21:39] My Love:
Don’t talk to me about work now
Why haven’t you eaten?
It’s almost 10

[21:39] Hongjoong (you):
I’ll grab something on the way home, I promise!

[21:39] My Love:
Liar
Stop skipping, I don’t want your gastric spells to come back
And you get grumpy.

[21:40] Hongjoong (you):
I don’t skip anymore…

[21:54] Hongjoong (you):
You like me grumpy
You think I’m cute

[21:55] My Love:
…
I like you alive

[21:56] Hongjoong (you):
So you do like me?

[22:04] My Love:
I don’t typically let people I don’t like put their dicks up my ass

[22:04] Hongjoong (you):
????????
People????? What do you mean people?????
Park Seonghwa
You told me it was just me
You promised????

[22:11] Hongjoong (you):
Seonghwa??????

[22:20] My Love:
I made roast chicken for dinner. We can’t finish.
And stop being stupid
Of course it’s just you.

[22:22] Hongjoong (you):
No one else but me, you hear me?
Can I come and take some?

[22:26] My Love:
Do whatever you want

Hongjoong reaches in less than ten minutes. Seonghwa says nothing when he passes him the already-packaged container of chicken. It’s a little overstuffed, too neat and too warm for leftovers. It feels heavier than it should and Hongjoong sees another small, cold container, yogurt, eat within 3 days scribbled on a sticky note in familiar, cursive handwriting.

Hongjoong also notices that Mingi and San’s shoes are missing from the rack.

He doesn’t question, but his heart thunders so loudly he thinks it’s about to jump out of his throat.

When their fingers brush, Seonghwa doesn’t pull away, and Hongjoong’s hand lingers longer than necessary, thumb stroking the back of Seonghwa’s hand. Their fingers intertwine, just for a moment, the faint glint of their team rings catching the warm, low light of the corridor.

Seonghwa takes a small step forward, leaning slightly into him, just enough to rest the weight of himself against Hongjoong’s chest, and Hongjoong feels the tension of the day melting out of him. His free hand curls around Seonghwa’s waist, tugging him closer, and he presses his cheek to Seonghwa’s, breathing in the familiar scent of lavender soap.

“You’ve been busy,” Seonghwa murmurs, voice soft.

“Never too busy for you,” Hongjoong replies without thinking, the words falling easily now.

Seonghwa hums. He turns his head and before Hongjoong can say anything, feels the press of Seonghwa’s lips against his cheek.

“Goodnight, Joongie-yah.” Seonghwa whispers against him, lips dancing across skin.

Hongjoong’s fingers tighten instinctively around Seonghwa’s waist. He leans in, capturing Seonghwa’s lips with a soft, lingering kiss, heart soaring as Seonghwa’s arms snake around his waist.

“Goodnight, my love.”

And I'll never miss you
I'll never miss you

9 October 2025

“You’re still here?”

Hongjoong startles just slightly — barely noticeable unless you know him the way Seonghwa does. He looks up from his notebook and hurriedly shoves it behind his back, elbow knocking lightly against the arm of the chair. He smiles too quickly. “I could say the same to you.”

Seonghwa closes the studio door behind him. The only light coming from the dim glow of a bulb overhead and from the two laptop screens casting a blue glow across the mixing console. He can see the music programs open on both – lines of overlapping tracks and sound effects. It looks terribly complicated.

He swears he sees his name somewhere in the file title.

“What are you working on?” His voice is casual, though his eyes squint.

“Oh,” Hongjoong hand snaps behind to slam both laptops shut. “Nothing. Just playing around.”

“Hmm…” Seonghwa steps closer, raises an eyebrow. “Lying to me already.”

“I’m not, my love.” The pet name landing softer than the deflection. Hongjoong pats the seat next to him. “Sit with me?”

Seonghwa slides in naturally, side by side, thighs pressing together, shoulder brushing shoulder. He leans his head on Hongjoong’s shoulder, breathing in the fabric softener that he used to wash their laundry yesterday, and his familiar woody cologne.

“Are you about done?” Seonghwa sighs softly when Hongjoong kisses the top of his head, lips lingering far longer than necessary.

“Mmm more or less.” Hongjoong arms hang loosely around Seonghwa’s shoulders, fingers coming up to fiddle idly with his hair along his nape. “Were you waiting for me?”

Seonghwa doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches the row of dark laptop screens across the studio, their glassy surfaces reflecting the two of them faintly – Hongjoong leaning down over him, Seonghwa half-tucked against his side. Then he tilts his chin up, peering at Hongjoong from behind long bangs. “Wanna get tonkatsu on the way back?”

“Are you asking me on a date?” Hongjoong’s voice is threaded with mirth. He kisses the top of Seonghwa’s head again, softer this time.

Seonghwa scowls against Hongjoong’s jacket.

“Maybe.”

Hongjoong chuckles under his breath. He leans further into Seonghwa’s side, his chin briefly brushing the crown of Seonghwa’s head.

“Seonghwa-yah.”

“Hmm?”

There’s a small beat of hesitation.

“Can I kiss you?”

Seonghwa turns his head fully now. They’re close enough that their noses almost brush. The room feels smaller, quieter. He can see the faint shine of strawberry chapstick on Hongjoong’s lips.

“Do you even need to ask?” Seonghwa mutters.

Before another sentence can form, Seonghwa grabs his lapels and pulls him in. Their lips meet a little off-center at first, noses bumping softly. Hongjoong makes a quiet sound of surprise into the kiss, hands instinctively coming up to steady Seonghwa’s waist. Seonghwa can feel the team ring through the fabric of his knitted top – one that Hongjoong bought for him.

The kiss deepens slowly, naturally, Hongjoong tasting faintly of coffee and strawberry chapstick. Seonghwa's grip tightens briefly in Hongjoong’s jacket when a tongue prods along his lower lip and he parts his mouth, a soft moan escaping when Hongjoong hums softly, satisfied.

When they part, it’s only because breathing is unfortunately, a necessary human function. Hongjoong rests his forehead against Seonghwa’s, lips curved.

“My love.”

“Hmm?”

“Can I kiss you again?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, can you stop asking and just– mmph!”

And I'll never miss you
I'll never miss you

20th October 2025

“Hyung.”

Mingi’s voice cuts through the quiet studio — not loud, but clear enough to slice through the low hum of the speakers and the soft scribble of pencil on paper.

“Hmm?” Hongjoong doesn’t look up immediately. He finishes the tail of the line he’s writing before setting his pencil down.

“Did something happen?”

That makes him look up.

“Huh?”

Mingi is turned halfway in his chair, one earcup pushed back so it rests behind his ear. A faint beat still leaks from it – hi-tops and a distant bass. Mingi isn’t the most observant person in the world, but right now his expression is careful with a knowing edge that tells Hongjoong he’s already connected the dots.

“Maybe I’ll rephrase that.” Mingi slips his headphones fully off, letting them settle around his neck. “I’m happy for you and Seonghwa-hyung. It’s about time.”

Hongjoong stills.

“I–” Hongjoong’s breath catches slightly in his chest. His pen hovers over the page, forgotten. “Why do you say that, Mingi-yah?”

Mingi takes a slow breath, eyes flicking to the scattered papers around them. His gaze settles on the notebook directly in front of Hongjoong.

“You haven’t written a love song in ages.” Mingi shrugs his shoulders. “We hardly sing love songs anymore.”

Hongjoong stutters, a flush creeping up his neck.

“Okay I guess we do, since we have THANK U–”

“Song Mingi!”

The reaction is immediate. Mingi’s mouth twitches before he lets out a loud, heart laugh. He pushes himself up from his chair, stretching his arms overhead with an exaggerated groan before bending down to grab his bag from the floor.

“Well,” he says casually, slinging the strap over his shoulder, “I’m off to get dinner with Yunho then I’m gonna pack for Kobe. So I’ll be a kind and understanding son and give you back your studio so you can have more private time with mom.”

Hongjoong turns red so fast it’s almost impressive. “Song Mingi??”

Mingi laughs again, loud, full-bodied, echoing slightly off the studio walls. He reaches for the door handle, then pauses, glancing back just slightly. His voice softens. “You draw beautiful stars, hyung.”

The door shuts with a quiet click, and silence floods back in.

Hongjoong looks down at the page again – at the stars. They litter the entirety of the page – some sharp, some small, some clean, some smudged. A reminder of how imperfect his love is, but beautiful all the same. He exhales slowly, lowering his pen.

His fingers tap once against the pencil before picking it up again. He turns it between his fingers, aligning the sharpened edge just right. This time, when he draws another star, he takes his time with it, hand and heart steady.

If you're feeling the same way
I wish you better than, oh, our time together

24 October 2025

“Okay, who wants to go next?” Seonghwa doesn’t miss the way Hongjoong’s eyes flick toward him before the question is even finished. “Seonghwa?”

“Sure.” He groans when he pushes himself off the beanbag. Seven years after debut and his knees sound like bubble wrap.

They sit around the studio, bodies sinking into bean bags and Seonghwa feels his eyelids grow heavy. They’d only flown back from Japan the day before and after an insane tour leg, all he wants to do is sleep for two days straight. But only after they’re done with today – today they’re celebrating seven years since their debut and Seonghwa thinks just how insane a sentence it is. He didn't even think they’d ever make it past their third.

Seven years of album recordings redone until sunrise, lyrics re-written one too many times, and performances perfected at 3am and honestly, after seven years, he can’t remember half of them anymore.

But they’ve been briefed to recommend B-side tracks to ATINY, something meaningful or nostalgic, or something that will pump adrenaline in their veins. He’s a bit sheepish to admit that he has to refer to a song list to jog his memory.

But of course, there’s one that he remembers a bit too well.

He writes The Ring first, glancing over his shoulder to tease Hongjoong. “You still remember your part?” he asks lightly. Then he adds another title.

“Empty Box,” he says lightly, picking up the paper to double check the spelling of the words, awkwardly writing it down in a language he barely uses. His heartbeat is not nearly as light as his tone. “Because it reminds me of someone.”

There’s a chorus of teasing “ooohs.”

Seonghwa smiles. “It is a precious song to me,” he adds, softer. He straightens and reaches over to place the sheet back on the table in front of Hongjoong. With his back to the camera, shielded from the crew’s view, he lets himself look. Just for a second.

“Ah, really?” Hongjoong pipes a little too casually, eyes darting to him for just a briefest moment before he snapping away like he’s been burned.

As he settles back into his beanbag and allows it to swallow him whole, knees popping again. From the corner of his eye, he sees Hongjoong cast a nervous glance at him. But the moment he turns to face him, his gaze immediately disappears. It’s directed to the floor, the board, the crew, anywhere but him.

Seonghwa raises his eyebrow.

That – and the way Hongjoong had pretended not to recognise his exaggerated kissing sound during the earlier game – is enough.

Something is wrong.

.

He slips into the break room after the live. It’s empty, save for their coats sprawled over chairs and half-open bags shoved into the corners. Laughter and voices carry down the hallway from where his boys are enjoying the refreshments – Mingi’s booming laugh, Jongho’s loud, mock protests, Wooyoung’s unmistakable cackles cutting above everything else.

The door pushes open slowly, creaking under its weight. From behind, brown hair emerges, then eyes that border soft and guilty.

“Seonghwa-yah.” Hongjoong calls, voice gentler than it had been on camera – a voice reserved only for him. He nudges the door close behind him. “You’re not joining us?”

Seonghwa shakes his head once, eyes him carefully from behind his lashes. Hongjoong shifts his weight from one foot to another, teeth troubling his bottom lip. He approaches slowly, shuffling forward awkwardly and taking the seat next to Seonghwa, the plastic chair screeching against the floor, piercing the silence in the room. He sits close enough that his knees almost touch. His hands reach into his pocket and he pulls out two slightly squished Chocopies, sliding them across the table. A peace offering of sorts.

Seonghwa looks at them, then at Hongjoong. He sighs, “I know something’s wrong. Talk.”

Hongjoong bows his head immediately, bangs falling forward. His fingers twist into the cuff of his sweater, tugging at the threads until the fabric bunches.

“Seonghwa, look,” Hongjoong mumbles, “I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“Okay, first things first – I knew it was you. How could I not?” He rushes the words out. “I know exactly how you sound when you kiss, okay? I just — I had to say Yunho because I didn’t want to make it obvious.”

I know exactly how you sound when you kiss.

It’s achingly intimate and Seonghwa would be lying if he didn't feel his stomach twist in glee.

“Mhmm,” Seonghwa tilts his head. “I’m not mad about that.”

“I… I’m sorry about Empty Box,” he finally says, “truly, I am. We haven’t spoke about it but I know how fucked up it was for me to approve those lyrics. To even release the song." He swallows, “I got the inspiration back then and I just… needed somewhere to put everything I was feeling. I wasn’t thinking about how it would feel for you to hear it. To have to sing it.”

His fingers twist in the fabric of his sleeve. “I’m sorry, my love.”

Ah, there it is.

Seonghwa’s heart swells. The name that only surfaces when they’re alone. When walls come down. Seonghwa’s heart softens.

He remembers the day they sat around the table, finalising the tracklist, learning lyrics, and distributing parts – how his stomach dropped, how he had escaped to the toilet as the nausea twisted in his gut, how he had sobbed into the night. How that was the last night he wore his team ring.

Now, he twists the ring on his finger, chest aching at the memory. It all seems so far away now. The pain is gone, shaped and moulded into something he can now look back onto and smile. How they’ve grown since then.

“It’s okay, Hongjoong-ah, I'm really not angry at all.”

“See, you are mad.”

“Huh?”

“You called me Hongjoong-ah.” A pout tugs at Hongjoong’s lips. Seonghwa laughs quietly, the fleeting tension finally cracking.

“Okay, Joongie-yah.” He corrects gently and sees how Hongjoong’s shoulders immediately ease. Seonghwa leans in and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “Is that better?”

“Much better.”

They sit there, knees touching now, faces no more than two inches apart, breath mingling. Seonghwa hears Wooyoung shriek about something, San’s laughter following shortly.

Hongjoong’s eyes flick down. His gaze lands on his lips, hesitant and wanting, before it snaps back up like he’s been caught doing something illegal. Then he jerks back, back ramrod straight, fingers clasped together tightly, as though praying for forgiveness or for restraint. His eyes drill holes into the floor.

Seonghwa raises an eyebrow.

“I wasn't angry at all about Empty Box. Though I am gonna be pretty pissed off.,” Seonghwa says calmly, though he can hear his pulse in his ears, “if you don't kiss me now.”

“Seonghwa, you–” Hongjoong’s eyes shoot up.

“I’m giving you five seconds.”

“What?”

“Fiv– mmph!”

Seonghwa never knew Hongjoong could move that fast. One hand comes up to cup his jaw, warm and firm, fingers spreading along his cheek as Hongjoong pulls him forward and crashes their mouths together. The kiss is urgent and a little messy, like Hongjoong has been holding himself back all night and finally snapped. Seonghwa makes a surprised sound against his mouth before melting into it, fingers curling into Hongjoong’s hair, tugging him closer.

“I really am sorry, my love.” Hongjoong mutters against his lips when they pull apart, foreheads still pressed together. “Forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Seonghwa smiles warmly, genuinely. “But maybe you can write me a proper love song next time?”

Hongjoong stares at him for a second. Then he grins.

.

Seonghwa sits in the car an hour later, managers sending him and Yunho back to the company for them to finalise their costume fittings for the upcoming Dream Festival. The car engine hums softly and outside, Seoul slides past in ribbons of neon and streetlights. Seonghwa leans against the armrest, cheek propped lazily on his palm as he watches the night move past him.

His phone vibrates.

23 October 2025 [Yesterday]

[22:33] Joongie-yah:
So…
Are you staying over tonight? :)

[23:40] Seonghwa (you):
Whoa whoa
That’s coming off a bit too forward, don’t you think?
What happened to courtship?
What happened to romanticism??

[23:41] Joongie-yah:
Seonghwa, my love, the light of my life, occasional loud alarm clock
If I may be so bold
I know that you must be feeling exhausted from the Japan tour
If you’d do me the honour
May I kindly request for your presence in my humble abode tonight?
I will massage every sore joint in your body
Guaranteed full relaxation

[23:42] Seonghwa (you):
…
Why are you like this
But yeah I already told manager-nim yesterday that I’ll be staying with you tonight
So I’ll be riding your car later

[23:43] Joongie-yah:
?????
Park Seonghwa you
You’re lucky I love you

[23:47] Seonghwa (you):
I am indeed

[23:48] Joongie-yah:
You know what else you'll be riding later? ;)

[23:48] Seonghwa (you):
??????
KIM HONGJOONG

[23:49] Joongie-yah:
Exactly

[23:52] Seonghwa (you):
Oh my god
Fuck you

[23:52] Joongie-yah:
Please

24 October 2025 [Today]

[22:49] Joongie-yah:
[image attachment]
Asked manager-hyung to make a detour :)
Let’s eat it together later?

[22:50] Seonghwa (you):
Are you bribing me?

[22:50] Joongie-yah:
No
Just making sure the love of my life gets to eat his favourite cake on a regular basis

[22:52] Seonghwa (you):
I’ll be home soon

“Seonghwa-hyung.”

“Mm?” Seonghwa turns his head, attention immediately on his eldest son. Yunho looks up from his phone, an eyebrow quirked, a suspiciously knowing smile on his face.

“You’re wearing your team ring again.”

Seonghwa’s heart stutters.

“Huh? O–Oh.” His hand lifts almost automatically, fingers brushing the silver band and twists it gently. “Yeah… I found it.”

Yunho hums softly under his breath, eyes flicking briefly to the ring glinting under the passing streetlights.

“Well,” he says casually, “I’m glad my parents are back together, it’s about time.”

Seonghwa’s eyes fly up to Yunho’s face, the younger one smiling a bit too brightly.

“How did you know–”

“That your rings are different?” Yunho tilts his head. “Or that you’ve figured things out?”

Yunho laughs at Seonghwa’s slacked jaw, leaning back into his seat. “Well, let’s just say that we’re pretty observant. And our parents are not exactly the smartest people in the world.”

“We?” Seonghwa echoes weakly. Then he blinks. “Not the smartest? Jung Yunho, you little–”

Yunho raises an eyebrow, “Hyung come on, you think we don’t notice?” He immediately raises his hands in surrender when Seonghwa shoots him a dirty look.

“The two of you were impossible.” Yunho muses. “We were getting tired of watching you two suffer. I mean yes, we were really worried at first, for the both of you and the group. But it was obvious that both of you were still so in love with each other, so we figured that it was just a matter of time before you got over yourselves.”

Seonghwa’s mouth drops open. “Hongjoong was obvious?”

“Hyung you–” Yunho makes a sound reminiscent of a dying whale then he sighs loudly, pinching his nose bridge. “Sometimes, I think you can be a bit stupid. In fact, actually, nah, the both of you are pretty stupid.”

“Hey, don’t be rude!”

Yunho just laughs. “Okay, okay. I’m sure we’ll have a lot to talk about,” his eyes soften. “But just know that I’m incredibly happy for you. We all are.”

Seonghwa looks down at his hands, face flushed and warm.

“Thank you, Yunho-yah.”

“So…” Yunho asks without looking away from his phone, fingers flying furiously across the keyboard. “Are you going to make yogurt for me too?”

Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“But you made it for Hongjoong-hyung.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Seonghwa opens his mouth, then his eyes dart to the screen where a new message has just appeared from the devil himself. It’s a GIF of a squirrel and a white bunny hugging, hearts popping out.

The typing bubble appears again then –

[22:55] Joongie-yah:
:)
Come home safe, my love
I love you so much

He smiles shyly and pockets his phone.

“It just is.”

Yunho beams and says nothing more.

Leave everything behind
Hope you come across something more than better

26 October 2025

“Thank you for the coffee cart.” Hongjoong smiles, feeling warmer than he should in the cool autumn air. He brings the warm cup of coffee to his lips. It tastes sweeter than it should – he asked for an espresso. It tastes like Seonghwa’s fault. “You’re really creative.”

“So will you let me be your model?” Seonghwa’s voice through the phone is light, teasing, wrapped in soft static. He wants, irrationally, desperately, to cross the city in a heartbeat and fold him into his arms, to press kisses into his hair, his cheeks, everywhere he can reach.

“Of course, my love,” Hongjoong says immediately. His voice is steady, his heart is not. “Just say the word and it’s yours.”

There’s a brief, muffled sound on the other end – Seonghwa choking, chairs scraping, someone laughing, hands patting his back.

“Joongie-yah…”

Joongie-yah.

God, the name sends his stomach into a riot of butterflies. He smiles like an idiot to himself – goofy, hopelessly dorky, embarrassingly in love – heat creeping up his neck. He coughs and covers his face just as the director catches his eye and waves him over from across the set.

He exhales, fond and reluctant. “I’m sorry, my love. I have to go. I’ll call you once I’m done, okay?”

The other side of the line explodes in pure chaos – there’s the sound of something (someone?) getting smacked loudly, someone howling in pain (definitely Wooyoung), a delighted aww (Yeosang), and a sharp shut up, I’m trying to listen! (Jongho).

Hongjoong chuckles fondly. “You sound busy.”

“We have six children.” Seonghwa grumbles, “We’re always busy.”

“Well, tell them to behave, or their father is going to whoop their asses later for making mom’s life difficult,” Hongjoong says lightly, teasing yet firm. “No one bullies my wife.”

There’s the sound of Seonghwa choking again, even more muffled shouting, chaotic cheering (San and Yunho?), a loud whistle (Mingi?), and then – Kim Hongjoong you ain’t shit!

Unmistakably Jung Wooyoung.

“Joongie-yah, you–” a sharp inhale, “Don’t say things like that.”

“What?” Hongjoong teases, letting his smile thread warmth into his own chest. “Did I say anything wrong?”

“We aren’t married.” Seonghwa snaps, flustered, a tremor in his voice.

“Yet.”

“... What?” His voice comes out small, raw, a whisper that barely reaches the phone.

The director’s voice cuts through, distant and meaningless. “Hongjoong-sshi–”

Hongjoong exhales, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry, my love. I really need to go. Thank you again for the coffee cart, I love it.” He can’t stop smiling, even though Seonghwa can’t see it. “I’ll see you at your place at seven for dinner?”

“Mm… okay, have fun.”

“Seonghwa, I—” Hongjoong stutters, heart in his throat. “I mean it, okay? You’re it for me. Always. If you’ll have me.”

“Tell me these things when I can actually see your face.” Seonghwa whispers, the plea threading through Hongjoong’s ribs, making his heart lurch.

“I’m sorry, my love. We’ll talk later okay?”

“Okay.”

A beat.

“I love you.”

.

.

The world stops.

The set fades.
The lights blur.
The voices dissolve.

Everything collapses into those three words.

616 days.

That’s how long it’s been since he last heard them spill from Seonghwa’s lips. 616 days of careful distance, unspoken secrets, desperate yearning, and quiet, lonely, loving.

And now, they fall so simply, so easily from Seonghwa’s lips.

The words slide back into his chest like something finally returning home.

Hongjoong’s throat tightens. His mouth goes dry. His vision swims, the edges burning.

“Seonghwa–”

“Oh shit– sorry, I’m sorry Hongjoong-ah I shouldn’t have–”

“My love,” Hongjoong breathes into the phone. His fingers curl tighter around the cup, knuckles whitening. His heartbeat is so loud he can hear it in his ears. “I love you too. I love you so very much. More than you’ll ever know.”

Silence stretches. He can hear Seonghwa’s breathing now – shallow, a little shaky.

Then a soft exhale. Almost a sob.

“Come home soon.”

Feeling the same way
I wish you better than, oh, our time together

7th November 2025

“Happy birthday, hyung!” Yunho calls, already halfway out the door, his wrist firmly trapped in Wooyoung’s grip.

Yunho throws Hongjoong a sly wink over his shoulder as he’s physically hauled into the hallway like a very tall piece of luggage. The other six follow in a noisy swarm.

After forty minutes of debate earlier, three polls in the group chat, and one near-physical altercation between Wooyoung and Mingi, they’ve finally reached a democratic conclusion on which gelato shop they’re going to today. And they’ve also concluded with overwhelming agreement, that Yunho is no longer allowed to choose which flavours they’ll be getting.

“And fuck you, Song Mingi, I’m not sharing my waffles with you this time!” Wooyoung yells far louder than actually needed to get his point across.

Mingi’s voice follows immediately, deeply offended. “Why would I even want your waffles?”

“Because you ate all of mine last time.”

“They were on the table! I thought they were communal.”

Wooyoung’s voice lingers last, shrill and indignant as the elevator doors slide shut.

“You’re a communal problem!”

Hongjoong stands there for a moment, staring at the door. Then he quietly locks it.

The dorm falls quiet in their wake, the aftermath of a small, colourful explosion all around them. Balloons lie half-deflated across the living room floor, one rolling around the floor lazily under the air conditioner. Streamers cling stubbornly to the ceiling fan and coffee table legs. A crushed party hat lies near the couch, flattened beyond recognition – likely a casualty of someone’s ass.

Hongjoong had come back from his birthday live expecting nothing more than a shower and sleep, maybe – if he was lucky – curling up beside the love of his life. But oh no, his wife and six children decided to ambush him the moment he opened the door, screaming in his ear and popping balloons and blowing bazookas loud enough to wake the dead.

For a moment, he genuinely thought the building was under attack.

They’d ended up sitting on the floor together afterward, huddled around the coffee table like a pack of exhausted gremlins. Seonghwa’s cooking had been laid out neatly – roast chicken, kimchi stew, a chicken stir-fry, pineapple yogurt, and Seonghwa’s favourite strawberry cake that Wooyoung had nearly dropped twice while carrying it from the kitchen.

They huddled closer to watch Hongjoong’s Petit Coussin YouTube live. The moment his face appeared on the screen, the dorm erupted into whooping and hooting, Jongho clapping like a proud dad and Mingi slapping Hongjoong’s back so hard Hongjoong was sure it’d leave marks. He made a mental note to return the favour in full the next time. He had covered his burning face, the heat only worsening when Seonghwa pulled him in by the shoulder and kissed his temple.

I’m so proud of you, Joongie-yah. He had whispered, soft enough only for him to hear, though from the scandalised and downright suggestive looks the six shot him, he supposed that was not the case. Hongjoong still melted instantly, nonetheless.

Now Seonghwa is tucked comfortably against him on the couch, his back resting against Hongjoong’s chest like it belongs there.

“Happy birthday, Joongie-yah.” Seonghwa wishes again, voice soft with sleepiness. He takes a sip of his lemon-infused water. “I hope you like your present.”

Hongjoong lowers his gaze to the headphones on his lap, turning them slowly in his hands. On the inside of the band, engraved small enough that only the wearer would see it: a star and a heart.

The rest of his boys had gifted him a bunch of other presents too – a knitted sweater from Jongho, dumbbells from San, candles from Yeosang, and small table speakers from Yunho and Mingi that they had proudly carried in like an M Countdown trophy.

And Wooyoung…

Hongjoong shivers faintly at the thought.

Wooyoung gave him a new fountain pen. He had grabbed Hongjoong’s hand a little too tightly for it to be considered a friendly grip, and pressed the box into his hand. He was smiling, it was a very sweet smile. The kind that absolutely could not be trusted.

If you dare make Seonghwa-hyung upset again, I’ll stab you with it. He had said brightly. His eyes were not smiling. San had stood behind him looking deeply uncomfortable.

And then, he continued pleasantly, I’ll dump your body into the Han River.

The smile didn't drop.

Hongjoong does not doubt him at all.

He runs a finger along the engraved icons, “I love it, my love.” He absentmindedly plays with Seonghwa’s soft black hair, the strands are soft between his fingers, warm from where Seonghwa has been leaning against him. He presses a kiss to his temples. “Thank you.”

Seonghwa hums, content. He shifts and turns around, shoulder bumping into Hongjoong’s. “And congrats on your debut, Mr Designer Kim Hong Joong.”

Hongjoong leans closer, brushing Seonghwa’s cheek with a soft kiss, then his nose, before pausing. His lips hover teasingly over Seonghwa’s, warm and familiar, a quiet promise in the pause.

“Thank you, my love.”

Seonghwa wordlessly leans in, closes the distance himself and Hongjoong relishes the sensation of Seonghwa’s soft, supple lips brushing teasingly against his own.

“What did you wish for?” Seonghwa asks when they part, his head tilting until it rests against Hongjoong’s shoulder

“I already have everything I want,” Hongjoong says quietly, hands finding Seonghwa’s waist easily, fingers toying with the soft fabric of his sweater. “Right here.”

“Sweet talker.” Seonghwa grumbles, though he leans into the kiss Hongjoong plants on his cheek, the corner of his mouth betraying him with the faintest smile.

“Only for you.”

“It better be.”

Hongjoong stills at that. Something in the way Seonghwa says it – light and teasing and unserious, but laced with fragility, vulnerability – makes his chest tighten. Slowly, he shifts on the couch, the plush leather creaking softly beneath him. He turns until he’s facing Seonghwa fully and gently pulls him closer, guiding him by the arm.

“Park Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa blinks at the sudden seriousness in Hongjoong’s voice. Hongjoong lifts a hand and cups his jaw, thumb brushing slowly along the curve of his cheek.

“You listen to me.”

Hongjoong’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You are it for me. There will only ever be you for me so don’t ever think for a moment that I will ever stray. I know this industry is shit, I know people talk, I know there are a thousand ways things could go wrong. But I swear, God, I swear to you, my love, you are the only one I’ve ever loved, and will ever love.”

Hongjoong exhales slowly, head dipping for a moment before he murmurs, almost to himself, “Perhaps if my heart could live in your chest just for a moment, you’d understand just what I mean when I say that I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

When he looks up again, Seonghwa is staring at him. His lips tremble slightly, eyes bright and glassy in the soft light. For a second neither of them says anything. Then Seonghwa lets out a quiet, breathy laugh – one so fiercely private that Hongjoong knows that it’s not something anyone but him has ever had the privilege of hearing before.

“Since when did you get so good with your words?”

Hongjoong shrugs, leaning in, allowing warm breath to mingle. “Since I needed to win you back.”

“You’re impossible.” Seonghwa huffs, though his voice is unmistakably fond.

Hongjoong grins, hand around Seonghwa’s nape and he guides his head to rest on his collarbone. “But you still love me, don’t you?”

Seonghwa snorts. “Do I?”

Hongjoong kisses his temple, smiling into the kiss.

“Thank you for spending my birthday with me, my love.” He plays absentmindedly with Seonghwa’s growing hair by his nape, tucking the soft, stray strands behind his ear. “I honestly never thought I’d get the chance to celebrate my birthday with you like this ever again. This still feels like a fever dream. But I’m so incredibly happy, and grateful.”

His thumb brushes lightly against Seonghwa’s jaw. “This is the best birthday of my life.”

The room falls quiet after that, the kind of quiet that settles naturally when there’s nothing left that needs to be said. Only the soft rhythm of their breathing fills the space.

After a moment, Seonghwa turns his head and presses his lips gently against Hongjoong’s. The kiss is slow and lingering, warm with something deeper than teasing now. Before pulling away, he catches Hongjoong’s bottom lip between his own for a brief second, holding it there before letting it slip free.

“I can make it even better.” Seonghwa whispers against his lips, promise threading through his voice.

Hongjoong’s eyebrow lifts slightly, a slow smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. His gaze darkens as he leans closer, voice low and husky.

“Stay the night?”

Seonghwa’s eyes flicker, heat rising beneath his skin immediately.

“Took you long enough to ask,” Seonghwa replies, voice low, immediately slipping his arms around Hongjoong’s neck. Hongjoong grins, lifting him easily, hands tight around his thighs as he plants a quick, crooked kiss to his mouth.

They barely make it down the hallway. Their kisses turning messy and distracted, mouths missing and finding each other again, hands clutching at hair, fabric, skin – anything they can hold onto. Hongjoong presses Seonghwa’s back against the hallway wall for a moment, Seonghwa’s legs clamped tightly around the small of Hongjoong’s waist. Hongjoong deepens the kiss, tongue slipping in when a soft moan leaves Seonghwa’s lips.

“Bedroom,” Seonghwa breathes raggedly when they part, warm breath brushing teasingly on Hongjoong’s lips. “Now.”

They somehow manage. Hongjoong nudges the bedroom door open with his shoulder and lowers Seonghwa carefully onto the bed, lips trailing along Seonghwa’s jawline, slow and deliberate, the faint scrape of teeth against skin making Seonghwa shiver. Seonghwa ruts upwards, chasing friction, a soft moan escaping his lips when he feels an equally hard length drag against his crotch.

“Joongie-yah,” Seonghwa breathes, fingers curling into the fabric at Hongjoong’s shoulders when warm lips find the sensitive spot beneath his ear, “remember when I said that you sleep talk?”

“My love,” Hongjoong sighs against his neck, voice already thick with want, “please don’t bring up my uncool moments when I’m grinding my dick against you.”

The bluntness of it breaks the tension instantly. Seonghwa bursts into loud, unrestrained laughter, his stomach aches. He grabs Hongjoong’s face with both hands, squishing his cheeks before pulling him down into a kiss.

“When you sleep talk,” he says more quietly, thumb brushing along Hongjoong’s cheekbone, “sometimes you tell me that you love me.”

Hongjoong pauses, feeling the love fill his chest.

“Well,” he says after a second, voice steady now, “I’ll tell you that when I’m wide awake as well.”

He shifts to hover over him, one hand braced beside Seonghwa’s head. He smoothes Seonghwa’s hair away from his face, pressing their foreheads together.

“I love you, Park Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa leans up, smiles, and brushes the softest kiss to Hongjoong’s lips.

“I love you too, Kim Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong pauses. For a stretched moment, he lets the words echo in the space of the room and in the crevices of his heart. He feels the solid reality of Seonghwa beneath him, with him, sees the trust in his eyes, and the love in his smile.

Then, with a low growl that is all possession and promise, he crashes his lips back onto Seonghwa’s, and all pretense of romanticism and gentle courtship is thrown gloriously out the window.

They fall asleep together much later that night, hands roaming, lips claiming, promises of forever whispered into bare, heated skin like nothing ever changed.

.

Seonghwa is the first to wake, as usual. The thought of it being an off day, the chance to laze around all day and do absolutely nothing together with the love of his life makes him ecstatic. He presses a soft kiss to Hongjoong’s forehead and the younger stirs, arms tightening around Seonghwa’s waist.

“Ngh-hwa…” Hongjoong mutters, voice thick with sleep, face buried in his shoulder.

Seonghwa smiles fondly, fingers combing gently through his hair. “Hmm?”

A pause. A small, unconscious nuzzle.

“... love you.”

Seonghwa lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head affectionately, brushing another kiss into Hongjoong’s hair.

“I love you too.”

Hongjoong hums, a satisfied sound, and his breathing steadies again.

Careful not to wake him, Seonghwa doesn’t move, but he does lift his gaze, letting it wander slowly, lazily around the room. He’s been here a few more times since everything between them changed – short visits where he spent more time in the living room, quiet nights they both pretended were simply for logistics since they were heading to the same practice the next morning (Seonghwa would have sat in the van with San and Mingi to go to the exact same place anyway), but this is the first time he’s gotten the time to slowly and properly relearn the room, a space he once also called his.

At first glance, it looks almost the same. The furniture hasn’t shifted, the desk still sits beneath the window, the cupboard still bears that small chipped piece of wood near the bottom from when they’d tried to drag it across the floor without help. The accessories drawer remains as messy as the day he first complained about it.

The first difference Seonghwa notices is the absence of himself. There’s no skincare packed and labelled neatly in the corner, no snack drawer. But that’s easily fixed. Seonghwa’s lips curl into a quiet smile – there’s a bag filled with his belongings by the side of Hongjoong’s table, ready to be returned to their original positions. Like they – he – was never gone at all.

The second difference Seonghwa notices is that the corner by his bed is significantly emptier.

For a moment he just stares. Then the realisation settles in fully.

He stills, arms coming up instinctively to wrap around Hongjoong’s bare shoulders, heart swelling so suddenly it almost hurts. He bends down to press his quivering lips against Hongjoong’s temple, feels tears spill over despite himself, warm against his cheeks.

The boxes – the boxes of melatonin supplements – are all gone.

Leave everything behind
Hope you come across something more than better

25th December 2025

As they do every Christmas, the eight of them are sprawled across Hongjoong’s living room floor. The room is in a state of absolute chaos. Half-opened presents lie buried under crumpled paper piles, empty snack wrappers flutter like confetti, and the air buzzes with a mixture of laughter, yelling, and the occasional squeal of delight.

They’re halfway through Secret Santa now. Seonghwa's present from Yeosang, two Sylvanian Family figurines – a white bunny and a squirrel, are perched safely on the coffee table next to where he’s seated on the floor, a respectful distance from the rest of the boys so they don’t risk getting launched to the other side of the room. Seonghwa gives them absentminded pats on their heads as he passes San his present, a small paper bag with a red heart on it, which the younger accepts graciously. He peers inside and gasps.

“My socks!” San shrieks, snatching the long-lost pair of embroidered socks from inside the bag. He lifts them like a sacred relic, ribbon still tied neatly around them. “Hyung, where did you find these?”

Seonghwa shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I found one under the sofa and the other was at the bottom of the laundry basket.”

“Hyung you’re really the best person to get as a Secret Santa.” San clutches them to his chest like they’ve returned from war and grins, throwing Jongho a smug look. Jongho is scowling at him from across the circle, the Where’s Waldo boxers Mingi gave him already exiled to the far corner of the room like hazardous waste.

Seonghwa pauses. “How did it even end up there?”

Before anyone can respond, Wooyoung chokes violently on his drink, eyes bulging. He shoots Seonghwa the guiltiest look imaginable and Seonghwa’s eye twitches.

“Jung Wooyoung, you–” Seonghwa starts, eyes squinting.

Then he pauses.

And he remembers. How Hongjoong had taken him apart on that same sofa more times than is even remotely appropriate. The frantic sanitising afterwards. The wiping. The second round of wiping. The deeply suspicious number of disinfection wipes they’d order every month.

So he clamps his mouth shut, a quiet groan trapped behind his teeth. Next to him, Hongjoong suddenly becomes extremely interested in untangling a strand of tinsel from the Christmas tree. His hand finds Seonghwa’s, fingers trembling as he grips it tightly for emotional support.

Jongho, the intelligent, perceptive, ever-observant Jongho, takes in the four of them – the flailing, the startled, the guilty, the enthralled-by-his-socks – and slowly shakes his head, lips curling in disdain. “I’ll have you know,” he says deliberately, voice calm amidst the chaos, “there’s a reason why I never sit on the sofa.”

Mingi blinks, eyes darting across the room. “... why?”

Yeosang shoots him a sympathetic look, eyebrow raised, then he sighs.

“Aren’t you glad we don’t have this problem?” Yeosang smiles at Yunho and says softly as he unwraps the chocolate Jongho gifted him, popping one into his mouth.

The look Yunho gives him is constipated to say the least and from his lips, an incredibly strangled sound that sounds like a dolphin dying leaves his mouth. Yeosang immediately pauses mid-chew. The blond snaps his head up, eye twitching. He stares at Yunho, then at Mingi who looks like he’s on the brink of cardiac arrest.

Understanding dawns slowly.

“Oh,” Yeosang says quietly. Then his eyes narrow as he inhales slowly, back ramrod straight. “No… fuck you both, you didn't.”

Mingi opens his mouth and shoots Yunho a pleading look but Yunho isn’t faring much better. He’s gone completely still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, perhaps hoping divine intervention might arrive any second now.

Seonghwa doesn’t think he deserves to, but he reaches over and pats Yeosang's shoulder gently, sympathetically. Yeosang’s nostrils flare, choking noises escaping his throat, realisation landing with quiet horror.

“Oh my god,” he whispers. “I sleep on that sofa.”

Mingi finally chokes out. “It was just once–”

“DON’T,” Yeosang snaps immediately, stabbing a finger at Mingi, “Do NOT finish that sentence. I promise you. There is nothing that can come after those words that will make this situation any better for me.”

Yunho tries, valiantly and foolishly, to salvage things. “We cleaned it–”

“Absolutely not,” Yeosang cuts him off, horrified. “There is no clarification that can help you either. Stop talking.”

Across the room, Wooyoung makes a strangled sound that is very clearly laughter trying, and failing wonderfully, to stay contained. His shoulders shake violently as he bites his sleeve and slaps San’s shoulder. His husband just cradles his prodigal socks to his chest, the smile on his face a little too serene in comparison to Yeosang’s meltdown.

Mingi drags both hands through his hair. “We cleaned it–”

“Enough!” Yeosang groans and buries his face in his hands, looking like a man who’s facing total emotional ruin. “Is there anywhere else in my home that I need to be cautious of? The dining room? The kitchen? The bathroom? My room?”

The silence that envelopes the room is deafening. Yeosang peels his hands from his face agonisingly slowly and lifts his head.

“My room?”

“No!” Mingi shouts immediately, horrified. “Not your room! I swear, we would never do that.”

“Uh huh, okay,” Yeosang says slowly, nodding with exaggerated patience. “So nowhere else?”

Silence greets him again. Yeosang is not a man who is easily angered. If anything, he is the calmest of them all, their anchor in a storm. But Seonghwa thinks, at this moment, that if looks could kill, Mingi and Yunho would have died twenty times over.

Wooyoung finally loses the battle entirely and collapses into hysterical laughter, tipping sideways into the pile of wrapping paper and nearly knocking the coffee table over. Seonghwa immediately swoops in to rescue his little Sylvanian Family figurines, hugging them tightly to his chest.

Hongjoong peeks out from behind Seonghwa’s back, small, tense, and invisible, his fingers clutching the sofa cushion like a lifeline. His head pops up just enough to see Yeosang’s nostrils flare again and immediately retreats. Seonghwa reaches up to smooth his hair down in what is possibly the least helpful show of solidarity in human history.

“... we always clean everything after we are done, I promise.” Yunho mutters weakly, Mingi patting his shoulder in a deeply unhelpful attempt at comfort and support.

Yeosang blinks slowly, nostrils twitching like a predator smelling its prey.

“Always?” he repeats softly, tilting his head, eyes narrowing. Then he reaches behind him for the frying pan Yunho had bought – a gift meant to inspire culinary confidence but now looking far more like a weapon of mass destruction. His movements are precise, deliberate, terrifyingly calm. “Always?”

“No, Yeosang-ah, listen to me!” Yunho scrambles to his feet, backing away as Yeosang rises like a catapulted missile of fury, eyes wide, jaw locked, voice slicing through the chaos.

“Jung Yunho, get back here!” Yeosang roars, the frying pan held high in the air as he chases him down the hallway.

And through it all, the yelling, the threat of emotional (or actual) homicide, Jongho simply reaches for Yeosang’s chocolate and pops a bon bon into his mouth, a single calm constant in chaos incarnate.

.

The disasters of the night eventually soften into something quieter, the gentle hum of their comfortable, shared life. Quiet murmurs drift from Jongho’s room where Yeosang and Jongho are talking softly like normal human beings. The twin towers are significantly, annoyingly noisier, laughter carrying from the kitchen as they catch up on a variety show, Mingi’s arm slumped over Yunho’s shoulder. They were exiled to the living room for the night, and Yeosang sneered.

“See if you’ll want to sleep on the sofa now.”

Seonghwa had choked on his spit.

Hongjoong can hear San’s shower running, and the small, angry drone of Wooyoung’s hair dryer.

It’s all so painfully domestic.

Seonghwa and Hongjoong sit on Hongjoong’s bed. The bedsheets are silk – again. The pillows are down – again. There are bottles of skincare in the corner of the vanity that don’t belong to Hongjoong, a 2026 calendar hanging crookedly on the wall. Some of Hongjoong’s clothes are sitting in a small pile on his desk after being displaced from the drawer to make space for Seonghwa’s pajamas. There’s a small cardboard box by his chair filled with chocopies and shrimp crackers. Hardly Hongjoong’s first choice of snacks, but whatever Seonghwa wants, Seonghwa gets.

They lean quietly against the wall, shoulders touching. Seonghwa’s head tilts until it rests against Hongjoong’s, their temples pressed together. His hair smells faintly like his lavender shampoo and the soft powdery scent of his moisturiser. He hums softly.

Even through typhoons, even through heavy rain and the rising wind, you and I, it will always be us.

Hongjoong turns his head slightly and presses a kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek, slow and lingering.

“Thank you for the gift,” he murmurs, fingers absently tracing the marigold pendant resting against his chest. The metal is still warm from his skin. “I love it.”

“I’m glad.” Seonghwa answers softly, pleased.

Hongjoong shifts slightly, adjusting his position against the wall. As he moves, he feels something crinkle beneath him. He hesitates for a moment, fingertips brushing against the edge of it, suddenly feeling much more nervous than he had earlier when he’d slipped it there.

“I have something else for you, too.” Hongjoong says quietly.

“Something else?” Seonghwa’s eyes widen. His gaze snaps to the stack of presents by the table – clothes, jewelry, a new bookmark just because he mentioned in passing, as they walked past a stationery shop, that it was cute. He doesn’t even want to start on how many strawberry cakes there are in the fridge. “Joongie-yah, what else could you possibly have to give me?”

Hongjoong doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes flick toward him, nervous and a little shy. Then slowly, he pulls the notebook from behind his back and hands it to him, fingers trembling.

Seonghwa takes it, head tilted in curiosity. When he opens it, the first thing he notices are the stars. They’re everywhere, scattered across the margins – small, imperfect things. Some are sharp and clean. Others faint when the pen has run out of ink. A few are traced over, darker than the rest. There’s one near the corner that’s smudged where his palm dragged across it. A constellation of love and care, tracing its way across each page.

Between them, lines of confession, of apology, of love and complete, utter devotion.

Above them, the title.

너의 별이 되어

“Oh–” Seonghwa’s voice trembles, breaking into a whisper. His eyes glisten before he even registers it. Hongjoong’s fingers lift to his cheek immediately, brushing away the wetness pooling at the corners of his eyes. “Joongie-yah, what–”

Hongjoong leans in, forehead pressing against his. He feels Seonghwa’s body tremble beneath his hands.

“I did promise you a proper love song, didn't I?” he murmurs.

“By God, Kim Hongjoong–” Seonghwa chokes, hand flying to his lips to stifle the sound.

Hongjoong exhales shakily.

“Let me be your star, my love,” he whispers, voice low, trembling, words that he wanted to say all those months ago, whispered to the universe, now spoken out in the open. “Let me be your light in the darkness. Let me stay with you, watch over you. I’ll always be here. You’ll never ever be alone again.”

He holds Seonghwa’s cheek gently.

“I fucked up,” Hongjoong continues, voice hitching, raw with regret. “I fucked up so badly. I know how much you suffered in silence because of me. All I wanted was to give you and the boys the best life I could… but I realised too late that it came at the expense of me being there when it mattered.” His voice breaks, fragile and desperate. “At the expense of us.”

The room falls completely quiet. Hongjoong’s gaze lingers on the notebook, still open in Seonghwa’s lap. He doesn’t dare meet his eyes, afraid that even a glance might make him shatter.

“There is no excuse,” Hongjoong’s voice is low, rough with guilt, “for how I treated you… and I don’t think I will ever forgive myself for it.”

He pulls Seonghwa in, resting his head in the nook of his shoulder. He can feel the wetness on his skin and feels his own chest carve open.

“But my love,” Hongjoong whispers. “I swear to you… it will never happen again. I will love you right this time. I will choose you properly – every single day. I will never give you a reason to doubt my love for you ever again.”

Seonghwa’s sobs spill free at last. He claws at Hongjoong’s chest, nails digging in. Each cry tears out of him ragged and raw. Hongjoong tightens his arms instantly, cradling the back of Seonghwa’s head with one hand while the other traces slow, grounding circles up and down his spine, pressing him close as if he could meld their broken pieces together.

“Oh, my love,” Hongjoong’s throat constricts. “You told me all those months ago that the last time I told you that I loved you was on Christmas. I never forgot that, not for a second. It haunted me in my dreams, I was disgusted with myself.”

He lets his lips brush over his forehead, feels his own vision go blurry. “So now I’ll promise you, God, I swear to you, my love, I’ll say it everyday, in every way that I can. I’ll say it so much until you get sick of it, until you tell me to shut up. And even then I’ll keep saying it. I love you so much, Seonghwa-yah. I’m never letting you go, I’ll never shut you out ever again.”

When Hongjoong-hyung breaks, he breaks in silence. And then like the idiot he is, he silently pieces himself back together because he doesn’t want to burden any of us.

Jongho’s words reverberate in Seonghwa’s skull long after they’re spoken and suddenly he’s not in the present anymore. He’s back in their living room all those years ago – Hongjoong hunched over the table, silently breaking but mask snapping back on the moment Seonghwa stepped into the room.

It wasn’t that he didn't trust Seonghwa, it wasn’t that at all. Seonghwa knows now – Hongjoong just loved him too much to let him suffer with him. Loved him so much he thought protecting him meant shutting him out and keeping the demons to himself.

But how completely, utterly wrong Hongjoong is.

Love is not hiding. Love is not swallowing pain until it turns sour inside your chest.

Love is Hongjoong crying into his shoulder at two in the morning because a song won’t come together.
Love is Seonghwa silently joining Hongjoong for dinner at eleven at night, pretending that he wasn’t hungry earlier at a normal dinner time, just so Hongjoong wouldn’t have to eat alone.
Love is them arguing over schedules until their throats become raw but choosing, each and every time, to come home to each other, look each other in the eye, and say sorry, because their love is bigger than their egos.

Love is inviting someone in when you’re breaking and trusting them not to look away. Love is saying, stay with me while I fall apart. And trusting that together, you’ll build something stronger from the pieces.

And Seonghwa knows this the way he knows his own heart, with bone-deep conviction, that he loves Hongjoong. He loves him. Not the charismatic leader, not the Captain.

Just Kim Hongjoong from Anyang.

The boy whose jokes are colder than the studio air at three in the morning.
Who snores when he sleeps on his back, soft at first and then loud enough that Seonghwa has to nudge him onto his side to shut him up.
Who grumbles while meticulously picking green onions out of his food like they’ve personally offended him.
Who hoards lip balm and somehow still always needs to borrow Seonghwa’s.

Seonghwa loves that boy. And he cannot wait to keep loving him, in every single way he can, through the messy, the ugly, the impossibly difficult choices, the arguments that leave them both breathless, and the mornings when all the world feels new again because they wake up together.

“Me too,” Seonghwa croaks.

“Mm?”

“I thought… you hid your problems from me because you didn’t trust me,” Seonghwa admits weakly. “Because I wasn’t dependable enough. You were carving something out of nothing for us, building an entire world from scratch, and there I was, still asking for trivial things and –”

“There are so many things wrong with what you’ve just said.” Hongjoong’s voice cuts through, sharp with conviction.

“I trust you, I trust you more than I trust myself. I can’t do life without you, Park Seonghwa.” He kisses his forehead. “I just didn't want to burden you with my problems. You already have so much going on.”

He pinches his cheek gently. “And nothing about what you want is trivial. You were right, as a lover, as a man who’s supposed to look after you, those things – my time, my attention, my presence – are all things that I was supposed to give you. But I took things for granted, took you for granted. And I will spend every day making it up to you, making sure that you never, ever feel that way again.”

Seonghwa presses closer, voice muffled against Hongjoong’s collarbone.

“Promise me you’ll talk to me, Joongie-yah. You’re never alone. We’re in this together forever.”

“Forever, huh?” Hongjoong takes his hands, presses a kiss to the back of each hand, before pressing a lingering kiss to his team ring.

“Hmm?” Seonghwa’s voice trembles, he can barely see Hongjoong now behind the tears spilling freely from his eyes.

“I meant what I said, my love. One day,” Hongjoong says quietly, eyes shining, “if you’ll have me…”

He takes a shaky breath.

“I’ll marry you.”

Seonghwa’s lips tremble and for a second, he forgets how to breathe. It’s funny, they’re just three words that are so small, so soft. Yet they carry the weight of the universe, the promise of forever folded into three syllables.

Before he can respond, from the corner of his eye, Seonghwa notices the sudden glow of Hongjoong’s phone lighting up on the bedside table. The screen lights up just enough for him to see the wallpaper. He freezes.

What a familiar photo.

It’s him, taken all those months ago.

This photo is not posed. Not for the camera. Seonghwa doesn’t even remember Hongjoong taking it. He’s laughing – really laughing, the kind of laugh that makes his chest ache. His eyes are soft, corners crinkling and squinting, the kind of laugh that he hasn’t allowed nor remembered himself laughing in months.

Hongjoong notices him staring, lips curling into a slow, sheepish smile.

“... oops?”

The word is light, teasing, but it hits Seonghwa like a spark. Heat coils low in his stomach, spreading upward, and suddenly, everything inside him – admiration, longing, love – surges too fast to contain. He shoves Hongjoong onto the bed in one smooth movement, and climbs on top of him, thighs bracketing his hips.

“My love, wha–” Hongjoong yelps, head hitting the soft headboard.

Seonghwa looks down at him, eyes dark with affection and something a little more dangerous, a look only Hongjoong would be familiar with. He hooks his fingers under the hem of his own shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it somewhere behind him uncaring, without looking.

“Well?” Seonghwa tilts his head, fingers hooking into Hongjoong’s collar as he tugs him closer. “You gonna make your fiance do everything?”

Hongjoong pauses. Then a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, eyes lighting up with unmistakable delight.

“By God,” he breathes reverently. “I love you.”

.

Seonghwa’s lips curve into a smile against Hongjoong’s bare shoulder when Hongjoong plants a lazy kiss on his temple.

“So when we get married…” Seonghwa murmurs softly, voice barely louder than the slow rhythm of Hongjoong’s breathing. “I’ll be the wife?”

Hongjoong’s arm tightens around his waist, pulling him closer until he’s half-draped over his chest, his cheek resting just over Hongjoong’s heart.

“Of course,” he mumbles sleepily, pressing another soft kiss into his hair. “My ansaram.”

Seonghwa lets the word settle warmly in his chest as he hums thoughtfully.

“But… why?”

Hongjoong blinks slowly at the ceiling, trying to gather enough brain cells for a coherent answer.

“Because… well, because the fortune tellers said so.”

“Mm.”

“And also because you just took my dick up your– ow!” Hongjoong yelps, arms flying up in dramatic surrender when Seonghwa pinches his cheek sharply.

In the faint spill of moonlight through the curtains, the silver glint of their team rings flashes briefly between them – two identical bands resting on their fingers, existing together like nothing ever changed, a quiet promise of love and forgiveness and forever.

“Shut up, husband.”

“Yes, wife.”