Archive of Our Own

Not all games are fun to Seonghwa.

Some of them rip his heart out, leaving him to bleed on the pavement while he keeps smiling for the cameras, the wound tearing beneath sparkly costumes and expensive curated wardrobes.

They remind him of the impossible.
They remind him of a love he’s not allowed to have, a love he’s not allowed to name.

“Okay, so to reiterate the instructions of the game, again!” Seonghwa shouts over the chaos of seven other men talking over each other, his voice fighting for dominance against laughter, teasing, and Mingi’s overly dramatic groaning. “I’m going to read out a statement, and each one of you has to stand on either side of the stage. O side for yes, X side for no. Simple.”

The chaos, of course, doesn’t stop. Someone is already arguing about rules that have not yet been broken. Wooyoung is loudly accusing Yunho of cheating in a game that hasn’t even started. Yeosang is strategising in a corner with Jongho, San craning his neck to get some intel. Seonghwa lets out the long-suffering sigh of someone who has accepted that control over his sons was never really an option.

“Does everyone understand?”

A messy chorus of yeses answers him – some enthusiastic, some half-hearted, some clearly coming from people (Song Mingi…) who are not listening at all. Still, he smiles, easy and bright. It’s hard not to when you love your members as much as Seonghwa does.

The first question is easy enough, harmless – can Yeosang flip a bottle in three tries?

Seonghwa had actually bet that he could. Yeosang has a certain quiet, irritating competence about him that makes you believe he’ll succeed at anything he attempts. But the bottle clatters uselessly onto its side after the third try, and the room immediately dissolves into laughter.

Seonghwa shakes his head, fond despite himself. It’s Yeosang. He’d forgive him for anything.

The next question flashes on the screen.

The reaction is immediate – low whistles, drawn-out oohs, the kind of anticipatory noise that means the members have already decided this will be entertaining. Seonghwa hears it distantly, like it’s happening somewhere behind him rather than right beside him, the sudden thudding of his heartbeat drowning everything else out.

“Wait a second,” Seonghwa says, letting out a weak laugh, “This question is a bit–”

He trails off before finishing the sentence. There’s no point in protesting, not when the cameras are already rolling.

Seonghwa lets his eyes linger on the large screen a little longer, the moment feels unreal, his fingertips going numb. The red LED panels wash the stage in a dim, ominous glow.

He exhales slowly and reads.

“To the ever-awkward MATZ, Hongjoong and Seonghwa can stare at each other for ten seconds without blinking or smiling.”

His heart thumps.

“Yes or no?”

Seonghwa loves being an idol.

But games like this, thinly veiled jabs dressed up as harmless fun, leave him bone-tired. Everything is staged, he knows this. The teasing, the setups, the moments designed to be clipped and replayed later with dramatic captions and slow zooms. It’s for content, for edits, for the fans who will spend hours dissecting every glance, who live off conspiracy and crumbs of government ships. They’ve got one right, but another entirely, heartbreakingly wrong.

And the timing of this staged question just feels cruel.

“It’s a no for me,” Wooyoung declares immediately, stepping toward X with dramatic conviction. His eyes flick to Seonghwa for barely a heartbeat before he looks away.

“It’s a no for me too,” Jongho adds, though following him is the air of someone who simply enjoys watching chaos unfold. Yeosang follows closely behind.

“Yeah… me too,” Seonghwa says. “I’ll go with X too.”

He hopes the cameras don’t catch the way his voice wavers. His fingers curl instinctively into his palms, nails biting into his skin.

Maybe if this game had happened a week ago, he would have chosen O.

Ten seconds is nothing. Even if it’s under the cameras, with the world watching, what is ten seconds when Seonghwa has already spent the last three years carefully folding his love into something neat and palatable and tucked it deep inside his ribcage, where no one would ever see?

What is ten seconds when Seonghwa has already come to the cruel acceptance that this love of his was never meant to have a happy ending?

Ten seconds would have been easy.

But things are different now. Seonghwa knows. It isn’t that Seonghwa would struggle to look at Hongjoong without smiling. It’s that he would struggle to look at him at all.

Not after yesterday, not after what he’s done.

So of course it’s an X.

But Hongjoong doesn’t move.

While the others shuffle and joke and take their places, while Seonghwa is breaking, Hongjoong remains exactly where he is on the O side, hands slipped casually into the pockets of his pants like the answer was obvious all along.

Seonghwa’s heart lurches so sharply he feels it in his throat. For a moment, he just stares.

Then the feeling that follows is sharp and immediate, cutting somewhere unpleasantly close to humiliation. As if he’s the only one still treating yesterday like it meant something. He feels entirely jilted, like whatever had happened between the two of them, whatever fragile, terrifying thing had passed between them just the day before didn't matter.

Like he doesn’t matter.

“I think it’d be funny with some BGM,” Hongjoong adds lightly, voice smooth and controlled, like this is just another variety show bit.

Oh, that hammers another nail straight into Seonghwa’s bleeding heart.

“We’ll prove that these two are really awkward as hell.” Wooyoung eyes lift to Seonghwa, “Didn't Hongjoong-hyung sleep on the sofa yesterday?”

Seonghwa blinks.

He came home?

Noise erupts around them instantly – voices overlapping, rising into a mess of disbelief and poorly disguised curiosity.

“Don’t say it like that,” Hongjoong cuts in immediately, voice clipped. His gaze slides somewhere past Seonghwa’s shoulder, deliberately avoiding direct eye contact. He laughs once, quick and tight. “People will misunderstand.”

Seonghwa swallows against the sudden dryness in his throat and nods faintly, forcing the corners of his mouth upward again. “Yeah, Wooyoung-ah. It’s just a misunderstanding.”

Hongjoong came home.

“Okay, close your eyes.” Someone says (thankfully), redirecting the chaos before Seonghwa spirals any further.

Seonghwa inhales slowly, years of training slip into place without effort: shoulders relaxed, smile steady, breathing even. He pushes the strange tightness in his stomach deep and out of reach. Whatever he’s feeling right now can wait.

But still, his heart stutters once more.

Hongjoong came home?

“One,” they begin, the boys’ counting immediately dissolving into an off-key massacre of a song that would singlehandedly destroy their reputation as a vocal group. For a fleeting moment, Seonghwa’s panic is shelved, buried beneath the noise and sheer chaos.

Then Seonghwa finds himself staring straight at Kim Hongjoong.

The expression on Hongjoong’s face gives him nothing.

That, more than anything, is what unsettles Seonghwa the most. Seonghwa knows Hongjoong better than anyone. He’s spent years memorising every micro-expression, every twitch of Hongjoong’s brows, every soft curve of his mouth.

But now there’s nothing to read. No flicker of amusement, no quiet warmth, no hint of the private softness Hongjoong sometimes lets slip when the cameras are gone. Nothing familiar. Just a wall, a perfectly composed mask. The uneasiness seeps into his body, settles in his bones, weighing down in every breath he takes.

“Two, three–”

The studio lights suddenly feel too bright. The cameras are too close, too intrusive. Seonghwa is suddenly hyper-aware of his breathing, of the way his pulse thuds painfully against his throat as he drinks Hongjoong in.

Hongjoong doesn’t blink.
He doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t soften.

His gaze is steady, impersonal, professional – like Seonghwa is just a challenge, another variable in a variety show. Like years of closeness and late-night conversations never existed.

“Four, five –”

Seonghwa’s lips twist into what he hopes is a smile. It feels foreign on his face, like he’s wearing someone else’s expression. His fingers curl into his palms, nails digging into skin, grounding him in the only way he knows how.

He searches Hongjoong’s eyes for something – anything. A flicker of familiarity. A crack in the mask.

There’s nothing.

“Six.”

Mingi starts singing something truly horrific, that Seonghwa nearly laughs out of reflex. He silently thanks Kim Gyuwook for only ever considering him for the rapper position. For half a second, the tension loosens.

And then, Seonghwa doesn’t know what comes over him. Maybe it’s the teasing atmosphere, maybe it’s muscle memory, maybe it’s simply that he has spent so long orbiting Hongjoong that gravity feels inevitable. Maybe, he thinks – stupidly – that if he makes the first move, if he bridges the space between them first, that the tension might soften, might dissolve, and then they can go back to normal.

What else does he have to lose, right?

And so he leans in.

“Seven.”

Then –

In that moment, nothing else registers.

Not the cameras.
Not the game.
Not the members yelling and laughing and singing around them, completely, blissfully unaware of the raging hurt tearing through Seonghwa’s body.

In that moment, the only thing that exists, that’s piercing, ripping straight into Seonghwa’s ribs, is Hongjoong’s hand snapping up between them.

A barrier. A wall.

Hongjoong stares straight into Seonghwa’s eyes, unblinking and deliberate.

In a single moment, Hongjoong has, once again, created distance, drawn a line. Made it unmistakably clear.

That Seonghwa has been utterly, completely, irrefutably rejected.

Seonghwa steps back automatically, posture still perfect, smile still intact for the camera, but heart in freefall. Around them the game continues as if nothing unusual has happened, the others still shouting and laughing, blissfully unaware of the quiet devastation unfolding inches away from them. His chest tightens, stomach twisting into knots so sharp he thinks he might vomit.

Defeat settles low in his gut.

“Eight, nine.”

Park Seonghwa, you’re so fucking stupid.

Perhaps if he was a bit more perceptive, perhaps if he weren’t already breaking, he would have noticed how Yunho’s lips pursed, how his eyes danced between the two of them, flitting above the thick, gooey tension settling heavily over the stage.

“Ten!”

Cheers erupt around them. Before he can even react, Hongjoong’s hand closes around his wrist, lifting it high in careless triumph. The movement jostles Seonghwa half a step closer, their shoulders nearly brushing, and he forgets to breathe. Where Hongjoong touches burns so sharply he suddenly becomes aware of every inch of his body – the tightness in his chest, the taut, painful smile on his lips, the way his pulse pounds frantically against the inside of his wrist, right beneath Hongjoong’s thumb. But the rest of him is cold.

Then Hongjoong lets go. Just like that, like the contact is poison.

But Seonghwa still forces his lips into a smile because the cameras are still there, because the others are still laughing, because he’s a professional.

“That counts as success, right?” Mingi asks, laughing loudly.

Sweet, oblivious Mingi, completely unaware of the wreckage unfolding inches away from him, of the way Seonghwa’s heart lies split open at Hongjoong’s feet.

Success? Yes, perhaps.

Succeeded in reminding him how pointless this wretched affection for Kim Hongjoong has always been.
Succeeded in proving that no matter how much he prays, no matter how desperately he hopes, Hongjoong will never see him the way he wants to be seen.

The laughter around him feels muffled now, like he’s underwater. Seonghwa doesn’t close his eyes fast enough.

He sees Hongjoong cast him the briefest glance – just once, unreadable – before turning away. Feet crushing Seonghwa’s tattered heart beneath polished, heeled boots.

So yes, success indeed.

Hongjoong has succeeded in completely, devastatingly, shattering Seonghwa’s heart.

-

Seonghwa leaves the studio the moment the cameras shut off, slipping away between cables and staff and laughter that suddenly feels too loud. He ignores the looks his members throw his way – Wooyoung’s furrowed brows, concern sharp and obvious on his face, Yunho hastily shifting forward, like he might reach out and grab Seonghwa’s sleeve before he disappears into the hallway. Seonghwa doesn’t give him the chance. He keeps walking.

Hongjoong isn’t even around when Seonghwa slips out of the venue. The realisation settles slowly in his chest, somewhere confused between relief and devastation. He’s grateful for it, he tells himself, that he can still hide. But some smaller, weaker, more pathetic part of him had half expected (hoped) to hear his name. Just once.

The hallway stays empty.

Park Seonghwa, don’t be an idiot.

He pulls on his mask and sunglasses with clumsy, trembling hands. The skin around his eyes feels hot and swollen and his throat aches with a rawness he can’t swallow. When he steps outside, the night air hits him, cool and impersonal. The world outside doesn’t care.

Neither does Hongjoong.

The thought slips in before he can stop it, bitter and heavy.

His manager raises an eyebrow when Seonghwa climbs into the van, movements too stiff and controlled in a way that probably looks unnatural to anyone even vaguely paying attention.

“Everything okay, Seonghwa?”

Seonghwa lets the question hang in the air.

This comes naturally now – lying through his teeth when people ask him that question. Smiling when the ache in his chest threatens to swallow him whole. Laughing along and cheering when fans call him and Hongjoong the team’s mom and dad, bakkatyangban and ansaram, letting the joke roll off him like rain off glass, because he knows it couldn’t be further from the truth.

Seonghwa performs.

By day, he packages his pain into something palatable, something neat he can wear in front of cameras without cracking. But at night, when the noise dies down and the cameras are gone, when he’s allowed to exist as nothing more than a human being, a boy in love, he breaks quietly in the privacy of his own thoughts.

He prays – fervently, desperately – to a God he doesn’t believe exists. He prays for a happy ending. For a chance.

And then the guilt always follows immediately after, sharp and sour. How selfish, he thinks, how greedy.

Then he tries again.

Maybe, if he just waits long enough, the feeling will fade. Maybe if he ignores it hard enough, it will disappear on its own. If he tries enough, he can stop loving Kim Hongjoong.

The dorm is quiet when he steps inside, lights dimmed, the faint hum of the refrigerator carrying through the kitchen. No cameras, no lights, no Hongjoong.

He sluggishly pushes his (their) room door open and his (Hongjoong’s) bed creaks softly when he sinks down onto the mattress.

For a moment he just sits there, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Then he drops down onto his pillow and pulls the blanket over his head, shutting out the dim glow of the room until the world shrinks down to a small, dark space where he doesn’t have to exist, perform, for anyone.

He lies perfectly still, jaw clenched, willing the tightness in his chest to settle.

It doesn’t.

His breath shudders once, twice –

And then he breaks.

The first sound that escapes him is small – a sharp, strangled inhale that tears out of his throat before he can stop it. After that, the rest follows easily, like something inside him has finally cracked open.

He cries.

These aren’t the quiet, controlled tears he sometimes allows himself in the shower, where the sound disappears beneath running water. His wails come out uncaring and loud and messy – tears and sweat and snot.

His shoulders shake beneath the blanket, breath stuttering unevenly, dissolving into uncontrolled, humiliating hiccups. Tears spill freely now, soaking into the cotton of his pillow until the fabric grows damp beneath his cheek.

He mourns.

He mourns a love that was never his to begin with.

Sometimes, late at night, when the dorm was quiet and Hongjoong was only an arm’s reach away in the bunk above him, Seonghwa allowed himself to imagine things.

Small things, dangerous things.

A future that felt fragile and impossible but somehow still worth hoping for. He built those fantasies in his head, gluing them together messily with hope and quiet, selfish prayers.

Now, he watches it all collapse.

Every imagined, delusional moment collapses in on itself until only dust remains, settling into the deepest crevices of his heart, where he knows it will never fully leave.

His sobs quiet eventually, fading into uneven breaths and occasional hiccups. He presses his face into the pillow, as though he can physically push the tears to the back of his skull. But they keep slipping out anyway.

He lets them.

How tragic, he thinks bitterly. Park Seonghwa, world-renowned idol – adored, untouchable, bleeding quietly over one man who will never look at him the way he so desperately wants to be looked at.

Time stretches strangely after that, loses shape.

Eventually, he hears the dorm door open. Voices drop into hushed whispers as the members file in, exhaustion softening their usual chaos. Laughter fades down the hallway, doors close, footsteps retreat. The world returns to something quiet and domestic, something painfully ordinary.

He hears voices outside his (their) door. Low, tense, too quiet to make out, but the weight is unmistakable.

After a moment, his (their) room door opens and closes with a definitive click, silence in the room deafening. There’s no sound for a stretched moment, before he hears a bag being dropped onto the ground, sock-clad feet padding across the heated floor. Each step feels deliberate, like it costs something.

They stop in front of Seonghwa.

Seonghwa doesn’t need to look to know who it is.

He resolutely does not move. He forces his breathing into something deliberate, steady, something that could pass for sleep.

Because.

Not now, Seonghwa pleads, begs silently, please not now Hongjoong-ah. I can’t face you now. Please give me more time. Then I’ll be normal. I swear.

Hongjoong stands there for a moment too long. Seonghwa can feel his presence like heat through the blanket, a weight that presses down on his ribs. He imagines Hongjoong’s expression, probably tired, unreadable, carefully neutral.

Seonghwa’s fingers curl into the sheets. He focuses on the texture, on the tiny ridges of the weave under his fingertips, anything that isn’t the slow, painful tightening in his chest. He’s so afraid.

“Seonghwa-yah.”

Seonghwa curls tighter into himself, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them in a quiet, humiliating imitation of comfort.

The floor creaks once. Twice.

The scent reaches him before the warmth does.

Hongjoong’s cologne used to mean home, something that made him feel comforted and undone all at once. Now it just reminds him of everything he’s lost, ruined.

“Seonghwa-yah,” Hongjoong tries again, voice a little louder, a little closer. “Can we talk?”

Silence.

Seonghwa presses his lips together until they hurt.

“Seonghwa, I know you’re not sleeping,” irritation creeps in. “You never sleep with your head covered.”

Seonghwa stills.

He noticed?

Some confused, depraved part of him feels a flicker of warmth at the realisation – stupid, humiliating gratitude that Hongjoong has paid enough attention to him to notice something as small as that.

Slowly, reluctantly, he peels the blanket off his face and sits up, facing resolutely away from Hongjoong. His eyes sting, raw and red-rimmed, and his throat feels hollow. He doesn’t dare turn around. He can’t. He isn’t sure he’d survive seeing him right now.

“Seonghwa, look at me. Please.”

“We’re good, Hongjoong-ah.” Seonghwa says quickly, the lie sitting bitter on his tongue – but medicine is bitter too, and he’s learned to swallow that without complaint.

“Are we?”

“Yes.”

The silence that follows feels sharp enough to cut.

Seonghwa opens his mouth but before another word can form on his tongue, a hand lands on his shoulder and yanks him around.

For the second time that day, he’s forced to face the man of his utter undoing. The source of his sleepless nights, the dull ache that’s taken permanent residence beneath his ribs, the exhaustion lodged deep in his bones that sleep can ever soothe.

Hongjoong is close.

Too close.

Half-kneeling on the mattress, one knee sinking into the sheets, leaning into Seonghwa’s space like he doesn’t realise what he’s doing. Or worse – like he does.

Hongjoong’s expression is painfully readable now. Seonghwa can see the faint crease between his brows, the uneven rise of his chest like he got here faster than he meant to. His lips are pressed into a tense line in anger, or something dangerously close to it.

“Seonghwa-yah, what’s wrong?”

Seonghwa blinks.

The words don’t make sense.

“What’s wrong?” Seonghwa echoes softly.

Then he jerks away from Hongjoong, wrenching his shoulder free from his grip until his shoulders hit the wall, desperate to put whatever distance he can between them to help soothe the stabbing ache in his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he repeats, voice cracking this time.

His vision blurs. His lashes are still damp, clumping together. One traitorous tear breaks free and slides down the curve of his cheek before he can stop it.

“You’re crying.” Hongjoong’s voice changes instantly – softening, panic sliding in. His eyes widen, surprise and concern flashing across his face, “Seonghwa, what happened–”

“Nothing.” Seonghwa snaps, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. He hates himself for letting Hongjoong see him like this.

Hongjoong hesitates. Then he shifts back, feet hitting the floor, hands dropping uselessly to his sides.

“Is this…” He swallows. “Is this about yesterday?”

Seonghwa’s blood goes cold.

-

It had started simply enough.

Two friends sitting by the river, enjoying a quiet evening after a long day of filming. Seonghwa had begged their manager for it, leaning halfway across the van seat with clasped hands and a pleading smile, asking if they could stop by the river on the way back to the dorm. Just for a little while. Just long enough to relive some small fragment of youth – instant ramen eaten by the water, steam rising into the cold autumn air.

His manager frowned, you’ll be puffy tomorrow morning already on his lips when Hongjoong moved, shifting just enough to block the manager’s view of Seonghwa behind him.

“I want to go too.”

And so, after a ten-minute briefing (lecture) on staying out of the public eye, they went.

Two friends sitting shoulder to shoulder along the quiet riverbank, the city humming softly in the distance while the sky bled slowly into sunset. For a moment, Seonghwa feels like they’re normal, just two boys, not Kpop idols trying to carve a name out for themselves in an industry that doesn’t give chances.

Hongjoong slurps the last of his ramen with a satisfied sigh before setting the empty cup down beside him.

“This was fun,” he says, grinning as he wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “We should do this more often.”

Seonghwa laughs, the sound loud and unguarded in the open air. “If we could, it’d mean we aren’t busy,” he replies, nudging Hongjoong’s shoulder lightly with his own. “And that’s not exactly a good thing for us.”

“You’re so smart, Seonghwa-yah,” Hongjoong grins, teasing lilt obvious in his voice.

Seonghwa quickly lifts the empty ramen bowl to his face, pressing the rim against his mouth like he’s finishing the last of the broth, even though there’s nothing left. It’s a weak excuse, but it hides the sudden heat creeping up the back of his neck. Across from him, Hongjoong watches with quiet amusement, the last streaks of sunset reflecting faintly in his eyes, the river behind them glittering in the fading light.

Seonghwa lowers his bowl slowly.

Hongjoong is still looking at him.

Their gazes meet.

For a moment neither of them moves. Seonghwa feels his breathing slow unconsciously as he watches Hongjoong’s expression shift, sees the way Hongjoong opens his mouth slightly, like he’s about to say something, only to quickly close it again.

Seonghwa stills, heart ticking louder in his ears, waiting.

Hongjoong only does this when he’s struggling to find the right words to say. When he’s afraid of breaking something. Or someone.

“Seonghwa-yah.”

Seonghwa lets out a soft laugh, trying to lighten the moment before it grows too heavy.

“Yes, Hongjoong-ah?”

Hongjoong doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he drops his gaze to his hands resting loosely in his lap, thumbs absentmindedly worrying at his knuckles. Without the usual confidence in his posture, he looks younger somehow. Less Captain, more boy.

“Has anyone told you…” Hongjoong’s voice cuts through the quiet after a moment, softer than usual.

Seonghwa huffs again, amused, tilting his head. “Told me what?”

The smile is ready on his lips. He’s expecting a joke. A jab. Maybe some ridiculous pun Yunho passed around earlier.

Hongjoong lifts his head. And the way, god, the way he looks at him steals the breath out of his lungs. His eyes are so soft. They linger on his face with a quiet, careful devotion that makes heat creep up the back of Seonghwa’s neck.

Hongjoong blinks slowly. His lips part slightly, like he’s tasting each syllable before deciding whether it deserves to exist. And then his lips curve into the most radiant, heartwrenching smile Seonghwa has ever seen in his life.

“That you’re beautiful.”

.

.

:

The smile on Seonghwa’s face drops. The words don’t. They linger between them, suspended in the air – heavy, unfamiliar, impossible to pretend he didn’t hear.

Seonghwa stares at him, throat dry, tongue thick. The easy rhythm of their earlier conversation slips straight through his fingers.

“Hongjoong-ah,” he says slowly.

His voice comes out rough, frayed with disbelief. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing hard in his throat as he shakes his head slowly. “Don’t say things like that if you don’t mean it.”

Don’t be so cruel, please.
Do you have any idea what you do to me?

“I mean it, Seonghwa-yah.” Hongjoong's smile turns hesitant. For a moment, he looks completely unlike the Kim Hongjoong the world knows – the confident leader who carries the weight of seven men on his back without flinching.

This Hongjoong looks vulnerable, shy almost. But the warmth in his expression is still enough to send a dangerous spark straight through Seonghwa’s chest. He looks at Seonghwa like he’s worth risking something for.

“You’re beautiful.”

The air between them thickens.

Neither of them looks away. And suddenly, Seonghwa can see every detail suddenly, painfully clearly: the faint crease at the corner of Hongjoong’s lips, the way his amber eyes catch the last threads of sunset, the light flush warming his cheeks. That same warmth rises to his face before he can stop it.

Seonghwa blinks, heart hammering so hard he can feel it in his throat. His voice shakes, betraying him instantly.

“Where… where’s this coming from?”

“Just…” Hongjoong shrugs with attempted nonchalance, though the movement looks strangely stiff. “Felt like being honest.”

“Honest, huh…” Seonghwa murmurs.

A funny word.

The thing is, Seonghwa has always been honest with himself. About his love for Hongjoong, about the quiet, heartbreaking acceptance that nothing would ever come out of this self-inflicted tragedy. But he’s never, not once, been honest with the world.

Not with the members. Not with the fans.

And certainly not with Hongjoong.

His gaze drifts downward before he even realises he’s doing it. It's a reflex, the muscle memory of longing. Up close, he notices things he’s never let himself look at for too long before – the soft curve of Hongjoong’s lips, how they look thinner up close, the faint rose tint that lingers even without lip balm, how they’re slightly dry from the autumn air.

They look soft.

Pretty.

“Seonghwa?”

His thoughts derail.

–they’re so cute, bow-shaped, I wonder–

He doesn’t know what comes over him.

Doesn’t know why he moves.
Doesn’t know why the years of careful restraint he’s built – brick by fragile brick – suddenly crack straight down the middle.

Doesn’t fucking know why the fuck he kissed Kim Hongjoong.

Seonghwa realises too late.

But the warmth. The softness. It’s all better than anything he’s ever allowed himself to imagine. Better than the quiet daydreams he buried behind closed eyes, better than the fragile fantasies he’d indulged in the privacy of his bed late at night, lying still beneath the covers and hoping, praying, that Hongjoong was already asleep in the bunk above.

The world narrows to that moment. The river murmurs softly behind them. The last orange streaks of sunset ripple across the water. The savoury scent of instant ramen lingers in the cool air, mixing with the faint citrus notes of Hongjoong’s shampoo.

For one brief, reckless, self-indulgent moment, everything stops.

His heart. His thoughts. His fear.

Every nerve in his body sparks to life, restraint burning away like dry paper caught in a flame. His hand flutters up, almost without permission, to cup Hongjoong’s cheek, searing hot under his touch.

Then –

Hongjoong’s breath hitches.

And Seonghwa jerks back like he’s been burned, lips tingling, heat rushing violently up his neck.

“Oh–”

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck oh fuck ohfuckohfuckfuckfuck–

“I–”

His hand drops like it doesn’t belong to him anymore.

The moment fractures. The river no longer sparkles. The sunset dulls to grey. The warmth leaves him like it had never been there at all, the smell of noodles turning stale in the wind.

“Hongjoong, I–” Seonghwa scrambles backwards, feet tangling, hands lifting as if he can physically push the moment away. “I–I didn’t mean to– I don’t know why I–”

His breath stutters painfully.

“I shouldn’t have–”

Oh fuck. Park Seonghwa, what have you done?

“Seonghwa… what–”

Hongjoong’s eyes are wide, words catching awkwardly in his throat. He looks frozen where he sits, shoulders stiff, as if his body hasn’t quite caught up to what just happened. The silence stretches between them, fragile and unbearable.

“I’m s–sorry, Hongjoong-ah, I–I didn't–”

His jaw snaps shut.

Didn't what?

Didn't mean it? Didn't want to kiss you?

Didn't fall madly, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you?

The words rot on his tongue before they can form. There is no version of this where the truth doesn’t make everything worse.

Just… felt like being honest.

Hongjoong’s voice from moments ago rings cruelly in his head. Seonghwa wonders, distantly, when’s the next time Hongjoong will speak to him.

If there even will be a next time.

He can lie to the world. He’s been doing it for years, and he’ll keep doing it.

Pretending the way his heart stutters when Hongjoong laughs is just a silly accident.
Pretending the ache in his chest is nothing more than fatigue.
Pretending that loving him hasn’t quietly shaped every corner of his life.

But he can never – will never – lie to himself. Not back then, not ever. Not even after this.

And so if protecting Hongjoong – his smile, his peace, the easy warmth he gives the world – means burying this truth deep inside his heart, ignoring how it pierces and scrapes at the confines of his chest, desperate for escape, begging to be known, then so be it. Seonghwa has already made his choice a thousand times over the years and he will make it again now without hesitation.

He will carry his love to the grave, unspoken, unnamed, unreturned.

“I’m sorry.” He chooses to say instead, because it’s the only thing left to say.

Because it’s easier. Because it’s safer. Because he’s a coward.

His voice trembles as he pushes himself to his feet, knees unsteady. The apology hangs thinly between them, unfinished, already breaking apart.

Hongjoong is still staring at him, expression blank. He’s a page that, despite Seonghwa thinking he had memorised – every microexpression, every twitch, every sigh, every careless smile – is suddenly completely foreign.

But perhaps it’s better this way.

He doesn’t want to see it. He doesn’t think he can handle seeing the disgust, the anger, the betrayal in his Captain’s eyes without breaking. Not in the eyes of the man he loves.

So he stumbles backward, shoes scraping harshly against the granite. And runs.

Runs until the city lights smear into long streaks of colour. Runs until his lungs burn and his legs tremble beneath him. Runs until the tears streaming down his face turn icy in the sharp autumn wind. Runs until the only thing left in his head is the echo of Hongjoong’s stunned silence, looping, merciless.

He runs, like the coward he is.

Hongjoong doesn’t follow.

Park Seonghwa, what have you done?

-

The dorm building looms ahead of him before he even realises where his feet have taken him. He slips around the back into the carpark, where the concrete walls swallow sound and light alike, leaving the space dim and hollow. The company van sits in the far corner beneath a flickering fluorescent lamp, familiar and impersonal, its dark windows reflecting a warped version of his own face.

Seonghwa stumbles towards it and collapses against its side. For a moment he just leans against glass and metal, head spinning, until his legs finally give out beneath him and he slides down slowly until he’s sitting on the cold ground, knees pulled to his chest. The silence is suffocating, but welcome.

He can’t go back to his (their) room now. Not when everything in the room reminds him of Hongjoong. Hongjoong’s clothes strewn carelessly across the chair, Hongjoong’s photos taped to the wall, the faint scent of Hongjoong’s citrus shampoo lingering in the blankets. Proof of them, proof of something he has just shattered with his own hands.

He presses his forehead to his knees and lets out one sob.

Then two.

Then his shoulders are shaking uncontrollably as the sobs wrack through his body. He clenches into his sleeves as if he can physically hold his heart together. His fingers go numb. His chest aches, like something is being torn out and left to rot.

He doesn’t hear the shuffle of feet on gravel.

“Hyung?” A soft, meek voice calls out.

Seonghwa freezes immediately and clamps a quivering hand to his mouth, shoving the broken sounds back down his throat.

Too late. He sees large, hesitant eyes peek out from behind the van, illuminated by the dim carpark lights.

“Seonghwa-hyung, is that you?”

The strength drains from his body all at once, as if his bones have given up holding him upright, and relief floods him violently.

“Wooyoung-ah…”

Wooyoung steps closer, slowly at first, like he’s approaching something wounded. His eyes move quickly over Seonghwa’s face – the wet tear tracks streaking down his cheeks, the trembling hands pressed uselessly against his mouth, the way his chest heaves with uneven breaths.

He doesn’t ask questions.

Wooyoung never asks questions when he already knows the answers will only hurt.

-

A year ago, during a dinner that had grown louder and messier with every empty bottle pushed to the side of the table, Hongjoong had slung an arm lazily around Seonghwa’s shoulders. Behind them, Jongho was fighting with Mingi over the last chicken nugget, Yeosang and Yunho sat beside them, far more civilised, the baritone leaning in to show him a dance challenge he wanted to film.

To his right, San was slumped entirely on Wooyoung’s shoulder, eyes closed, a peaceful smile on his lips. The younger smoothed his hands quietly through his hair, pressing soft kisses to the top of his head.

Hongjoong had been half-drunk, his voice loose and warm in that rare, unguarded way it only became when the night stretched long enough.

“Seonghwa-yah, did you know…” he’d drawled, chin dropping heavily onto Seonghwa’s shoulder, “... that I wrote THANK U for you?”

Seonghwa had frozen so abruptly the movement made Hongjoong shift. But Hongjoong, careless in the way only drunk people can be, didn't notice. He just pushed himself upright a moment later, already distracted and turning across the table to yell at Mingi for bullying his youngest son.

He didn't hear the silence he left in his wake. He didn't notice how the colour drained entirely from Seonghwa’s face, how Seonghwa’s heart pounded in his ears, blood rushing through his veins.

But Wooyoung did.

Later that night, when the dorm had finally gone quiet and everyone else had scattered to their rooms, Seonghwa sat cross-legged on the sofa with a book he wasn’t reading. Wooyoung sat down silently beside him.

For a long time he didn’t say anything. He just watched Seonghwa from the corner of his eye, lips pressed thin, fingers tapping restlessly against his knee like he was trying to gather the courage to ask something he already knew the answer to.

“Seonghwa-hyung,” he asked finally, his voice barely disturbing the stillness of the room.

“Are you in love with him?”

The book slipped from Seonghwa’s hands.

He hadn’t answered. But Wooyoung didn't expect one.

Wooyoung said nothing else after that. He simply reached forward and pulled Seonghwa against his chest, one arm wrapping firmly around his shoulders while his other hand slid up to cradle the back of his head. He rocked him slowly, like he was trying to soothe something much deeper than ordinary sadness.

“It’ll be okay, hyung,” he whispered into Seonghwa’s hair, voice low and steady. “You’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.”

Lies, Seonghwa laughed bitterly between sobs, lies.

How could it ever be okay?

How could he be okay, when every breath he takes feels like it was borrowed from Kim Hongjoong? When his entire world had quietly rearranged itself around someone he could never have?

And so he cried, and he cried, and he cried.

Until his chest burned and the grief hollowed him out so completely there was nothing left but exhaustion.

Wooyoung held him through it all.

And when morning came – when schedules resumed, when stylists bustled through the dorm and managers rushed them toward vans, when cameras started rolling again –

Everything went back to normal.

-

“Hyung!” Wooyoung is there before Seonghwa even registers movement, arms wrapping protectively around Seonghwa without hesitation, strong and immediate. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t question.

“Wooyoung-ah.” The name breaks out of Seonghwa in a sob, his fingers clutching desperately at the back of Wooyoung’s shirt, soaking the fabric of his stage outfit with salt and grief. “Wooyoung-ah.”

Shame coils deep in his stomach. If he was thinking clearly, had even a shred of dignity left, he’d never allow anyone to see him like this, ugly and raw and shaking at Kim Hongjoong’s feet.

But perhaps some small, exhausted part of him has been quietly screaming for years for someone to see, to know. So he could finally stop carrying the hopeless, crushing weight of his love, of his doom, alone.

“I’m here hyung,” Wooyoung tightens his hold, smaller fingers grasping tightly at fabric like this embrace alone could keep Seonghwa from falling apart. His voice fierce, almost angry at the world, “I’m always here hyung. You hear me?”

“Wooyoung-ah, I’m… I–”

The words tangle, choke, refuse to come out properly. Panic surges, sharp and suffocating, closing tight around his chest. “I– Hongjoong–”

“Hongjoong-hyung?” Wooyoung freezes. Seonghwa feels it – the sudden stillness, the tension snapping into place, grip shifting from comforting to protective. “What did he do?”

“N–No,” Seonghwa shakes his head quickly, almost violently. He gasps for air, desperate for a lifeline out of this sinking, rejected love.

Even now, when he’s thrown it all away, he still burns for Hongjoong, desperate to leave his name clean, unsullied. It’s not Hongjoong. It’s him – he’s the cursed one. The stain on white fabric, the tragic, awkward and shameful chapter in a story destined for greatness.

“It’s not him, it’s me–” he chokes, “It’s me, I–”

Even now, his first instinct is still to protect Hongjoong.

He clutches at Wooyoung’s chest, like he could claw himself out of the unrelenting hold Kim Hongjoong had around his heart, his soul.

“I kissed him.”

Wooyoung goes completely still.

Seonghwa doesn’t need to look to know the expression on Wooyoung’s face.

“Hyung, you–” Wooyoung starts, then stops. The words die halfway out, swallowed down along with every question, every reaction, every why did you do it?

He chooses mercy instead.

“It’s okay,” his voice softens, gentler than Seonghwa thinks he deserves. His hand comes up to cradle the back of Seonghwa’s head, guiding him carefully back against his shoulder, like something fragile, something worth protecting. “You’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.”

Seonghwa laughs wetly against Wooyoung’s chest.

How could it ever be okay?

The words are nothing but lies wrapped in kindness, but Seonghwa clings to them anyway – because right now, they are the only thing keeping him from collapsing completely.

Wooyoung’s arms tighten around him, steady and unyielding, holding him together when he can’t do it himself. And Seonghwa breaks.

He cries like he’s grieving a death – loud, broken, irreparable – mourning the end of something that never should have existed, something he never had the right to hope for.

Wooyoung holds him through it all. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, just lets Seonghwa come apart piece by piece in his arms.

Hongjoong doesn’t come home that night.

-

“I’m sorry.” Seonghwa whispers, shoulders still shaking.

His eyes trained down at the blankets pooled in his lap, wishing that they’d swallow him whole if he stared long enough. The fluffy fabric is patterned with tiny strawberries — bright, cheerful things he’d picked out months ago because they made him smile. Now the little fruits blur through his tears. Their shapes smear and bleed together until they’re nothing more than streaks of red against white, his favorite fruit dissolving into something ugly and abstract.

Hongjoong doesn’t say anything. Seonghwa doesn’t blame him, though. What is he supposed to reply? It’s okay? Everything’s fine? We’ll be fine?

I love you too?

Seonghwa lets out a hollow, bitter laugh before he can stop it. Perhaps this is better. Let the silence do it. Let it say everything he doesn’t want to hear.

“What for?” Hongjoong’s voice finally cuts through the silence.

“What–”

Seonghwa looks up, tears spilling over faster now, anger surging in behind them like a tide.

“What for?”

He scrubs at his face harshly with the back of his hand, feeling concealer and foundation pill beneath his fingers, skin burning from the friction.

“What do you mean what for– Kim Hongjoong are you making fun of me now or–”

Hongjoong is seated on the chair now. His hands are clasped together tightly in his lap, fingers laced so hard the knuckles have gone pale. His expression is still frustratingly unreadable, but from behind the tears, Seonghwa notices other things now – the way Hongjoong’s hair is completely mussed, like he’s run his hands through it a dozen times, the way his shoulders rise and fall with heavy breaths like he’s just run miles to get here.

He doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t want to.

“What for?” he repeats, words bitter on his tongue. “Kim Hongjoong, now you’re just being cruel.”

Hongjoong’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline. “What?”

Fuck you.

The thought is immediate. Vicious.

Fuck you, Kim Hongjoong.

“Go ahead.” Seonghwa snarls, baring teeth like a cornered animal. A defence mechanism, perhaps, a feeble shield too thin to actually protect him. “Go ahead and scold me. Yell at me. Call me names.” He chokes halfway, acid in his throat, “I can take it. Just–”

The photo on the wall suddenly catches his attention.

Their first music show win.

The memory punches straight through his chest. The two of them, trophy held between them, stupidly toothy grins wide and unguarded. Hongjoong’s arm around Seonghwa’s waist, Seonghwa’s draped around his shoulders. He remembers how his heart had nearly burst that day. That bright and perfect moment, frozen in time, now sits immortalised on his wall, proof that happiness like that was real.

Before he ruined it. Before he took something good and crushed it in his own hands because he couldn’t fucking control himself.

“–just, don’t pretend nothing happened. Please.” he finishes, voice cracking, the words tearing out of him, a plea to the gods.

Don’t pretend that I don’t matter.

His jaw slackens, eyes widening in a way Seonghwa’s never seen before – raw, almost alarmed.

“Seonghwa, I didn’t pretend–” he says quickly. “I don’t–I don’t understand what you mean–”

“You–” Seonghwa bites back a swear, choking up words like glass in his throat. “Kim Hongjoong just say whatever you want to say and get it over with, please.” He hates the way he’s begging now, the last shred of self-respect, dignity, stripped from his body, slipping right out of his hands.

“I can handle it. I promise.”

His voice betrays him and wavers anyway. He squeezes his eyes shut, tears slipping free from behind long lashes.

“We have another early day tomorrow. Just say it and we can go rest. We’ll go back to normal. Please.”

Normal. The word tastes like rust.

What is normal?

Pretending his soul doesn’t orbit Hongjoong?

Pretending his heart doesn’t exist solely because Hongjoong is near enough to give it reason?

Pretending Hongjoong doesn’t break him apart and stitch him back together with careless hands every time he so much as looks at him, touches him, when he calls him Seonghwa-yah like the name belongs only to him?

Yes, perhaps normal is better.

Normal is numb. Normal doesn’t hurt this much.

“How can we go back to normal?”

Seonghwa’s eyes open slowly.

Hongjoong has leaned forward, elbows resting loose on his knees, gaze on the floor. His voice is so soft, small, scared. He sounds like a boy who sounds like he’s just realised he’s lost something precious.

Seonghwa’s beaten, worn out, tired heart cracks a little more.

“You’re right,” he says after a moment, a hollow laugh slipping past his lips. “We can’t, can we?”

He drags a shaking hand down his face, smearing the dampness across his skin.

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

He’s rehearsed this. He’s ran this exact scene in his head a thousand times over in the quiet corners of his mind long before tonight ever happened.

How he’d apologise for daring to feel too much, for wanting something he was never meant to have. How he’d reduce it to something small, something fleeting. A mistake.

“You can blame everything on me.” Seonghwa continues quietly, gently. “I promise everything will be okay.”

I’ll be okay.

The lie sits heavy on his tongue.

Seonghwa doesn’t notice the way Hongjoong’s fingers tighten together, knuckles whitening as they twist against each other.

“... I understand.” Hongjoong says at last. His voice is so quiet it nearly disappears beneath the low hum of the air purifier in the corner of the room.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa sighs, head to the ceiling, pressing his palms to his eyes, willing the tears back into his skull. “... so don’t worry, we’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.”

He doesn’t know who he’s trying to convince anymore. Himself, maybe. Certainly not Hongjoong.

He hears the chair scrape against the floor, the soft shuffle of socked feet receding. Each step feels like a countdown, echoing in his chest, hammering against the hollow ache inside him. It feels like a farewell, a quiet goodbye to the years spent in laughter, in sleepless nights, in cramped dorm rooms that smelled like takeout and cheap detergent.

A goodbye to Kim Hongjoong.

“Seonghwa-yah.”

Hongjoong’s voice cuts through the silence, quieter than before. Seonghwa’s heart stutters. And he hates – hates – how his body still reacts so pathetically at nothing more than his name in Hongjoong’s voice.

Seonghwa doesn’t look up. He can’t, not when his chest is this tight with words he can’t allow himself to say.

“For what it’s worth,” Hongjoong inhales slowly. “I don’t regret falling in love with you. But I understand if you want space, I’ll talk to manager-nim tomorrow–”

?

.

.

.

What.

What?

“What?”

“– about changing rooms. I–”

.

.

.

?

Seonghwa’s head snaps up so fast his neck protests, a dull ache shooting down his spine. His pulse slams hard against his throat, loud enough he swears Hongjoong can hear it.

“Kim Hongjoong,” his nails sink into the sheets by his side, voice shaking, already unraveling, “What did you say?”

His nails bite into the fabric, grounding, anchoring, because right now, his whole body feels like it’s tilting, like the floor beneath him has shifted half an inch off-center.

He doesn’t know what terrifies him more – that he imagined it, that exhaustion and grief twisted the words in his ears –

–or that he didn't.

Hongjoong pauses at the door. His hand slips from the handle, curling into a fist as though he’s physically bracing himself against the gravity of what he’s about to admit. For a long, brutal moment, Seonghwa thinks he’s going to leave anyway.

But Hongjoong doesn’t. He doesn't turn around either. He just stands there, a tense silhouette against the harsh, clinical white light of the room.

“I’ll talk to manager-nim about changing rooms–”

“No.”

Seonghwa pushes himself upright so abruptly the blankets twist around his knees. His back goes rigid, every muscle pulled tight.

“Before that,” he says urgently, breath unsteady. “What did you say?”

“Seonghwa-yah–”

He stares at the back of Hongjoong’s head, vision narrowing, everything else fading to dull and gray.

“Kim Hongjoong,” Seonghwa snaps, voice low but dangerously sharp, brimming with fury sparked with desperation, “What the fuck did you say?”

“Seonghwa, I–”

“Turn around.”

The words come out low and shaking.

“Turn around and say it to my face.”

Hongjoong shoulders tense. Seonghwa can see it – the way his weight shifts like he’s debating running, like every instinct in him is screaming to leave.

Then, slowly, he turns.

Seonghwa forgets how to breathe.

Because he doesn’t recognise this person at all.

There is no Captain here.

No steady leader with calm eyes and careful composure. His face looks… wrong. Eyes glassy, red-rimmed, lips bitten red, cheeks blotchy, a tear halfway down his cheek, catching the light. His expression is messy, it looks too much like grief to be anything else.

Hongjoong inhales deeply, a sound sharp enough to hurt, and the tears come, sliding freely down his cheeks despite the attempt to wipe them away.

Then, quietly, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world –

“I don’t regret falling in love with you.”

.

.

:

Seonghwa’s stomach drops.

The world stops spinning. The words puncture the quiet of the room. The world tilts beneath Seonghwa’s feet. Everything goes still.

“You’re–” His voice comes out faint, disbelieving. He doesn't dare move, afraid that if he does, this – whatever this is – will crack open and disappear.

He has to be imagining this. That this is just some cruel, elaborate hallucination his exhausted mind has come up with after a day of heartbreak and humiliation. This is punishment from the Heavens for even daring to harbour such wretched hope.

“–you’re what?”

Hongjoong swallows hard enough that Seonghwa can see it. Hear it.

“I’m in love with you.”

It comes out smaller this time, like he’s offering something that’s already breaking apart in his hands. His fingers twitch at his sides before he raises his hands to scrub quickly at his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing moisture across his skin, a sharp, irritated sound escaping from his throat like he’s annoyed at himself for crying.

“And I know you don’t feel the same way,” he rushes, words stumbling over each other now, desperate to get ahead of the rejection he’s already bracing for. “So I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything, I’ll just—”

He takes a clumsy step back towards the door, already retreating, already trying to leave, like he’s decided the ending on his own.

Seonghwa’s stupid brain finally catches up.

What the fuck.

“Shut the fuck up.” Seonghwa’s voice rips out of him before he can stop it, raw with panic.

Hongjoong freezes, breath catching visibly in his throat, like Seonghwa’s words hit him physically.

His hand jerks blindly behind him, fingers scraping against the door until they find the knob, one last anchor to keep him from drowning completely. His other hand flexes uselessly at his side, knuckles whitening.

“Seonghwa-yah– ”

Hongjoong squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenched like he’s bracing for impact. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, hard enough that Seonghwa’s gaze flickers there for a second, stupidly, irrationally, waiting for blood.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter now, voice cracking straight through the middle. “I’ll give you space. I–I won’t come near you if you don’t want me to. I get it, I really do–”

No, you don’t.

His hands come up to cover his face, fingers pressing hard against skin slick with sweat and tears.

“I’ll stay away,” voice muffled against his palms, cracking under the weight of honesty. “I’ll make it easy for you, I promise. Please don't be angry at me.”

His shoulders shake violently.

“I will never regret falling in love with you. But Seonghwa-yah, please–”

His voice shatters completely, the last word barely making it past his lips.

“Please… don’t make me regret being honest with you.”

Silence crashes over the room. Loud and suffocating, humming in Seonghwa’s ears.

Seonghwa’s heartbeat roars.

“Who the fuck–” His voice comes out shaking, shattering like glass against stone.

He sees Hongjoong back into the door, shoulders pressed against it, like he’s trying to disappear into it. But his hands betray him. They lift towards Seonghwa, helpless, desperate.

“Seonghwa-yah–”

“Who the fuck says I don’t feel the same way?”

Hongjoong blinks.

Slow.

Unsteady.

Confused.

“...what?”

Seonghwa glares at him, vision blurring at the edges, heat burning behind his eyes.

“Seonghwa-yah,” Hongjoong tries again, softer, shakier. “Seonghwa w–what are you saying?”

Seonghwa lets out a sharp, breathless laugh that sounds nothing like humour.

“What am I saying?” he echoes, voice pitching up with something that feels dangerously close to hysteria. “What the fuck do you think I’m saying?”

Hongjoong just stares, eyes wide and empty.

Seonghwa grits his teeth so hard it hurts.

Three years.

Three fucking years of swallowing it down. Of tending to a love he hoped, prayed, begged would die quietly inside him. Three years of living with him, being with him, standing close enough to touch but never allowed to. Three years of watching him live while Seonghwa feels a shard of his soul get torn out each and every time he remembered how impossible everything he wanted was.

Three years of learning how to breathe and survive around a love that refused to die.

And now–

Now Kim Hongjoong is standing here apologising for loving him?

Genuinely what the fuck.

“Who the fuck says I don’t love you too?”

Hongjoong’s breath catches so sharply it’s almost a sound.

His eyes widen, glassy and stunned, lips parting like his brain has forgotten how to assemble words.

“Seonghwa, you–”

The blankets are suddenly in Seonghwa’s way.

He kicks them off his legs without thinking, fabric tangling around his ankles before sliding off the bed. Somewhere, faint and horrified, the germaphobe in him is screaming – but it gets swallowed whole by the rush tearing through his veins. He launches off the bed, grief and fury and love colliding inside his chest until it becomes something wild and uncontainable.

He’s already moving, already crossing the space between them like if he doesn’t do it now, he never will.

He stops right in front of Hongjoong, legs threatening to give way, too close but not close enough because god who knows how he could survive being any nearer to him. He raises a shaky, accusing finger.

“Fuck you Kim Hongjoong.”

The words come out jagged, ripped from the pages of every unsent confession he’s ever buried.

“Fuck you for being so stupid.” His voice cracks, but he doesn’t stop. “Fuck you for not noticing anything. Fuck you for deciding how I feel without even asking.”

He wipes his eyes roughly, smearing tears and makeup together, breath hitching.

“Fuck you for making me cry!”

Hongjoong takes a hesitant step toward him, careful. He already looks absolutely wrecked.

“Seonghwa-yah,” he says, voice breaking around the edges, “don’t joke, please–”

Anger flares like molten fire in Seonghwa’s chest.

“Well fuck you too, for thinking I would ever joke about something like this!”

Another step.

“Fuck you for not coming after me yesterday.” Seonghwa spits, fresh tears blurring his vision. He clutches at his chest. “Fuck you more for not coming home last night.”

Another step.

“Seonghwa–”

“Fuck you for making me fall in love with you.”

Another step.

“And fuck you too, for–”

His wrist gets caught. Hongjoong’s grip is shaking, desperate.

Seonghwa barely has time to react before he’s yanked forward, momentum stealing the rest of the space between them. His chest collides with Hongjoong’s, breath knocked out of him in a sharp, startled exhale.

Hongjoong’s other hand is immediately around his waist, the touch sending dizzying euphoria surging through Seonghwa’s nerves.

He’s too close, too warm, too real. Seonghwa can feel his breath on his skin, smell his shampoo, see the faint tremor in his hands, the fire and want burning in his eyes. Seonghwa freezes, caught like prey.

The height difference doesn’t matter – Hongjoong feels massive.

“Keep going,” Hongjoong says quietly.

Seonghwa’s pulse stutters.

“Wha–”

“Go on, Park Seonghwa. Curse me out properly.” Hongjoong’s voice drops low, dangerous – desire threaded through every syllable like a threat. His eyes are dark, jaw tight, like he’s holding back something feral.

There’s barely an inch of air between their lips – position incredibly intimate. Entirely unfamiliar.

He leans in closer.

“But you must know–”

Closer.

Seonghwa’s pulse stutters, brain blanking.

“I–”

“You don’t get to say all that–”

Closer.

Their noses brush, breath ghosting against Seonghwa’s lips, warm and uneven.

“–and then expect me to stand here and do nothing.”

“Hongjoong–”

He grabs Seonghwa’s face and crashes their lips together.

Seonghwa makes a startled sound against his mouth – half gasp, half protest – but Hongjoong swallows it immediately. He kisses like he’s been waiting years for this exact second and refuses to waste another breath on restraint.

His tongue slips inside Seonghwa’s mouth before he can even process what’s happening. One hand still locked fiercely around Seonghwa’s slim waist, pulling him flush – closer, closer – against his chest, while the other cradles the back of his head, fingers threading through soft hair as he tilts his own head to deepen the kiss, lips feverish.

Seonghwa stills for a moment–

Then his hands are flying, grappling at Hongjoong’s arms, his chest, his neck, desperate to touch, to feel, to confirm that this is happening. This is real.

His fingers tangle clumsily in blue hair. It’s hardly his favourite look, he’s always liked it dark, natural. But it’s Kim Hongjoong. So he’ll love him in everything, through everything. Despite everything.

Hongjoong stumbles forward, every step unsteady, reckless with need, ike he’s lost his balance somewhere between restraint and fuck it.

Seonghwa’s back slams against the wall with a thud but before the impact registers, and Hongjoong’s hand is already there, cradling the back of his head, shielding him from the worst of it, a brutal mixture of protection and possessiveness. There’s no space between their bodies at all, no air. Only heat and want.

For years he’d imagined this moment in quiet daydreams – the softness of Hongjoong’s mouth, the way he might tilt his head, the warmth of his hands. It'd be something slow, gentle.

This is nothing like that.

It’s messier, rougher, and so, so much hotter.

His lips desperately taste, learn Seonghwa’s mouth, hands coming up to slide right in the front of Seonghwa’s neck.

Seonghwa has a protest on his lips – what are you doing? He wants to ask, but it never quite makes it out. It can’t, not when a sharp nip at his bottom lip has Seonghwa’s head spinning.

Then Hongjoong’s thumb presses lightly against the dip of his throat, fingers kneading slowly. The touch is unhurried, entirely intentional, and Seonghwa feels it everywhere, heat rushing through him, pooling low, his thoughts dissolving into something hazy and unfocused.

A low, broken sound slips from him before he can stop it. His back arches instinctively into the touch, exposing more of his neck, offering without thinking.

Hongjoong groans in response, voice low and thick with desire, hunger.

He breaks away only to breathe, but Seonghwa makes a small, helpless sound at the loss–

–and it cuts off sharply when Hongjoong’s mouth drops to his neck.

Warm. Wet. Open-mouthed.

Kisses that don’t ask.

They drag slowly along the column of his throat, unhurried and devastating, before Hongjoong sucks hard just beneath his ear like he’s staking a claim.

Seonghwa’s knees nearly buckle.

“Fuck, Seonghwa-yah–” Hongjoong mouths hotly against his ear, hands gripping into Seonghwa’s waist.

Seonghwa whimpers, all strength and resolve instantly dissolving. His hands clambering uselessly at the fabric on Hongjoong’s chest.

God, he never knew Kim Hongjoong could sound this fucking sexy.

They’re both panting, oxygen not entering either of their lungs fast enough, their foreheads pressed together. Seonghwa’s lips are swollen, trembling, eyes wide and hazed. Hongjoong holds his chin steady, eyes dark with want and something heartbreakingly tender.

“Look at me.”

Seonghwa whines, broken.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” Hongjoong rasps, voice breaking, a confession tangled in desperation. “Do you understand? Park Seonghwa, do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Up close (so fucking close), Seonghwa can see how his eyes are blown wide, pupils dark with want. His cheeks are flushed and lips red and swollen. His breathing is just as uneven as Seonghwa’s.

“I’ve waited so long for this, I’ve waited–”

Seonghwa grabs Hongjoong by the collar–

“–then stop talking and kiss me–”

–and crashes their lips back together.

The kiss turns brutal – messy, clashing teeth, too much force and not enough control. Seonghwa kisses like he’s furious, like he’s starving, like he’s trying to take back something that should have been his years ago.

And from the way Hongjoong gives it right back – just as rough, just as desperate – he knows it’s not just him.

Hongjoong's arms tighten around his waist and Seonghwa allows himself to be torn clean off the wall.

He barely has time to register what’s happening before the backs of his knees hit the bed. He falls onto the messy sheets in a clumsy sprawl, breath hitching, hair fanning across the pillow. The protest on his tongue dies instantly when Hongjoong follows him down. Their bodies press together, Hongjoong’s weight settling between his legs as his mouth finds Seonghwa’s again – messy, salty, and desperate.

Somewhere in the blur of the moment, numbly, he registers it – the way Hongjoong’s arm came up, shielding the back of his head as he pushed him down, careful of the wooden edge above them. Protecting him, even now, even like this.

It makes something twist in Seonghwa’s chest.

And then it’s gone when Hongjoong nibbles the sensitive shell of his ear and slides between his legs that had parted so naturally for his Captain.

“Oh, fuck–” Seonghwa gasps when Hongjoong’s thigh shifts, brushing where he’s already aching and screaming for attention. “Hongjoong-ah please–”

Seonghwa pleads helplessly, directionless – pleads for what, he isn’t sure. He’s never done this before. Seonghwa just knows he wants – he needs – more. More touches, more kisses, more of Kim Hongjoong.

Hongjoong’s thigh presses harder against his throbbing length and Seonghwa’s vision sparks white.

Hongjoong’s hands settle in the front of Seonghwa’s shirt, fingers dipping teasingly beneath the white fabric. He pulls back just enough to look at him, irises blown dark and wide, a silent question hanging in the thick air.

Seonghwa nods furiously.

And Hongjoong’s hands are everywhere.

Bare skin, burning touch, hands mapping him like he’s memorising something he’s been denied for too long. His fingers find the sensitive peaks of Seonghwa’s chest and Seonghwa arches with a broken gasp, a sound torn straight out of him before he can stop it.

Hongjoong seems to know exactly what he’s doing.

The thought cuts through.

How does he know what to do?

Seonghwa’s eyes flutter open, unfocused, breath catching.

Who taught him this?

Who else has seen him like this – breathless, disheveled, coming apart at the seams?

Who else has had Kim Hongjoong like this?

Who else has touched him like this?

Heat curls low, sharp and insistent and ugly.

His hands move before he can stop them, coming up to cup Hongjoong’s face, fingers pushing damp strands of blue hair off his forehead.

“Who,” he says, throat tight.

“Hmm?” Hongjoong hums, distracted, still nosing along his neck.

Seonghwa swallows.

“Who else have you done this with?”

Everything stops. Hongjoong freezes instantly.

“... what?”

Heat rushes up Seonghwa’s neck, his face, his ears. He looks away, suddenly very aware of how he must sound.

“I just– you seem–” he lets out a shaky breath, words tripping over each other, “–experienced, so I thought maybe y–you’ve done this before and I–

He winces.

“–for the record, I haven’t. Done any of this. With anyone,” he adds quickly, too quickly. “But it’s fine if you have, obviously, we’re adults, people… do things, I just–”

He turns his head further away, mortified. Hongjoong still doesn’t speak and Seonghwa squeezes his eyes shut, feeling his heart twang.

“I just wanted to know, that’s all– not that it matters, I mean, it kind of does matter but I just–”

Hongjoong’s hand is suddenly on his jaw. His grip is not rough, but it’s firm enough that Seonghwa has no choice but to look at him.

“Park Seonghwa,” he says, voice low, edged with something almost incredulous. Almost hurt.

Hongjoong’s eyes are locked onto his, something sharp and offended flickering there.

“If you knew what goes on in my head when I look at you,” he says, each word deliberate, “you wouldn’t be asking me that.”

Seonghwa breathes in shakily.

“I have imagined this,” Hongjoong continues, breath uneven now, “too many times. Thought about how you'd sound, how you’d feel, where you’d react, what you’d do if I touched you like this–”

His fingers pinch Seonghwa’s hardened nipples and Seonghwa moans loudly. His cock jolts and he feels his arousal pooling in his underwear.

Hongjoong watches him closely.

“Everything you think I ‘know’?” he huffs, almost a bitter laugh. “I learned it from wanting you, loving you. So I hope you realise–”

He leans in, lips hardly an inch from Seonghwa’s.

“–how fucking ridiculous your question is.”

Seonghwa searches his face, still uncertain.

“... are you sure?”

Hongjoong cocks his head, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“Seonghwa,” he exhales, a hand dragging through his hair in frustration, “I would’ve died a virgin if tonight never happened.”

“... really?”

Hongjoong doesn’t say anything anymore. He surges forward and crashes their lips together again, rushed and eager, like he’s figured out that this is the best way to explain himself.

Seonghwa flings his arms back around Hongjoong’s neck, hips shifting instinctively, chasing every bit of heat, friction, anything, a soft moan escaping his throat when Hongjoong’s thigh brushes against his aching cock again.

Another thought follows, clearer, louder this time.

No one else gets this. No one else gets Kim Hongjoong like this. Not now, not ever.

Only me.

Hongjoong pulls back with a shaky breath.

“Park Seonghwa, I adore you. I always have. It’s always only ever been you.”

Seonghwa stills.

For the first time that night, he really looks at him, the man who usually carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, who never breaks first, who holds everything and everyone together, completely undone.

His blue hair is plastered to his forehead, damp with sweat and tears, eyeliner smeared into ghostly shadows beneath his eyes. His lips red and bitten and trembling, tears cutting uneven tracks through the last of his makeup.

Hongjoong looks like absolute shit.

And Seonghwa has never been this as in love with him as he is at this moment.

“I love you.”

The words tumble out of swollen, pulsing lips, raw and unfiltered, spoken out in the open for the first time. Seonghwa thumbs Hongjoong’s cheek, holding his face like he’s something fragile, precious – he is.

“Kim Hongjoong, I love you.”

Seonghwa is suddenly aware of himself, of the mess he must look like. His eyeliner is definitely gone, concealer and foundation around his eyes and cheeks be damned, lipstick probably smudged around the entirety of his chin.

And yet, the way Hongjoong looks at him – like he’s something impossible, like he’s been handed a miracle he never dared hope for – makes him feel painfully beautiful.

Hongjoong hovers above him, elbows on either side of Seonghwa shoulders, hands resting gently on his cheeks. Soft, satisfied sounds leave Seonghwa’s swollen lips as Hongjoong presses a kiss just beneath his jaw.

“Again.”

“What?”

“Say it again, Seonghwa,” Hongjoong pulls back and looks straight into Seonghwa’s eyes. “Tell me that you love me.”

Seonghwa lets out a shaky breath, fingers tightening where they’re curled into the back of Hongjoong’s shirt.

“I love you.”

A tear falls from Hongjoong’s eyes and lands on Seonghwa’s cheek.

“I love you,” he repeats, quieter, almost like a secret. His hands slide up, cupping Hongjoong’s face, thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes, wiping away what’s left of the smeared eyeliner and hot tears.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I–”

His voice breaks.

“I’m so in love with you.”

Hongjoong’s breath slows.

“Oh, my love,” he brushes Seonghwa’s blond hair out of his face with reverent care, as though Seonghwa’s something fragile. “My Seonghwa… I have loved you since the day we met. From the moment I laid eyes on you, I just…”

He lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head.

“So when you kissed me yesterday,” Hongjoong, voice catching like he’s struggling to find the right words to say, “I thought you somehow figured it out. That you… saw me, and that you wanted to… try–”

A fragile pause.

“... experiment.”

Seonghwa’s eyes fly open.

Experiment?

Hongjoong takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. His thumb taps nervously against Seonghwa’s palm, a restless, uneven rhythm.

“You have no idea how happy I was. I didn’t care what it meant. Love me back, don’t love me back – I didn’t care. I would’ve let you use me, test me, break me, if it meant I got to be yours, even if it was just for a moment.”

His eyes shine with something tragically, unbearably bright.

“It was the happiest moment of my life.”

Seonghwa swallows, heart tight and bruised in his chest.

“But when you pulled away… the look on your face… Seonghwa-yah–” His voice falters, throat working around something that doesn’t want to go down. “You looked horrified.”

He brings their joined hands up to his lips, lingering there for a second too long, like he’s trying to memorise something he thinks he’s about to lose.

“And when you ran away I–” Hongjoong swallows hard, voice dropping. “–I thought that my feelings disgusted you… that I–”.

His voice cracks.

“–disgusted you.”

Seonghwa blinks, world tilting under the weight of Hongjoong’s words, at how wrong everything sounds.

“And then just now during the game…” Hongjoong keeps going, words spilling faster now, tripping over each other like he can’t stop once it’s started. “I tried to act normal. I thought if I just pretended that everything was okay–” he lets out a shaky breath that doesn’t quite become a laugh. “–you wouldn’t feel uncomfortable around me.”

His words start tripping over each other.

“But then Yunho told me you left while I was in the washroom and by the time I ran out to try to find you, you were already gone–” His breathing starts to pick up, shallow, uneven. “–and I thought it was happening again, I thought you just couldn’t stand being around me anymore but Wooyoung said I had to talk to you so I did but I kept thinking about how I fucked everything up and you’d look at me differently now and I was so scared–”

“No–”

Seonghwa moves before he can think. He pushes up, back hitting the wall, and pulls Hongjoong into him – tight, desperate, arms locking around his shoulders, hands running soothingly along his back, feeling the subtle muscle tensing beneath soft fabric.

He shakes his head, small and frantic, cheek pressed into Hongjoong’s hair. It smells faintly like his shampoo.

“No, stop, stop talking like that,” he breathes, voice breaking.

Wetness soaks into his shirt as Hongjoong clings weakly to his shoulders, fingers digging in like he’s afraid Seonghwa might vanish.

“There are–” Seonghwa’s voice catches. He inhales, tries again. “There are so many things wrong with what you just said, I don’t even know where to start–”

His grip tightens instinctively.

“But you are not an… an experiment.” He spits. “You’re not something I’d just try and then–” His throat closes around the next part. “—and then just–”

Throw away.

The words burn his throat on the way up and they die on his tongue. He can’t bring himself to say them, not when they taste so wrong and make his stomach curl.

“Don’t–” his voice drops, quieter now, rough around the edges, “–don’t you ever think of me like that, Hongjoong-ah. Not when you don’t know…” His fingers curl into the fabric at Hongjoong’s back. “–don’t know how long I’ve–”

He gently peels Hongjoong back so he can see him. Hongjoong’s head dips at first, shoulders still drawn in, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. His chest rises and falls too fast, breaths catching halfway. His lashes are damp, clumped together, eyes squeezed shut like he’s bracing for something worse. He looks absolutely shattered.

“Kim Hongjoong, hey– hey,” he cups Hongjoong’s chin, thumb brushing his jaw, coaxing his gaze up. “Eyes on me.”

Bloodshot, swollen eyes open slowly, glassy and lost, and Seonghwa feels his heart splinter into a thousand jagged pieces. In that instant, he swears silently to whatever might be listening that as long as he still has breath in him, that he will never, ever let Kim Hongjoong look like this again.

“Oh, my Captain,” he breathes. What a terrifying, beautiful privilege to be able to call him his.

“My Hongjoong.”

He leans in to kiss him again. Their lips part just slightly, moving slowly, softly.

Then he kisses his eyelids, catching the last bit of salt lingering there, his temples, his cheeks, each kiss softer and longer than the last, like he’s trying to kiss away every shred of pain.

“I love you. This is real. This is happening. I’m right here,” Seonghwa kisses his chapped lips again, feeling Hongjoong relax ever so slightly into his embrace. “I’ll always be here, right by your side. I’ll follow you wherever you go.”

He cups Hongjoong’s cheek, foreheads touching, breath mingling.

“I said that before, remember?” Seonghwa whispers, tracing a gentle line along his cheek with his thumb.

Hongjoong looks up at him slowly, dazed.

“I told you if you weren’t our leader, there’d be no point.” A faint, watery smile. “I meant it then. I mean it now. I’ll follow you to hell and back, just so that you won’t be alone.”

“My love–”

“Who else is going to fold your clothes for you?”

Hongjoong lets out a broken, strangled sound – half laugh, half sob.

“Seonghwa-yah, you–”

His voice collapses into Seonghwa’s name. He shifts forward on instinct, knees pressing into the mattress, settling between Seonghwa’s parted thighs without even thinking about it.

“I left because you raised your hand,” Seonghwa admits, softer now. “I thought you didn't want to be around me. I thought you were disgusted at me for kissing you.”

There’s a pause, thick and heavy, Hongjoong eyes full of unsaid emotions. Then, in one fluid motion, he tugs on Seonghwa’s shoulders and rolls them onto the bed, Seonghwa’s head comes to rest against Hongjoong’s chest, right over his heart – erratic, frantic, alive beneath his ear.

Seonghwa melts instantly, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, holding on like he never wants to let go. Seonghwa has never felt this safe, this certain in his life.

“Seonghwa, when you kissed me, I was willing to risk it all. My career, my reputation, everything, for you.” Hongjoong murmurs, voice low but fierce, every word carved from truth. “But when you ran… it felt like the world ended right there. I sat there at the river for a long time. I didn't know what to do.”

“I thought you didn't want to come home,” Seonghwa admits, voice muffled against chiffon and lace. “I thought you hated me–“

”No, no– my love, I could never hate you. There is not a cell in my body that could.” Hongjoong leans down and tips Seonghwa’s head up, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “I did come home but I didn’t trust myself to stay in the same room as you and act like everything was normal.”

He sighs.

“So I slept on the sofa outside.”

Seonghwa lets out a small, wet laugh, disbelief threaded through it.

“So what’s why Wooyoung said all that just now during the game? It wasn’t just him being… Wooyoung?”

Hongjoong’s lips brush his temple, his cheek, lingering. “We’ve never been very good at talking, have we?”

“You think?” Seonghwa laughs, the sound thin but real – his first real laugh in what feels like days. “But I think we’re doing a pretty good job now.”

“Yeah,” Hongjoong hums softly. “I think we are.”

Hongjoong presses a kiss to the crown of Seonghwa’s head, then another, and another, and Seonghwa’s heart swells painfully.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he adds quietly. “The hand– I don’t even remember doing it,” he keeps kissing Seonghwa’s hair, over and over, like a quiet apology. “But I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to, my love, please forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Seonghwa presses his face into Hongjoong’s chest, “And I’m sorry for running. If I had known… Hongjoong-ah if I had known then that I had a chance with you, I–”

“I’m yours.”

Hongjoong cradles his cheeks, tilting Seonghwa’s face to look at him. His eyes are bright, resolute.

“Seonghwa, my love, I’ve been yours since the beginning. Throughout all these years, all that I am, everything that I am and will be, is all for you. It’s never been about chances – there was never anyone else and there was never going to be anyone else. I would have loved you anyway, even if you never loved me back.”

His voice softens.

“I love you,” he says simply. “My heart’s yours.”

The words sound too permanent to be a confession, they sound more like a vow.

Then gravity pulls them together again, inevitable, consuming.

The kisses that follow are gentle, unhurried. Fingers dance across skin, lips press carefully, learning each other again with softness, like coming home after a lifetime of aimless wandering.

“There’s a lot more that I want to tell you.” Hongjoong confesses, hand cupping Seonghwa’s cheek, thumb brushing slowly along the curve of it.

“Me too,” Seonghwa hums, pressing a soft kiss along Hongjoong’s jaw, just beneath his ear, lingering there. “But we can take it slow. We have time.”

“We do,” Hongjoong says, voice quieter now, steadier, but his eyes still shine. “But we should wash up, my love. It’s been a… long day.”

He shifts beneath Seonghwa, pushing himself halfway upright, only for Seonghwa to stiffen.

“... wait,” Seonghwa begins hesitantly, grasping gently onto Hongjoong’s wrist.

Hongjoong sits up immediately.

“What?” he asks, tone sharp and alert. “What is it, my love?”

Seonghwa shuffles, pulling a pillow into his lap. “Wooyoung… knows.”

“Knows?”

“He knows,” Seonghwa repeats, quieter now. “About me. About–” he exhales, glancing at him, “–how I feel about you. He figured it out awhile back and just… yeah.”

Hongjoong nods slowly, processing.

“Mm… so that’s why.”

Seonghwa cocks his head. “Why what?”

“I was half-asleep on the sofa,” Hongjoong says, dragging a hand through his hair, frowning faintly like he’s replaying the scene. “And suddenly someone just… rips the blanket off me.”

“... huh.”

“I open my eyes,” Hongjoong continues, very serious, “and Wooyoung is just standing there. Staring at me.” He rubs his neck. “I think he kicked me too. I have a strange bruise on my thigh.”

“... kicked you.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay… and then you scolded him.”

“What?” Hongjoong blinks at him, genuinely confused. “No, of course not. Why would I scold him? I just stared back.”

Seonghwa nods slowly. “... right.”

“Then he cornered me last night before I came in here,” Hongjoong continues, expression souring slightly. “Told me to fix it. Threatened to leave the group if I didn’t.” He clicks his tongue. “Who does that little shit think he is.”

“Your favourite, clearly,” Seonghwa sing-songs.

“My what? Jung Wooyoung?” Hongjoong turns to him like he’s just been accused of tax fraud.

“Am I wrong? You let him get away with everything.”

“I do not.”

“He assaulted you,” Seonghwa says, lifting a brow. “And you couldn’t even bear to scold him.”

“He’s–” Hongjoong falters, then recovers weakly. “–spirited.”

Seonghwa stares.

“And I don’t have favourites,” Hongjoong insists, weaker this time.

“Mhmm, keep telling yourself that.”

“Seonghwa–!”

Seonghwa laughs and sits up, tugging at Hongjoong’s arm.

“Alright, alright, I’ll let you preserve your dignity for now. Come on. Shower. I’m exhausted and I still need to come back and change the bedsheets.” he wrinkles his nose. “They’re disgusting now.”

Hongjoong huffs but doesn’t argue. Then he glances down and hesitates.

“... do you want to sleep with me?”

Seonghwa snaps his head up at Hongjoong’s words, eyes narrowing.

“What?”

Hongjoong’s brain visibly leaves his body.

“No– wait– no, that sounded–” he sits up so fast he nearly headbutts him, hands flying up in panic. “Not like that– well, not not like that– oh fuck, that’s worse–”

Seonghwa just stares. For some strange, unexplained reason, somewhere in the back of his mind, he notes with perfect clarity: this is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.

Hongjoong, unfortunately, is still speaking.

Seonghwa, even more unfortunately, is falling further.

“I mean I do want to– obviously I want to– have you seen you but that’s not what I meant right now, what I mean just, later, not later later, just– eventually– I meant that after we shower– we just sleep, sleep sleep, just next to each other, because your bed is—”

Hongjoong lets out a frustrated groan and drags a hand through his hair, pushing it back only for it to fall right back into his face.

“Now I can’t even talk properly anymore,” he mutters, half laughing, half dying. “Park Seonghwa… what are you doing to me?”

Seonghwa bites back a fond laugh.

“I think you’re doing just fine,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb lightly along Hongjoong’s cheek, slow, absentminded, like he can’t quite stop touching him now that he’s allowed to. “Still very charming.”

Hongjoong exhales, the tension easing out of him.

“...I just want you close.” Hongjoong’s voice drops, stripped of jokes and bravado. His cheeks are flushed against the sheer black chiffon. He looks up at Seonghwa from beneath damp lashes, “I want you in my bed,” he says, more carefully now, holding Seonghwa’s gaze. “Not because of–of that but just… just because I want to wake up and see you there. With me. Next to me.”

Hongjoong’s shoulder hunch a little, eyes wide and round and Seonghwa thinks he’s never seen anything more adorable in his life.

“... please.”

Seonghwa shifts closer, leaning in to press a small kiss to the tip of Hongjoong’s nose. It’s warm. Still a little flushed.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa whispers, voice trembling, “I’d like that.”

And so, after, when the steam has faded from the bathroom mirrors and the world feels quieter again, they slip into Hongjoong’s bed together, the sheets cool against still-warm skin, the room dim and safe and theirs.

And entirely awkward.

They just lie there, staring straight up at the ceiling, the only sounds in the room are the low hum of the air conditioner and their breathing. Seonghwa suddenly becomes painfully aware of how his hands are just… lying there by his sides. Very, very, still. Existing. Useless.

Then, Hongjoong shifts.

He turns to face Seonghwa and his arm lifts, hesitating for a moment, before it hovers above his waist, the touch small and tentative.

“... is this okay?”

Seonghwa lets out a sound. It’s not a dignified sound. It sounds like a cross between a strangled pigeon and a motorcycle on its last millilitre of fuel.

“Hongjoong-ah… you–you almost sucked my tongue out of my mouth just now so I would hope–” Seonghwa gestures vaguely between them, “–that this would be okay.”

Hongjoong lets out a small, breathy laugh, relief flooding his face all at once, and his arm finally drops, settling around Seonghwa’s waist.

Seonghwa moves immediately. He turns into Hongjoong, closing the space until there isn’t any left, tucking himself under Hongjoong’s chin like he’s always belonged there, cheek pressing against his collarbone. His leg comes up to wrap loosely around Hongjoong’s.

For a while, they just breathe. Then the words come.

They speak quietly of everything and nothing – about the moments that almost gave them away, the looks that lingered too long, the touches that meant too much, the nights they lay awake thinking about this exact moment.

It’s Hongjoong who yawns first, cutting himself off mid-sentence.

Seonghwa laughs softly, warm breath dancing across Hongjoong’s jawline.

“Go to sleep.”

Hongjoong hums faintly, the sound low and drowsy, arm slipping slightly where it’s draped across Seonghwa’s waist.

“...goodnight, my love.”

Seonghwa feels another press of his lips to his head.

“I love you so much.”

It comes out muffled and quiet, as though he still can’t believe he’s allowed to say it out loud.

Seonghwa presses closer instead of answering right away, burying deeper into Hongjoong’s nape. He breathes him in – the faint citrus from his soap and a scent that’s uniquely Kim Hongjoong.

Who’s now his.

Seonghwa squeezes his eyes shut, a tear slipping free before he can stop it. He tilts his head, kissing Hongjoong’s jaw.

“I love you too, Hongjoong-ah.”

-

Seonghwa wakes first.

It’s not the first time they’ve slept together in the same bed, but it’s the first time that he’s allowed himself to look, allowed himself to love without swallowing it down, without pretending it isn’t there.

His heart swells at the memory of the night before as his fingers flit up to his lips, brushing lightly over the faint soreness there. A physical reminder, quiet, stubborn proof that this is real, that whatever fantasies he used to indulge in in the dark – messy and desperate and fleeting – exist as memories now.

He stretches just enough to ease the stiffness in his shoulders, careful not to disturb the younger.

Hongjoong is still asleep, hair a mess against the pillow, lips parted slightly as he breathes, slow and even. Seonghwa reaches out, hesitant for only a second, before brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

Seonghwa smiles softly, a quiet, secret smile – one that feels too tender for the world they live in, meant only for this moment, only for him – before slipping out of the bed for the washroom.

When he opens the door, he freezes.

Wooyoung stands there, hands fiddling nervously with the hem of his shirt, eyes wide and hesitant. His gaze snaps up the moment he sees Seonghwa.

“Hyung…” Wooyoung speaks, voice small, unsure. So unlike the Wooyoung the world knows.

Seonghwa’s heart tightens immediately.

“Wooyoung-ah?” he murmurs, stepping out and closing the door gently behind him. “What are you doing here? It’s still so early. Did something happen?”

“I’m sorry hyung,” Wooyoung blurts out, “I wanted to talk to you yesterday. I wanted to apologise, I shouldn’t have said what I said during the game. I only wanted to make fun of Hongjoong-hyung but then Yunho told me about how uncomfortable you looked and–”

He tugs at the hem of his pajama top.

“And then you ran off and we were so worried, I–” Wooyoung rambles, words tumbling over each other. “I know you and Hongjoong-hyung talked, I mean– I told him to, last night, so he better have. But then we heard the shouting and… I thought that we fucked everything up for you and I was so scared and–”

His voice cuts off when his eyes land on Seonghwa’s neck.

Red marks, stark against pale skin.

“... oh”

He leans back slowly, crossing his arms.

“Wow.”

He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, shaking his head like he’s been very inconvenienced by this development.

“So while I was up all night worrying, thinking that we’re going to disband or something–”

His eyes narrow.

“–this is what was happening.”

Seonghwa flushes. “Wooyoung-ah–”

“Unbelievable,” Wooyoung mutters, but there’s less bite now. Relief slips through, poorly disguised. Seonghwa doesn’t miss the slight tremble in his lip. “I lost sleep because of this.”

Seonghwa’s heart gives.

“Oh, my baby, come here.”

He pulls Wooyoung into a warm, enveloping hug, one hand smoothing through his hair and presses a lingering kiss to his temple. Wooyoung huffs softly, but he melts into it immediately, face pressing into Seonghwa’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry for worrying you, baby. We’ll tell everyone properly later, okay?”

“About fucking time,” Wooyoung mumbles. “I’m happy for you, truly, I am, but really, couldn’t you have done this next year? Yunho’s gonna be insufferable now.”

Seonghwa blinks slowly. “Yunho… why is Yunho involved?”

Wooyoung pulls back and gives him a long, suffering look.

“…Yunho is involved because he’s the only one who bet on 2021,” he says flatly. “Everyone else gave you at least another year. Including me, by the way. So not only have I suffered emotionally for free, I’m also losing money to Jung Yunho.”

“... you were betting… on us?”

“Yes.” Immediate. No hesitation. “Next question.”

Seonghwa does not have a next question. He is still on the first one.

“And just so we’re clear – I never told anyone about anything. Not the kiss, not that night, nothing. I kept that to myself like a responsible, emotionally burdened saint.”

He exhales dramatically.

“Anyway,” Wooyoung continues, waving a hand, “Yunho figured it out way before me, he’s called it since like 2019 by the way. And after you ran off yesterday he started analysing everything Sherlock Holmes, very smug about it too. I had to sit there and watch him be correct in real time. It was humiliating.”

Seonghwa’s brain is still catching up.

“But then again,” Wooyoung shrugs, “I can’t really blame him. You two have been so obvious for so long it’s honestly insulting.”

Seonghwa straightens slightly. “Hongjoong was obvious?”

Wooyoung stares at him in silence for a full three seconds.

“…Seonghwa-hyung,” he says finally, slow and deliberate, “use your eyes. Please.”

“I do use my eyes.”

“Well, use them better.”

He sighs loudly.

“What, you think I told you it’d be okay yesterday for fun?” he asks, softer now. “I mean, I didn’t know how it would end. I’m not psychic. But…” his expression eases slightly, “it obviously wasn’t one-sided. So we didn’t think we needed to interfere. No matter how stupid you two were, we figured you’d get your heads out of your asses sooner or later.”

Seonghwa’s throat tightens despite the sheer lack of respect.

Wooyoung studies him properly now, the teasing fading as his gaze sharpens despite the morning haze.

“Everything’s okay,” he says quietly – more statement than question.

“Yes,” Seonghwa answers immediately, no hesitation.

Wooyoung’s expression loosens completely. He nods once, small and decisive, like that’s all he needed. Then he clicks his tongue and the mood switches instantly.

“If he makes you cry, I will end him. I’ll throw him out the window. Then I’ll sell all the songs on his USB to fund his funeral.”

“You can’t,” Seonghwa murmurs, fingers combing gently through Wooyoung’s hair. “You’d break his heart. “

Wooyoung snorts, leaning into the touch. “After how I’ve suffered, he deserves pain.”

“You love him too much to hurt him.”

“I tolerate him,” Wooyoung says immediately.

Seonghwa raises an eyebrow, palming his cheek. “You’re his favourite, you know that?”

“Hah!” Wooyoung’s eye twitches. For a moment, he looks like he’s about to snap back with something sharp and snarky, but Seonghwa knows him a bit too well.

He watches the way Wooyoung’s expression softens, tension easing out of his brows before he quickly looks away, cheeks tinged pinker than before this unfortunate conversation.

“... he’s fine, I guess,” he mumbles, “when he’s not being stupid.”

Seonghwa just smiles.

Wooyoung coughs.

“Anyway,” he says, regaining composure. “now that I’ve confirmed that my family isn’t falling apart, I think I’m going back to cuddle with my boyfriend. You can go be Kim Hongjoong’s problem now.”

He leans in just enough to press a quick kiss to Seonghwa’s cheek before shuffling down the hallway, grumbling under his breath.

“Absolutely unbelievable. The things I need to do around here. No compensation, no respect–”

Then he opens the door.

“Sannie-yah, all’s good,” Wooyoung announces, entirely too loud for this hour. “They weren’t fighting, they were just fucking–”

Seonghwa chokes. “We weren’t–!”

From inside the room, San makes a deeply confused noise, then–

“... finally.”

Then the soft click of the door.

Seonghwa stands there for a second, heat rushing straight up his neck.

He briefly, very sincerely, contemplates murder.

-

When Seonghwa returns to their room freshly washed-up and mildly (incredibly) worried for his emotional wellbeing when the rest of the group wakes, he sees Hongjoong is standing by the bed. His hair is a disaster, eyes half-open, face bathed in the pale morning light streaming through the curtains – light he looks deeply, personally offended by.

“Was that Wooyoung earlier?” he asks, eyes squinting, voice rough with sleep.

“Yes,” Seoonghwa closes the door behind him. “Sorry, were we too loud?”

“No, just sounded like he was being annoying as usual. Do you want me to scold him?”

“Stop it. Both of you are impossible.” Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “Is it really that hard to admit that you love each other?”

“Very.”

Seonghwa tilts his head. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Hongjoong chokes on absolutely nothing.

“I– that’s–”

“See?” Seonghwa beams, entirely too pleased. “You do love him.”

Hongjoong drags a hand over his face, groaning into his palm.

“It’s six in the morning, my love, I don’t even love myself yet. Can we not do this right now?”

Seonghwa laughs. “Then what would you like to do?”

Hongjoong goes quiet. He blinks slowly, like he’s still catching up to everything – to last night, to this, to them, to the fact that he’s allowed to ask for things now. Then he glances up again, eyes a little too wide, a little too hopeful for someone trying to play it cool.

Seonghwa instantly melts.

“I’ve always wanted to…” Hongjoong murmurs and shifts his weight slightly, like he’s suddenly shy about it. “... to give you morning kisses.”

Seonghwa stills, then smiles softly. “Have you now?”

Hongjoong pouts, cheeks flushed red, but doesn’t look away.

“... maybe.”

Seonghwa steps closer, closing the space between them, lifting a hand to brush a stray strand of hair off Hongjoong’s forehead with deliberate tenderness.

Who is he to deny Kim Hongjoong anything?

And so he leans in.