Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When Yeon Sieun agreed to live with his best friend, he was told it’d be practical: cheaper rent, closer to campus, easier routines. In fact, it was Ahn Suho who appealed to his sensible nature by laying it out for him—which felt entirely out-of-character coming from a person who would rather play pool than study. (Sieun would later find out that Suho had to consult their friends for reasons beyond “it’d be fun”.) In any case, Sieun could not refute. After all, it was a request from his “saviour and most important person in his once boring life”, as Suho himself claims to be. Unfortunately, what Sieun did not account for was how quickly the shameless man would take over every inch of his carefully controlled life, how order would unravel into disorder, and how something as simple as sharing a space could start to feel dangerously close to a feeling he doesn't quite have the clarity to name.

To begin with, it was surprisingly easy for them to find a decent apartment that met their requirements: two bedrooms, full furnishings and convenient to both of their schools. Suho found the apartment listing online, sent a text to the landlady and was almost instantly, suspiciously, met with an application approval. As their luck would have it, the keys to the place were in their hands before they could even inspect it.

Suho’s grandma rejoiced through tearful smiles at her grandson and unofficially-adopted grandson living together, promising to bring plenty of side dishes whenever she visited, while Sieun’s parents offered distant praise about his independence and curt reminders to let them know if he needed money.

And so, within the next few days, the two best friends settled in and finally advanced their relationship to the next level—housemates.

However, Yeon Sieun is what one might call a true pessimist. It’s rooted in a lifetime’s worth of trauma and a constant preference for control and order. Much like the scientific concept of entropy, Sieun believes that everything inevitably trends toward disorder, that no matter how carefully one imposes meaning or structure, it will all eventually collapse into chaos. At the ripe age of twenty, that chaos has taken on a very specific form: in Ahn Suho and their precarious cohabitation. Three weeks into living together, Sieun has to wonder if this was a terrible idea—if the two of them were ever meant to share the same space at all. And if their landlord—the sweet, old lady that she is—has a personal issue with respecting her residents’ privacy.

It starts with small things, the kind that should be easy to fix (except they never are): a towel left damp on the couch, keys abandoned in places that make no sense, the faint smell of protein powder where protein powder should not exist. Despite Sieun’s many reminders in the form of passive-aggressive post-it notes and silent treatment, Suho seems unwittingly determined to disrupt his carefully maintained sense of order. Maybe to cope with his half of the rent, Suho took up a new part-time job without his knowledge. Job title: Harbinger of Chaos, salary and benefits to be determined.

This morning, things have reached a new and inconceivable low. Sieun wakes to the sound of heaviness hitting the floor, then another, then the low scrape of furniture being dragged across the tiles. For a moment he lies still in bed, counting his breaths, hoping it will stop on its own. It doesn’t. When he begrudgingly gets out of bed and steps out of his room, the living room is unrecognisable—dumbbells scattered across the floor, the coffee table pushed aside like it offended someone, and a gym mat laid out in front of the TV. In the middle of it all, Suho stands shirtless, stretching like this is perfectly normal. Like this is not a crime against every internal system Sieun has ever built.

Their eyes meet. Suho grins, easy and unbothered. “Morning,” he says coolly.

Sieun looks away, far away so his line of vision is completely out of sight from Suho’s toned abs and well-defined biceps. He mumbles grouchily, “Suho, it’s barely six.”

Suho crouches down, getting into a sit-up position. “Sorry, man. I’ve got no other time today to get my work-out in,” he explains, then nods his head towards the front door. “Landlady slipped another pamphlet under our door.”

Sieun groans as he walks over to pick it up. In their first week here, the landlady had slipped a very strange pamphlet into their mailbox titled “The Harmful Effects of Alcoholism.” Subtle, she was not. After all, during their small housewarming party, things had gotten a little too loud—mostly thanks to the guys and a few too many drinks. Baku had even dropped their brand-new lamp with a crash loud enough to echo down the hallway. (What he was doing with it, Sieun neither knows nor wants to know.) The noise must have carried through the walls to the landlady’s unit just a few doors down. Still, sending a brochure instead of a noise complaint was an odd choice. Then again, Sieun isn’t exactly one to judge—his own passive-aggressive notes could rival the landlady’s.

“A Helpful Guide to Proper Curtain Usage for Modesty and Moral Living,” he reads aloud. “This must be about the window incident.”

Sieun pinches the bridge of his nose. From across the room, Suho pauses mid sit-up. “Wait—which window incident?”

Sieun slowly turns the page. “According to her, ‘residents are reminded that silhouettes visible after 10PM may lead to misunderstandings about household activities.’”

There’s a beat of silence. Sieun mutters, “…She means when you were shadowboxing in your underwear, doesn’t she?”

“IT WAS TOO HOT,” Suho huffs, dropping flat onto the floor. He turns to Sieun. “Anyways, how did she even find such a pamphlet? Does she make them herself? Did you make them for her alongside all of your crazy notes?”

Sieun glares at him irritably, holding back an eyeroll. It’s basically a ritual after so many years. Suho says or does something ridiculous, and Sieun retorts as he sees fit—usually with silent judgement.

“Alright, alright, you don’t have to give me those eyes,” Suho whines. He resumes his workout. “Breakfast is almost ready, yeah?”

Sieun turns to the kitchen, where a pot of rice porridge is boiling on the stove. His chest tightens, sharp and unfamiliar. I must’ve woken up too quickly, he thinks, chalking up his symptoms to orthostatic hypotension. Or experiencing multiple Suho-induced headaches first thing in the morning.

He hums by way of thanks to Suho, sets the pamphlet down on the counter, then walks off to take a shower. The bathroom is small but functional: white tiles, a mirror just beginning to fog at the frames, and a narrow sink crowded with the quiet evidence of two lives awkwardly overlapping. Side by side in a chipped ceramic holder sit a pair of matching toothbrushes, one red, one blue. It’s a mundane detail, almost laughably so, and yet Sieun finds his sleepy gaze lingering on it longer than necessary.

He remembers their shopping trip before they moved in, needing just a few extra items for the place—a lamp for the living room (which they’ll have to replace, no thanks to Baku), dishware and cutlery, storage boxes, and other small necessities. Suho had stopped in the toiletries aisle and grabbed a pair of matching toothbrushes. “This will be perfect for our newlywed home, don’t you think?” he’d said, grinning at his own stupid joke. Sieun had very nearly hit him right there in the middle of the store.

By the time Sieun is showered, changed and ready to rejoin Suho in the living area, the other man has already finished his morning workout. Seated at the dining table with breakfast laid out, Suho waits so they can eat together. He doesn’t have to—Sieun has told him as much before—but Suho waits anyway. His grandmother taught him it was only proper to wait for all family members before beginning a meal. It’s not a custom that Sieun grew up with, yet some small, reluctant part of him is touched by the consideration. Ever since they moved in together, Suho has made it a point to share breakfast every day. And though Sieun is often left with the dirty dishes and cluttered counters, he finds himself quietly appreciative of the home-cooked meals.

“I’ve got practicals until late afternoon, and then Baku and I are gonna play basketball,” Suho says around a mouthful of food. “What about you?”

“Chew before you speak,” Sieun reminds him for what feels like the millionth time. He takes a measured spoonful of porridge, swallows, then replies, “Lectures and tutorials, followed by a meeting for my group research project.”

“The one with Juntae?”

Sieun nods. It will be the first time he and Juntae have worked on a project together since high school, and he’s quietly looking forward to it. Not just for the familiarity of a friend, but for the rare opportunity to “talk smart” with someone who can keep up. When they found out they had both been accepted into the Physics course at the same university, Juntae had pulled him into a hug, all unrestrained joy. Gotak—also accepted into the same university, though for a different course—had immediately joined in, nearly crushing the both of them with his strength.

Some things, it seems, have remained unchanged. Much like in high school, the boys would continue to band together, facing university and whatever comes after as a unit.

Suho’s lips curl into a knowing smirk. “You must be pretty excited. We’ll see you guys for dinner, yeah?”

Sieun nods again. Unlike the three of them, Suho and Baku had chosen to attend vocational college instead. For Suho, the reasons were simple: he wanted to enter the workforce quickly and support his grandmother as soon as possible. After waking from his coma, he had dropped out of high school to focus on his rehabilitation. With Sieun’s guidance and tutoring, he not only earned his diploma as a private candidate but also secured a place at a respected vocational college. (Upon his acceptance, Suho had waved his papers in Sieun’s face and flashed a toothy grin. “Aren’t you proud of me, Sieunnie?” He asked. “Yeah sure,” Sieun responded, but he was all smiles as well.)

Baku, meanwhile, had been fortunate enough to pass his exams and gain admission on a sports scholarship. Gotak teases him endlessly about his “low IQ,” though he can’t deny Baku’s uncanny ability to coast by on sheer luck and strength.

Fortunately, their schools weren’t far from one another, so it wasn’t difficult for the group to meet up frequently despite their increasingly busy lives. When they aren’t getting dinner together, Baku or Suho will usually come up with some spontaneous, bizarre activity and drag the others around town. Living with his best friend has certainly made it difficult for him to refuse these escapades.

“… Take a shower before you leave.” Sieun says, scrunching up his nose.

Suho slams his spoons on the table dramatically and pretends he’s really offended. He insists he smells like a bed of roses whether he works out or not. This time, Sieun gives him a full eye-roll just to really get the point across.

After breakfast, Suho trudges to the shower, grumbling under his breath. “I smell like an entire botanical garden of fresh flowers,” he mutters. Which isn’t true at all—Suho smells of spicy aftershave, warm and woody, beneath the edge of his sweat.

In the meantime, Sieun washes the dishes and cleans the living room, putting Suho’s gym gear in a neat box labelled: “PUT BACK HERE AFTER USE”. It’s nearly time for him to make his way to campus so he knocks on the bathroom to let Suho know he’s leaving first.

“Hold on!” Suho calls from inside. Sieun hears the shower cut off, followed by some shuffling and then a loud thud. Before he can guess what fell—or how much of their deposit they’re about to lose—the door swings open.

The first thing he sees is steam, and then a half-naked Suho again. Suho stands there in nothing but a towel, water tracing slow paths down the ridges of his chiseled abs. He looks… like what Sieun imagines is the ideal form of masculinity, pieced together from the anatomy diagrams in his chemistry textbooks.

After his physical therapist cleared him for rehab, the first thing the former fighter did was sign up for a gym, eager to build his strength and muscles back. With Baku as his workout partner and Gotak egging them on with some ridiculous fitness challenge, Suho has quickly become fitter than ever. It’s good, it’s great for Suho. He’s not in a wheelchair; he’s healthy, he’s strong, he’s—

“You’re dripping water everywhere,” Sieun says, his voice pitching oddly. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

Suho glances down at the wet tiles, then back up at Sieun, an amused smile tugging at his mouth. Sieun’s chest tightens again, enough that he briefly wonders if he should see a doctor about his strange symptoms.

With his free, damp hand—the one not clutching his towel, his last shred of decency—Suho reaches out and ruffles Sieun’s hair. “Well, don’t miss me too much,” he chuckles. “I’ll see you later.”

Sieun glances past him, trying to spot what fell, but nothing quite registers. The steam must have gotten to his eyes.

It is only much later, during his bus ride to campus, that Sieun realises the thing that fell in their bathroom was the shower curtain. Thankfully, that’s an easy fix, no deposit loss necessary. Though he’s not sure he can say the same about that unsettling, gnawing feeling behind his ribcage.

For now, he diagnoses it as irritation. It has to be. Suho has always been disruptive, impulsive, and impossible to ignore. He demands constant attention and adjustment; it’s only natural that it would grate once they started sharing a space. Now Sieun has to contend with his peculiar habits every day: loud movements in the early hours, getting them into trouble with their eccentric landlady, and being shamelessly half-naked—all before 8 AM. In fact, he could probably compile a list of five, maybe ten, reasons why living with him is a bad setup for his mental health.

But Sieun doesn’t want to confront this feeling just yet. To experience it as a persistent, physical ache, something that lingers and tightens instead of fading, is… new, however. Uncomfortable, to the point of anxiety. 

For now, he’ll push it aside before it can fully take shape. He’ll continue to wake each morning to a different, predictably unpredictable form of chaos in Ahn Suho, and he’ll tell himself it is simply an inconvenience he needs to quickly learn to live with.

*****

Sieun’s morning lectures proceed with the kind of rigid predictability that he relies on to keep everything else in check, his back-to-back schedule tight, swift and unremarkable as he moves through each class with quiet efficiency, taking his usual seat near the front where he can see clearly without inviting interaction. The lecture hall is cold, over-airconditioned to the point of discomfort, filled with the low hum of students settling in, pens tapping, keyboards clattering, someone whispering just loud enough to irritate, while the professor drones through slides monotonously.

But Sieun focuses, he always does. He copies notes with precise, efficient movements, reorganising and refining information in real time to make it usable for himself. It’s automatic at this point—input, process, restructure.

Still, there are brief moments where his thoughts drift. He can’t help but wonder if Suho hung the shower curtain back up, if he wiped the water off the tiles or left it to dry in uneven streaks, if the landlady will send another pamphlet soon, and why his thoughts refuse to sort themselves neatly away like everything else.

By the time the lecture ends, Sieun has already packed his things and left before the crowd can thicken. His next destination is a study room booked for his group meeting. Juntae is already there when he arrives, seated at the table with his laptop open and four juice-boxes that he must've bought to share with everyone.

“Hi,” Juntae greets. “You’re early.”

“I’m on time,” Sieun replies, pulling out a chair.

“That’s what I said,” Juntae says easily, passing him a juice-box.

Their two other project members, Harin and Minseo, sit across from him. Everyone exchanges brief introductions for their first meeting.

Harin is slouched in her chair, chin propped lazily against her palm, scrolling through her phone with the kind of disinterest that suggests she already regrets enrolling in university at all. She looks like she’s mentally drafted her withdrawal form and is simply waiting for the right moment to submit it.

Minseo, on the other hand, sits upright with an alertness that borders on over-enthusiasm. Short hair tucked neatly behind her ears, sharp cheekbones, eyes bright with attention—she faintly reminds him of Yeongyi. Not in disposition, but in presence. There is the same unprompted eagerness, the same tendency to lean just a little too close into his space. He wonders if Yeongyi is doing alright, even though he hasn't seen her in years, even though she disappeared without a word.

Minseo leans forward slightly and glances at him expectantly, saying, “We were just looking through the brief before you came.”

Harin doesn’t look up. “Skimmed it,” she mutters.

“Then we’ll go through it again,” he suggests, already pulling up the document on his laptop.

Everyone contributes as they review the brief, sort out roles and set deadlines for their parts. Sieun and Juntae naturally add structure to the discussion, bouncing off each other's strategies and theories. It reminds him of high school when they would sit at a desk and share study notes. To his annoyance, Suho was right—he is pretty excited about this.

Minseo keeps up. More than that, she offers suggestions, asks questions, and occasionally leans too far into his line of sight when she wants confirmation. Sieun answers efficiently, without looking at her for longer than necessary.

Harin contributes the bare minimum. When prompted, she responds. Otherwise, she remains disengaged, her attention drifting in and out of the discussion like a weak signal.

The meeting wraps up smoothly, with everyone agreeing to work on their assigned parts. Sieun closes his laptop and stands, already preparing to leave for lunch with Juntae—and Gotak, who will join them later—when Minseo speaks up.

“Sieun, wait.”

He pauses, turning slightly.

She shifts in her seat, suddenly a little less composed than before. “I have a few questions about the unit… some of the theories from the last lecture. Is it cool if I text you about it?”

Sieun squints oddly. “…Why would you do that?”

Minseo falters. “I just thought—since you seem to understand it really well—”

“You should ask the professor,” Sieun says, matter-of-fact. “That’s their job.”

There’s a brief silence before Minseo says, “Right. Yeah. Of course."

Juntae clears his throat lightly. “Y-You can just text the group chat,” he interjects, trying to ease the awkwardness. “All of us can go through it together!”

Minseo's smile is tight. “Yeah. That works too.”

Sieun nods once, as if the matter is resolved, and turns to leave with Juntae as planned. Behind him, Minseo watches them go, expression unreadable.

*****

The campus yard is crowded at this hour, students spilling across the open space in loose clusters, voices overlapping into a constant hum as they walk past patches of grass and concrete paths warmed by the afternoon sun. Sieun walks beside Juntae with his usual measured pace, hands tucked into his pockets, while Juntae glances at him like he’s been holding words in for a while.

He doesn’t last long.

“Gotak’s going to lose it when he hears this,” Juntae gushes out, leaning in as they walk.

“Hear what?” Sieun asks, without looking at him.

“That a girl tried to hit on you and you shut her down in under thirty seconds!”

Sieun’s steps slow, just slightly. “What?”

“Minseo,” Juntae replies, like it should’ve been obvious.

“She had questions about the unit.”

“Yeah,” Juntae says, amused. “And she wanted to text you about them.”

“That doesn't make sense,” Sieun retorts flatly. “Professors are a more reliable source of information.”

Juntae lets out a short laugh. “She was making an excuse to talk to you. But you rejected her.”

“Who got rejected?” Gotak jogs up beside them out of nowhere, slightly out of breath and looking faintly flustered like he’d just crossed half the campus—which, knowing his schedule and how far his campus building is, he probably did. His eyes are sharp with interest.

“No one,” Sieun says at the same time Juntae says, “Sieun rejected a girl!”

Gotak looks between them, then settles on Sieun with a slow, incredulous smile. “You’re kidding.” He lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Isn’t this the first time?”

Juntae nods, grinning. “First time he's been hit on by a girl and rejected her.”

Gotak clutches his shirt as if he’s just had a heart attack. With a teasing lilt in his voice, he yelps, “Our Sieun-ah is all grown up!”

Juntae continues excitedly, “A girl in our group asked if she could text him about ‘course-related questions’.”

Gotak snorts. “And he said no?”

“I said she should consult the professor,” Sieun corrects.

Gotak lets out a disbelieving laugh. “She was obviously trying to get closer to you.”

Sieun frowns, genuinely puzzled. “Why would she do that?”

Juntae and Gotak exchange a look before laughing again.

“Oh, oh, our Sieun-ah’s not so grown up after all!”

“Because,” Juntae starts carefully, “that’s what people do when they like someone.”

There’s another question lingering on Sieun’s lips, but he doesn’t voice it. He doesn’t understand any of this at all—he’s never been liked by a girl, nor has he had a crush on anyone. How are you supposed to like someone when you’ve spent your life learning to see the worst in people, to expect the blow before it lands?

Gotak shakes his head, still smiling, already pulling out his phone. “You’re unbelievable. I’m telling Baku and Suho right now—they’re gonna love this. Well, Suho… maybe not so much—”

Sieun doesn’t respond. He keeps walking, the situation already filed away in his mental cabinet labelled: Behavioural Anomalies And Things Crazy People Do, not urgent enough to investigate unless someone’s asking for a fight. Beside him, Gotak and Juntae lean in close, shoulders bumping as they giggle over their phones.

*****

When they meet up with Baku and Suho for dinner, it's at a crowded barbeque place tucked along a noisy street, all neon signs and cramped tables packed too close together. Baku says this place is highly recommended, Suho insists that it'll never beat his family's restaurant anyway. Inside, laughter spills across tables, and the sharp sizzle of meat hits the grills, punctuating every other sentence. Smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling, carrying with it the smell of charred beef, garlic, and something sweetly marinated.

Baku is already halfway through cooking the first round of meat, despite no one asking him to. Gotak is arguing with him over the proper way to flip it as he fights for rights over the cooking tongs. Juntae, caught somewhere in between, is trying and failing to keep the peace.

“You’re going to burn it,” Gotak says flatly.

“I know what I’m doing,” Baku shoots back, flipping a piece too early just to prove a point.

“You absolutely do not—”

“Can both of you relax?” Juntae cuts in, he reaches over to salvage a strip before it blackens completely.

Across the table, Sieun watches the scene unfold with quiet resignation. He’s too hungry to deal with this. In between back-to-back lectures and group meetings, he hadn’t found much time to eat today. Would the juice-box that Juntae shared with him during the meeting count as a proper meal? Sieun is pretty sure Suho would nag at him for it if he found out.

Beside him, Suho reaches over without thinking, deftly assembling a lettuce wrap—meat, kimchi, a bit of sauce—before holding it out in front of Sieun, waiting expectantly for him to take a bite.

“Here,” he says. “You look like you haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Sieun pauses for half a second, gaze flickering from the wrap to Suho, before leaning forward and eating from his hand.

“You two have gotten more disgustingly domestic.”

The comment comes out of nowhere. Sieun looks up, chewing quietly. Gotak is staring at them with narrowed eyes, as if he’s just solved a particularly obvious equation.

“What?” Suho says, mid-bite in his own wrap.

“I’m serious,” Gotak continues. “Now that you’re living together, eating together, probably arguing over chores—”

“We don’t argue,” Suho interrupts. Sieun says nothing.

Gotak raises a brow. “That’s worse.”

Baku snorts. “You guys are basically married at this point.”

Juntae chokes on his drink. There’s a brief, almost imperceptible pause.

Sieun watches as the edges of the meat curl and darken on the grill. He doesn’t respond. There’s no logical reason to. It’s a baseless claim, made in poor taste, supported by circumstantial evidence at best. And yet, it isn’t the first time he’s heard it—too close for best friends, they’re dating, practically newlyweds—even Suho likes to join in for jokes. It’s become a pattern, repeated often enough to invite analysis. Any rational mind would want to question it, find the root cause, and eliminate the problem. But it’s not really a problem that Sieun cares about.

“That can’t be true anymore,” Suho laughs it off first, loud and easy, like it’s nothing. Then, just as casually, “Didn’t Sieun get hit on by a girl today?” but he sounds off this time, there’s a light punch in his tone that wasn’t there before.

Everyone turns to Sieun. Suho looks at him expectantly as well, but his jaw is set too tight, in the way that it does when he’s bracing himself for a fight.

“That didn’t happen,” Sieun says again, evenly, like repetition will correct the narrative. He clarifies, "Our project member asked if she could text me about our unit. I told her to consult the professor instead.”

“Bro, she was flirting,” Gotak shoots back immediately.

Juntae nods, half-apologetic but firm. “Minseo seemed pretty nervous too. You just... rejected her in the most Sieun way possible."

Baku exclaims happily as he finally wins control of the tongs. "Man, I wish I was there to see it. Sieun, I would've totally wingman-ed you!"

"You idiot, worry about yourself. You can't even get a girl's real number," Gotak chides. "And pass me the fucking tongs—"

“I didn’t even know it was meant that way until everyone started saying things," Sieun murmurs.

Baku blinks, then stares at him like he’s just heard something impossible. “Wait—you seriously didn’t realise she was hitting on you?”

Sieun shakes his head.

“For real?”

Sieun frowns. “Why would I joke about that?”

Baku bursts out laughing. "You're seriously dense!"

"Ya, that's enough!" Suho cuts in, a little sharper than necessary. He reaches over without looking and drops another piece of meat into Sieun’s bowl. “Just ignore them and eat, Sieun-ah.”

For a moment, Sieun just stares at the piece of meat in his bowl. He feels like he’s missed a step somewhere in the sequence, like there’s a rule everyone else is following that he wasn’t given. The shift in Suho’s tone lingers—sharper and quicker, cutting things off before it could reach him. Did he do something wrong?

He runs through the conversation again, line by line, searching for an error. There isn’t one. There shouldn’t be one. But maybe he should’ve known better, maybe he should’ve known this was a big deal. This is the first time a girl has shown interest in him after all. It feels like it should matter, like it should register as a significant change in his life. But it just doesn’t.

A sudden yelp cuts through the noise. “Baku, it’s burnt!”

“Shut up, it’s not—”

“It fucking is—move!” The tongs clatter against the grill as Gotak shoves him aside, a brief flare of smoke rising between them.

Baku clicks his tongue. “I had it under control.”

“You’ve said that three times,” Juntae mutters.

Sieun exhales quietly, the thread of his thoughts already slipping away, replaced instead by a faint urge to laugh at his ridiculous friends.

A hand lands briefly against his back.

“Shall we drink?” Suho asks, with an eager glint in his eyes.

It’s a Friday night. No lectures or obligations pressing down on him. Sieun glances up, then gives a small nod.

Across the table, Gotak makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like vindication.

By the time the third round of meat is ordered, the table is cluttered with empty plates, half-finished side dishes, and several bottles of soju. The boys talk over one another, drifting easily from one topic to the next, before inevitably circling back to high school—the parts that were good. Welcoming Suho into their ragtag group, after-school convenience store runs that somehow turned into full-blown adventures, and cramming for finals with more arguing than actual studying. It’s strange to think that they’ve all turned twenty now. Now that they’re legally allowed to drink, it has become one of their newer pastimes.

“Another one,” Baku declares in a loud voice, already reaching for the menu.

“You’re cut off,” Gotak says, grabbing it before he can.

“You’re not my father.”

“Someone has to be responsible.”

Juntae pours everyone another round anyway. Sieun doesn’t realise how fast he’s drinking, but there is a glass in his hand, and it is refilled every time it empties. This feeling is… not unpleasant. Warmth envelops his limbs as gentle as a hug. The noise fades—not entirely, but enough that it no longer presses against him. The edges of things soften.

“Sieun,” Suho asks, nudging his shoulder. “You good?”

Sieun turns his head slowly, blinking once as if recalibrating. “I am perfectly functional,” he replies.

Suho snorts. “That’s not what I asked.”

Suho’s voice is teasing, light—a voice he wants to hear more. Maybe it’s just Sieun’s tipsiness getting to his head. He exhales softly, playing with the zipper of his jacket, and mumbles, “It’s… warm.”

“That’s the alcohol,” Gotak says dryly.

“No,” Sieun murmurs, almost to himself. “It’s not unpleasant.”

Baku leans forward in his seat, grinning with fascination. Like he’s seeing an animal in the wild. “Sieun’s totally gone.”

“I’m not gone,” Sieun says, without heat.

Juntae watches him carefully, slightly concerned but mostly amused. Instead of soju, he places a cup of water in front of his intoxicated friend. “It’s nice to see him like this,” he remarks.

“Like what?” Suho asks.

Juntae gestures vaguely. “Less… sharp.”

Suho gazes at Sieun. He smiles, easy and endearing, and something about it settles beneath Sieun’s ribs before he can make sense of it.

*****

The night winds down when everyone has to catch the last bus home. Baku makes a drunken attempt to flirt with a group of girls outside the restaurant, only for Gotak to drag him away by the collar. Juntae is saying something to Suho and Sieun, but Sieun isn’t really listening; his voice and the hum of street traffic blur together. They say their goodbyes, and then walk home.

“I can walk,” Sieun insists, already veering slightly to the left.

Suho steadies him by the arm. “Yeah, I can see that."

“... You're not drunk enough,” he slurs.

Suho snorts. “Not drunk enough? If I get drunk, who's gonna take care of you?”

“You should get drunk,” he whispers, words blurring together. “Just once.”

Sieun has never seen him truly drunk—if anything, Suho never lets himself get that far. Suho can out-drink everyone and still stand tall, as if the alcohol gets absorbed into those bulging muscles of his instead of into his liver. (But that doesn’t explain how muscle-headed Baku manages to get drunker than a skunk after just three shots.) Sieun wishes that, just once, he could see Suho get intoxicated the way he does—if only to feel less embarrassed about his clumsy attempts at walking while drinks-many-how in.

By the time they reach the apartment, Sieun has gone quiet again. Not withdrawn—just… still.

“You good?” Suho glances at him as he unlocks the door, having taken the key from Sieun’s pockets. It’s obvious that he has misplaced his again. Tomorrow, Sieun will likely find them in some unconventional corner of the apartment.

“I’m not tired yet,” he rambles. “I wanna watch a movie.”

“Eh? Since when do you suggest these kinds of things?” Suho asks, but there’s no teasing in his tone. Only softness. He guides Sieun inside and holds him steady while he slips off his shoes with some clumsy coordination.

They make their way to the couch, where Suho drops down and pats the seat next to him, gesturing for Sieun to come over. Sieun lurches over clumsily and is caught by the arm, pulled down beside him. He hooks an arm around his shoulder and holds him firmly, unyielding, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"... You're heavy."

“And you’re gonna fall asleep in the first scene,” Suho says and he grabs the remote and turns on the TV, settling on a low-action movie. "Just lean on me and sleep."

It’s usually Suho who wants to watch movies. Back when he first opened his eyes in the hospital, Suho had to spend his time watching television from his bed, or dragging himself through rehab in between. He once said that watching movies and dramas helped him to reconnect with the world, so Sieun had often sat beside him, quietly watching whatever played on the screen. Now, Suho has somehow become a full-fledged movie buff, dragging Sieun to the cinema whenever something new comes out.

The screen flickers to life, but all Sieun senses are blurred shapes and indistinct noise, colours bleeding into one another without meaning. He doesn’t know why he wanted to watch a movie if he can’t focus on it, but the quiet presence beside him is a familial comfort—like sitting next to Suho in the cinema, dim but warm. Sieun doesn’t actually hate being dragged to the cinema, but he doesn’t really go for the movies (unless it’s a melodrama, which Sieun will never admit he has come to enjoy more than Suho).

The movie runs and at some point Suho’s thumb starts moving against his arm, slow and absent, like he isn’t even aware he’s doing it. Sieun shifts slightly to get more comfortable against him, relaxing into the hold instead of resisting it. The lingering haze of alcohol takes its final hold and loosens the tight grip of his usual restraint.

In the quiet that filters between them, his mind drifts back to the earlier conversations, to the way everyone had insisted Minseo was flirting with him, like it was unmistakable. If that was true—if that was what it meant—then his response had been wrong, or at least not what is considered normal.

Almost like the assumption catches up to him too late, he asks softly, “...Should I have not rejected her?”

Suho turns immediately, like he hadn’t expected that at all. It’s hard to make out his expression under the dim lights and Sieun’s blurred, drunken vision, but Suho’s brows are drawn together, conflict flickering across his face as if he’s searching for the right answer.

“What? No—I said… I mean, it’s good that you did.”

“Baku would’ve asked her out.”

Suho scoffs. “Baku would go out with a tree if it had legs.”

His arm tightens around Sieun then, more intentional this time, like he’s anchoring him there. His hand presses a little firmer against his arm, thumb stilling for a second before resuming its slow movement.

“Sieun,” he says, quieter now, gaze fixed on him, “you don’t—you shouldn’t feel like you have to date just because. A good kid just needs to focus on his studies, hm?”

“I’m not a kid anymore,” Sieun mumbles, a faint pout tugging at his lips.

“You’re my kid, the cutest kid this hyung has ever raised,” Suho says smoothly, jokingly, and then his head drops onto Sieun’s temple, nuzzling him there with exaggerated force. Like an older brother giving his sibling excess affection.

Sieun groans, trying to push him away but Suho has the strength of a bull. “Stop that.”

“And besides,” he continues, the words coming a little slower now, “you don’t need to date because you have me, and I—”

He cuts himself off, holding his forehead against Sieun. There’s a brief pause, a swallow that feels too heavy for something meant to be casual, like he’s forcing the rest of it down before it can come out wrong. 

“—I’ll make sure the others stop teasing you for it.”

Suho’s words touch down upon him, heavy but kind, sinking in deeper than they should for words said so lightly. The way that Suho seems to understand him without needing it spelled out is ever familiar, like he’s always been able to read the things Sieun himself can’t quite put into words.

The truth is that Sieun just isn't interested in dating. Dating has always felt distant and impractical, like a concept that exists for other people but never quite reaches him. He’s never liked anyone that way, never looked at someone and thought there was something more to want, and no one has ever looked at him like that either—until now, he supposes. But Sieun knows he's just not wired for it, for whatever it is that makes people chase after a notion as unstable and illogical as love. The only real example he has of it is his divorced parents, and that’s proof enough of how love can exist, and yet it breaks—both at once, unreliable and unnecessary. He doesn’t see the point of wanting something like that when he already has what he needs.

As Suho says, he has friends—he has him. Friends are loyal and straightforward; they're people who come into your life and stay because they choose to, without expecting more than what is given. Platonic friendships have always been enough for him. And if there is anything that comes close to what people insist on calling love, then this—what he has now, what he knows how to keep—is the closest he could ever handle.

He could handle Ahn Suho, if his best friend would just stop acting like such a clingy idiot at the moment. But still, Suho is the person who knows him the best in this world. He notices the small things no one else does—the way Sieun’s gaze drifts when he hasn’t eaten, the clipped bite to his voice when his patience is running thin, the desire for comfort even if he doesn’t ask for it aloud. And when words are needed, Suho always seems to find the right ones, the exact tone that coaxes him back, that braces or placates him before he can spiral too far into himself.

And Sieun, in turn, has come to rely on him in a way that feels trustworthy and unquestioned. They’re just Ahn Suho and Yeon Sieun, best friends since high school, and kindred spirits—dating and marriage jokes be damned. That’s why they’ve stayed friends for so long, why it feels so natural to exist like this, side by side, within reach.

So when his best friend holds him like this, like letting go isn’t an option, Sieun leans in and lets himself fall asleep in his arms.

*****

Sieun wakes with a dull ache behind his eyes and the faint flicker of light against his eyelids, the television still running somewhere in the room. For a moment he stays still, not because he wants to but because something feels off in a way his body notices before his mind does. The back of his neck feels too warm and too… occupied.

Then it clicks—he isn’t in his bed, he’s leaning against someone—Suho.

The realisation stirs slowly, until suddenly every detail sharpens at once—the solid weight behind him, the steady rise and fall of a chest against his back, the arm draped loosely around his waist like it had been placed there without question. He can feel how close he and Suho are, mapped out in pressure and heat. The couch dips beneath them, cramped and uneven. There's a blanket tangled around their legs while the TV is casting soft, shifting colours across the dim apartment.

Sieun turns his head slightly, just enough to see. Behind him, his best friend is still asleep. It’s clear in the way Suho’s breathing is slow and unguarded, none of the restless energy he usually carries, no movement or careless commentary. His face is relaxed, hair falling messily over his forehead, lips parted, the usual easy grin gone.

Sieun looks away and carefully, he starts to move. He shifts forward just a little, testing the space, slow enough not to disturb anything. For a brief second, Suho’s arm tightens instinctively around him, as if trying to keep him there even in sleep.

He waits, breaths held, listening for any sign that Suho’s waking. But he's not. The grip loosens again, nestling back into carelessness.

For a moment, he hesitates. Suho is profoundly warm and comfortable, and some part of him—the part that's probably still not sobered up from last night—doesn’t want to move away.

Eventually the moment passes, and Sieun slips out from under the arm, inch by inch until he’s free. The absence is immediate and the air is colder without that steady warmth at his back. He stands slowly and upholds himself as the room tilts faintly. While his hangover catches up to him, he walks over to the kitchen for a glass of water.

As the water trickles down his throat and clears his mind, he tries to piece together the night before but doesn’t remember much—only drinking with his friends, walking home and watching somewhat of a movie. He doesn’t remember falling asleep on the couch next to his best friend. He glances back once, quick and involuntary, to check on Suho who’s still asleep and has now taken up the whole couch. It’s a wonder that the two of them managed to fit there.

With a soft sigh, Sieun walks back over to turn off the TV that must’ve been wasting away their electricity bill since last night. Unfortunately, the sudden silence seems to arouse the heavy sleeper.

“Ugh…” Suho grunts, voice rough with sleep, “What time is it?”

He blinks blurrily as he takes in his surroundings and looks up at Sieun.

“It’s nearly ten,” Sieun tells him, checking their phones left on the coffee table.

The couch creaks as Suho slowly sits up. He rubs his face in a way that Sieun can only describe as cute. “Did we—“ he trails off, likely piecing things together too, “—How’s your hangover?”

“It’s fine,” Sieun shrugs. But the fact is that he has a small headache and a sore throat.

Suho stands and stretches his back out. “I’ll fix us breakfast in a bit,” he says with a yawn, then reaches for Sieun. At first, Sieun thinks he’s going to ruffle his hair like he usually does, always impulsive but habitual. But instead Suho cups the side of his face with his warm palm against his skin. His thumb brushes slowly against Sieun’s temple, pressing just enough to ease the dull ache there. 

“Not hungover, huh?” Suho snorts.

Sieun’s face reddens just slightly because he’s not completely sobered up yet.

*****

Suho has to work during most weekends, so after breakfast he does a quick workout—rearranging the living room again—before taking a shower. Before he leaves, he reminds Sieun to drink plenty of water and to order takeaway for dinner. Sieun only hums in response as he shoves his nagging best friend out the door.

As peace and quiet settle into the apartment, Sieun heads to the bathroom for a shower and change. He fixed the shower curtain, Sieun remarks with silent relief. Afterwards, he walks back into the living room which has, unsurprisingly, been left in a state of mess.

On the coffee table, that has been shoved to the corner, sits an open protein shaker, half-drunk and already separating into unappetising liquids, as well as a container of powder left uncapped. Dumbbells are scattered across the floor again, not even pretending to belong to the labelled box Sieun provided. The gym mat is still out because of course it is.

He exhales through his nose.

Suho will likely return home late. He had to quit his warehouse job after he ended up in the hospital but whenever he can, on better days, Suho continues to help out at his family’s restaurant. He moves between responsibilities with that same tireless energy, as if time will always stretch to accommodate him.

The apartment, however, does not. Sieun rolls up his sleeves and begins to do the chores. Coffee table pushed back into its place. Dumbbells and gym mat returned to the box labelled in bold black ink. Protein shaker rinsed, container sealed and surfaces wiped clean. He works methodically, restoring order item by item until the space resembles something liveable, something he can tolerate again.

Then, he moves onto laundry, of which he has to first search and gather Suho’s dirty clothes from around the apartment. It feels like a treasure hunt—except the treasure is Suho’s gross gym wear. He picks up Suho’s sweaty shirt from between the sofa pillows, the printed polyester shirt that he kept from his martial arts days. It’s his favourite shirt to wear when he works out, (when it’s clean and washed by Sieun, of course) and then tossed aside after it soaks up too much sweat. Sieun can remember the hundreds of times he’s seen this shirt. On Suho before his workout, off him, then everywhere except in the hamper where it should be.

He then finds Suho’s workpants in the wrong hamper. For the absolute war crime that is laundry day, Sieun has had no choice but to designate two separate hampers: one for regular laundry, and another for Suho’s sweaty clothes (in a closed and very much lidded bin).

As he carries the clothes over, he feels around the pockets and realises there’s something within.

From inside one of the pockets, Sieun takes out a small, crumpled piece of paper. It looks insignificant, like trash. But against his better nature, Sieun unfolds it and sees in tiny, neat handwriting: Ahn Suho, I like you. Please call me soon!, followed by a prettily-written phone number. 

Sieun stares at the paper dumbly. He’s struck by an uncomfortable sense of befuddlement. For a moment he just stands there, the paper held between his fingers, as if it might resolve itself if he waits long enough. He feels like he's just invaded his best friend's privacy and learnt his secret, one that he wasn't meant to see.

Except, privacy isn’t really a concept that exists between them anymore, not in any clear or enforceable way. The boundaries between their personal spaces have blurred too many times to count; Suho ruffling his hair without permission, coming into his room unprompted while he studies, or dragging him into unwanted proximity on the couch, pressing too close just because he can, because Sieun never stops him. There are still times when Sieun wants to be left alone, like when he wants to take an undisturbed nap or solve a particularly frustrating question—but even then, Suho is never too far away, sitting in a corner or waiting in the other room for him. Their lives overlap in ways that make ownership of space—and things—feel… negotiable.

And yet, Sieun looks down at the note again, the plain confession, the phone number, and feels an uncontrollable heat rise to his cheeks.

It's no secret that Suho is popular with girls so this can’t be the first time someone has slipped him something like this. Compared to Sieun’s first and only time being hit on, Suho has probably experienced it thirty times more. Sieun may have “rejected” a girl just yesterday, but that doesn’t mean that Suho has to as well. And Sieun has Suho, but Suho has many friends—many girls who want to date him, people who want to be Instagram mutuals, and people who can have him in ways that are easy and uncomplicated, without having to think about it. It’s only logical; his best friend is a firecracker who naturally draws people in. Hell, he even warmed Sieun’s frozen cold exterior and wormed his way into sharing spaces.

Still, the notion of it sits uncomfortably, like a detail that doesn’t fit neatly into the system that Sieun built. But before that discomfort can come over, before he can examine things too closely, Sieun folds the paper back. He folds it once, then again, more neatly this time, as if returning it to the way it was before it was disturbed. For a second, he considers throwing it away—efficient, clean, problem solved. But that would be worse. That would be crossing a different kind of line.

He sets it aside on the dining table instead, in plain view, exactly where Suho will see it when he comes home, and turns back to the laundry like nothing happened, like this is just another small, irrelevant detail in a day structured by routine.

He continues sorting the clothes, movements controlled and predictable—until they are not, until his hands pause just slightly longer than necessary over an empty pocket, as if expecting something else to appear. He finishes the laundry anyway.

For the rest of the day, Sieun studies and works on his project. His notes and laptop are spread neatly across the coffee table. His pen moves with rhythmic rigour. A concentrated pattern eases over him—input, process, restructure as usual. Evening passes before he realises, and soon night approaches.

Sieun checks the time. 9:12PM.

He looks back down at his notes. A few more minutes pass.

He checks again. 9:19PM.

He called up a food order a while ago, but the delivery seems to be taking its time. It’s fine, he can wait. It’s not unusual for deliveries to run late, it happens, as long as they arrive properly. Sieun tells himself this easily. And yet his focus keeps slipping at the periphery, his attention snagging on the door at the faintest sound in the hallway—footsteps that walk by, keys that aren’t theirs, voices that rise and fade—before he drags it back again with a faint annoyance.

Sieun presses his pen down a little harder than necessary, the tip scratching faintly against the paper. Focus, he tells himself. The apartment is clean, calm; it’s at an optimal setting for his studying. 

Perhaps his hunger is affecting his concentration. But as he goes to call up the restaurant to check on his food again, a sudden knock on the door jolts him—three loud bangs, a pause, then two more, just as deliberate and impatient.

Sieun closes his eyes briefly before he pushes his chair back and walks to the door, already knowing what he’ll find on the other side. He'd recognise that knock anywhere, anytime. He’d recognise it in the dead of the night, like a habit his body remembers before his mind does.

Behind the door, Suho stands there, slightly winded. His hair is mussed from the night air and a delivery bag slings over one shoulder. Despite having his own set of keys, Suho almost never uses them. Whether he forgets them, misplaces them, or simply chooses not to is unclear; the result, however, is always the same.

“Hey,” he says, grinning like this is a perfectly normal way to enter his own home. “Where's my 'welcome home'?”

Sieun stares at him for a moment, longer than necessary. An odd wave of relief washes over him. Somewhere along the way, “I’m home” and “Welcome home” have become routine between them, shifting naturally into small variations—“I’m home, I bought dinner,” or “Welcome home, you didn’t clean the bathroom again.” What began as a casual routine has settled into something else entirely, an unspoken reassurance threaded through the end of every day: that no matter how chaotic or exhausting things gets, they return here—to this door, to this exchange, to each other.

But this time feels different. It's not with Sieun's usual sense of irritated hunger, instead there's that ache in his chest that has returned to trouble him. It claws at him, scratches the part of him he wants to repress. It causes him to lose focus when he’s trying to study, trying to distract himself.

There’s a flurry of questions held at the tip of his tongue. Ask him about it, his body begs.

“Welcome home,” Sieun says instead, refusing to cave in. His tongue goes dry. “You forgot to clean up before leaving.”

“Ya, Yeon Sieun,” Suho shoots back, indignant, jerking his chin at the delivery bag. “I’m delivering the food you ordered, and this is how you treat me?”

“I ordered it three hours ago.”

Suho pushes past him into their home, and something in Sieun’s chest loosens so minusculely he almost misses it, the tension he hadn’t noticed easing at the simple fact that Suho is here, back at their apartment. It subsides into him in the way that he can compartmentalise and ignore, like this is another thing he simply files away in his mental cabinet. 

(If Suho finds the small note on the dining table, he doesn’t mention it either.)

*****

A few weeks later, Suho lets him know not to wait up for him because he’ll be back late. Drinks with Baku and their batchmates, he texts. Sieun replies with acknowledgement and quietly returns home before dusk.

He does the chores before anything else as usual. There’s another strangely-worded pamphlet slotted underneath the door: “Are You in a Toxic Relationship?”, the checklist helpfully circled in pen: Does your partner ignore you? Lock you out? Create a hostile living environment? Two days ago, Suho had been “locked out” from the apartment while Sieun was having a late-night study session with Juntae at the library. So instead of using the spare keys conveniently left for him under the doormat, Suho decided to wait at the convenience store downstairs where he was spotted by the landlady. It seems that rumours of their “questionable friendship” has reached her—though Sieun is not sure whether she’s supportive, disappointed or just borderline harassive. With an exasperated huff, he places the pamphlet on the counter and decides he’ll blame Suho for it tomorrow.

He orders takeaway for dinner again, and this time it arrives promptly, handed over by a stranger who barely spares him a glance. It’s been a long, tiring day at university, so after a quick shower he goes to bed earlier than usual, too drained to think about anything beyond rest.

The bed feels spacious and cold, with too much room to stretch and turn, nothing like the cramped couch he had slept on a few weeks ago. As sleep slowly pulls him under, he finds himself hoping, without really meaning to, that Suho has remembered his keys this time.

But only a few hours later, Sieun is jolted awake from his shallow sleep. Echoing loudly through the apartment and rattling straight past his bedroom door, he hears that familiar three-knock pattern. Grouchily, he checks his phone for the time: it's barely eleven. Wasn't Suho coming home late? he thinks, slowly getting up after the final two knocks.

As he makes his way to the front door, he hears more than one voice on the other side. When he opens the door, Suho isn’t alone—Baku is standing behind him. Both of them carry the faint, unmistakable smell of liquor.

“Told ya,” Suho grins to their friend, as if he's bragging about being right.

Baku groans. “You guys are weird as fuck.”

Suho then turns to Sieun. And with a giddy, expectant voice, he says, “I'm home.”

“…Welcome home,” Sieun says, frowning slightly. “Weren’t you guys out drinking?”

Suho nods as he stumbles forward, bringing his weight down on Sieun. The shorter man reaches for him instinctively, despite their heights, and wraps an arm around him to hold him up at the door.

“We were supposed to!” Baku snaps from behind, aggravation clear in his voice. “But this idiot just had to make the girls uncomfortable. So, they left and now—Ahn Suho, if you don't fucking move—WE'RE GONNA DRINK HERE INSTEAD!”

Scornfully, Baku shoves past both of them and stomps into their apartment like he lives here too. Still awkwardly pressed in a hug by the door, Sieun attempts to pull away. Suho's arms come around to pull him back, like gravity deciding he’s not done with him yet.

“...Did you miss me?” Suho slurs. He feels hot to the touch, radiating drunken heat as he nuzzles his forehead on Sieun's small shoulders.

“Why would I miss you?” Sieun replies. “You're heavy.”

“I didn't want to drink with a bunch of girls,” he murmurs, and the word lingers longer than it should. Girls—from their college, probably batchmates—and yet, for someone who supposedly didn’t want to drink with them, Suho smells like he stayed long enough anyway. 

Sieun pats his back gently, soothingly, then brings him inside with all the strength his smaller body can muster.

As they get comfortable in the living room, Baku launches into the full story, voice bitter with lingering irritation: he had invited girls from their cohort to join them for drinks, though Suho hadn’t known it was meant to be a “surprise mixer”. And then, barely a few drinks in, he got drunk too quickly and said something that clearly put the girls off, enough that they left early. Baku couldn't believe Suho would waste their so-called “opportunity to get laid”, as he crassly puts it. But still keyed up and unwilling to call it a night, he decides to drag them both back here to keep drinking.

Then, while raiding the kitchen for soju and snacks, Baku informs Sieun that he invited Gotak and Juntae as well—again, as if he lives here and can make such decisions without input.

Before Sieun can fully process and brace himself for the invasion of his space, his two other friends are already spilling in like peas in a pod, all noise and movement and eager affection. The door barely makes it shut before the sound swells, louder and looser, filling the apartment.

Shoes are half-kicked off in the hallway while bags are dropped wherever they land. Gotak comes bearing more drinks he bought on the way over, which Baku stacks clumsily on the coffee table. Juntae greets them with an excited smile before he fiddles with the speaker, letting music hum low in the background. Chaos consumes the space, the kind that Sieun tolerates with a resigned sigh as he nudges a stray shoe aside with his foot and straightens the corner of the table without thinking.

Suho, on the other hand, thrives in it. He moves through the room easily, handing out drinks, sharing hugs, and laughing like the apartment was built for this exact moment. When Sieun sits down beside him, his arm comes over Sieun’s shoulder—casual, firm, always friendly.

It shouldn’t mean anything, Sieun tells himself as he takes the cup Suho presses into his hand, their fingers brushing a second too long. Maybe it’s the leftover fatigue from the day, or the fact that it’s been a while since he last drank, but the alcohol burns sharper than expected. He doesn’t like the loss of control that comes with it, the way his cognition slackens and slips—but tonight, he lets it happen anyway.

The boys and their conversations grow louder, then messier, then it starts to dissolve into overlapping voices and half-finished jokes. The music is turned up, then down again. Someone—Juntae—tries to dance and nearly knocks into the couch. Gotak is laughing so hard he’s doubled over. Baku looks around the apartment, squinting, as if he's searching for a target—whether to fight or flirt with, Sieun decides he'd rather find out over tomorrow's broken object.

In the middle of things, Sieun feels himself loosen and soften. His nerves calm like water. The constant awareness he carries—of space, of order, of himself—melts just enough that he stops holding it all so tightly.

“Sieun, it's your turn!” Juntae calls out, waving at him to come dance in front of the speakers with him. He sways almost gracefully, but he's off-beat and clearly way too intoxicated to realise.

Sieun doesn’t know what comes over him when he decides to join Juntae, but suddenly he’s on his feet, pulled forward by the music and alcohol. His movements are awkward at first, stiff but eccentric, like his body is trying to follow instructions it was never meant to learn, but he keeps going anyway. Juntae giggles and spins clumsily beside him, and Sieun finds himself mirroring it in his own uneven way, a half-step too late, shoulders too tense, but trying. The music hums through him, low and disarming, and for once he doesn’t think about how he looks or where his hands should go, only that it feels strangely light to move without purpose, to exist in the moment without correcting it.

As he spins, he ends up facing his best friend. Suho is already looking at him with a soft, almost fond smile, like he’s been watching him the entire time. He's lounging against the couch with his head propped up by an arm.

“Suhoooo,” Sieun hears himself drawl, voice slower and unusual even to him. “Suho-yaaa, why aren’t you as drunk as everyone?”

Suho’s radiant smile reaches his eyes as he laughs. “I'm drunk, Sieun-ah.”

"That'sss gooood," Sieun responds as he goes back to swaying with Juntae.

Their drinking carries on into the night, then gradually softens as each of them tips past the peak and into a slower pace. Baku is the first to burn out loud—still talking, still gesturing big, but his words start to scramble as he lies stretched out on the floor. Gotak stays noisy the longest, laughter booming and unrestrained, though it slips into shorter bursts as his head dips forward between jokes. Juntae slows down instead of crashing completely, movements gentler, eyes partly open as he sways to music only half in time, smiling at nothing in particular.

Eventually, Gotak crawls onto the couch and promptly passes out, half-sprawled and unmoving, while Baku disappears down the hallway—only to be overheard a moment later, loudly vomiting in the bathroom. Juntae is nowhere to be seen, though Sieun vaguely recalls him asking, at some point, if he could sleep in his bedroom. The apartment has gone dimmer and the music has stopped, though Sieun doesn't know who turned things off. (Tomorrow, he’ll have to thank the person who saved their electricity for the night—if he remembers.) There are empty cups on the table and the pungent smell of alcohol lingers in the air.

Sieun thinks he’s still swaying, his steps loose and uneven like he’s moving to music that’s no longer playing, but he doesn’t realise Suho has taken his hand and is quietly guiding him down the hall and into his room.

“Night's done,” Suho tells him gently. “Come on.”

Suho's room is smaller and cozier than his, the space dominated by a queen-sized bed that leaves little room to move. In the dim light, with moonlight slipping through the window, Sieun can still make out the clutter of Suho’s life on the walls—posters of MMA fighters he admires, certificates from competitions he used to win, and photos of him with friends, with Sieun. And the room smells unmistakably like him, a mix of his sweat, sharp aftershave, and milky protein powder.

“Not done,” Sieun mumbles, holding onto Suho's hand tightly. “Still wanna dance…”

Suho clenches back, pressing his thumb down against Sieun's knuckles. “How are you always so spirited when you drink?” he asks with a chuckle.

Sieun gazes up at him impatiently.

“Alright, alright,” Suho sighs, “Come here.”

He steps forward and slides his hands to Sieun’s waist, steadying him before he can tip off-balance again. The distance between them closes as Sieun's hands slide up Suho's arms to his broad shoulders, holding onto him as they start to sway together.

“There’s no music,” Suho murmurs, amused.

“Then make some,” Sieun says, eyes bright and unfocused, like the solution is straightforward.

Suho huffs, but he doesn’t argue. He dips his head slightly and starts to hum—something simple, tuneless at first, then finding a rhythm that matches the slow sway of their bodies. It’s quiet enough that it barely fills the room, but with the door closed and the world reduced to just the two of them, it’s more than enough.

They move in small, uneven steps, more shifting than dancing, guided by balance rather than beat. Suho keeps him near so he won’t stumble, hands firmly at his waist. Sieun follows without thinking, letting himself be led with trust around the small space.

Their foreheads drift closer without either of them noticing when it happens, until they’re nearly touching, breaths mingling in the quiet space between them. Suho’s humming drops lower, softer, like it’s meant only for him.

Suho could have—probably should have—been drinking with those girls from his cohort. Sieun doesn't know what he said to the girls to drive them away nor does he understand what compelled him to do so. That's because Suho is usually pretty intuitive; he's quite mindful towards people, so it doesn't make sense that he would intentionally make a scene or hurt someone. Either way he did, and instead of being there, he's here with his best friend in their apartment—swaying sillily to his soft, out-of-tune humming and holding them closer than he needs to.

For a moment, a swell of pride and envious control takes hold over Sieun. It feels like that chest ache again, insistent and intensifying. It feels almost like there's an unspoken sense that Suho should be here, like this with him, instead of out there being handed careless confession notes or letting himself be pulled into late-night drinks with girls who don’t know him the way Sieun does.

The thought doesn’t fully form, doesn’t reach consciousness, but as Sieun's fingers curl into the fabric of Suho's shirt, it creeps into a feeling that seems a little too dangerously close to possessiveness. For tonight, the alcohol makes it okay to feel this way. So slowly and unguarded, a smile widens on Sieun's face—the kind that he hardly shows. His eyes pool with glassy tenderness, fixed entirely on Suho because there’s nothing else worth looking at right now. 

“You’re nice,” he whispers, like he’s discovering it for the first time.

Suho chuckles under his breath, staring back at him. “You’re drunk.”

“Still nice.”

Sieun's words must've landed somewhere deeper than they should because Suho's hands shift slightly. His thumbs begin to brush smoothly against Sieun’s side, rubbing at the corners of his waist in a way that feels almost ticklish, almost too good to keep a pleased moan down.

Suho's hums sound a little rough now, like grunts to anchor himself as much as Sieun. Then, he whispers so softly, as if it wasn't meant to be said aloud, “I'm a nice gentleman…”

Confused but unwilling to let the warmth at his sides fade, Sieun hums back in agreement. His eyes shut as he gives into the slow, drifting lull of it, content to stay like this.

“But you're adorable,” he hears Suho say before he feels a gentle, brief touch on his cheek. It's the faintest of touch, hardly enough to understand the meaning behind it, but just the blissful hint of it is sufficient to want more. Know more.

“Again,” he asks breathlessly.

There's a short stillness, like a hesitation, before another featherlight, pleasant touch presses into his face. Siuen tilts his head and leans forward without hesitation.

They're no longer swaying but chasing a different kind of high. Suho's arm pulls him even closer in, until their bodies are squeezed together, then one hand reaches up to cup his cheek. Suho is all warm and gentle touches, treating Sieun like he's a porcelain doll and yet cradling him with the desire to press on, to give him whatever he asks and more.

“Again,” Sieun whines. So more, Suho gives—until the rest of their cravings are satisfied for the rest of their quiet, drunken night. And that ever present ache in his chest is finally placated, soothed by Suho's many doting kisses on his cheeks.

*****

The next morning comes too quickly. Light slips through the curtains in thin, unforgiving lines, cutting across the room and landing somewhere between them. Sieun wakes up with a heavy head, and there’s the dull throb behind his eyes that reminds him of everything he chose not to control the night before. For a brief, disorienting moment, it feels like he’s waking from a strange dream—a hazy and overly close sensation, overly intimate to be real. As soon it comes, that dream is quickly tucked away in the corners of his memories, because it's obscene and far too overwhelming to dwell on right now.

Sieun doesn’t move, doesn’t think—just listens. The apartment is quiet, too quiet.

Then, he sits up carefully. Suho is already awake, standing by the window with his back turned. His posture is held in that particular stillness that means he’s thinking about something and doesn’t want to be. One hand is rubbing the back of his neck, the other loosely holding his phone, screen dark.

“Morning,” Sieun grumbles like nothing happened, like he wasn't dreaming of the most impossible thing.

“Mm.”

There's no teasing or casual reach to ruffle his hair. Just that low, neutral sound, and then Suho moves past him like there’s nothing to pause for, heading out into the living area.

Sieun takes his time before leaving Suho’s room, pausing just long enough to reorient himself before searching for the others. Juntae is asleep in Sieun's bedroom, turned and tucked neatly under the blanket. Gotak is passed out on the couch, unmoved, one arm hanging off the side like dead weight. Lastly and rather hilariously, Baku is slumped in the bathtub—half-curled around the fallen shower curtain like it’s a lifeline, breathing shallowly; his face pale and damp like he vomited here and couldn't move after.

Sieun then finds Suho in the kitchen, where he stands with his back facing away, his attention fixed on putting together breakfast as if it requires more focus than it should. He must be pretty hungover too, Sieun thinks.

Slowly, the others stir awake, each carrying their own versions of hangovers and sobered remorse. When Suho announces that breakfast is ready, they gather at the table with less noise than usual. The smell of instant noodles and Grandma’s side dishes fills the air, cutting through what remains of last night’s alcohol.

Juntae looks the most relaxed and refreshed—the dancing machine from last night long forgotten. “Thanks for letting me sleep in your room, Sieun,” he says, passing around bowls.

Gotak blinks blearily, movements slow as he fumbles for a spoon. “Wait, if Juntae slept in your bed…” he trails off, squinting between them, “… then where did everyone else sleep?”

It seems like Suho doesn't want to answer, so Sieun says, "Suho and I slept in his room, and Baku—"

"God, I'm starving!" Baku exclaims and he loudly slurps his noodles, effectively cutting off the conversation—or suspicions about his questionable sleeping habit.

Wordlessly, Suho adds a portion of noodles and kimchi to Sieun’s bowl. As Sieun watches his hands move across the table, the dream from last night slips back uninvited—those hands, large and steady, all over him—and heat rises to his cheeks before he realises. He looks down shamefully, praying that no one can tell that he's had a strangely intimate dream about his best friend.

A long, awkward silence settles over the table until Suho clears his throat, rough and deliberate, and everyone drops their gaze to their bowls and starts eating. Conversation limps along after that—short, clipped exchanges, laughter that starts and dies too quickly, as if there’s something in the room no one is willing to talk about yet. When breakfast ends, the three of them leave almost immediately, gathering their things with quiet urgency, like they’re all a little too eager to be elsewhere.

*****

The following months have both of them busier with their studies and workload. Though they continue to share breakfast in the mornings, there are nights where they don’t see each other until Suho returns late. On such days, Suho texts Sieun to make sure that he eats his dinner without him. Sieun, in response, reminds him to clean up or turn off the light switches before he leaves next time.

Just as she promises, Suho’s grandma visits regularly, though Suho always complains she comes “too often.” She does what all grandmothers do—nag at her grandson, dote on her favourite child (which is obviously Sieun), and refill the fridge with more side dishes than they could ever finish. Whenever she’s around, the apartment feels fuller, like a home that’s been lived in for years, and Sieun finds himself smiling at that kind of familial warmth he doesn’t always know how to accept.

(Not once do Sieun’s parents come to visit.)

Not all at once, but the apartment finds a routine. As time passes, there's a normalcy that Sieun has finally adjusted to: with waking up to the sound of Suho rearranging the living room for a morning workout, cleaning the place and restoring order when he returns home, and then greeting Suho at the door. Except—

Except for that dream that comes to haunt him every now and then. It changes the way he stares at his best friend—whenever he walks around shirtless, sweat catching against his exposed skin, or whenever he announces that he's home with that easy, expectant smile.

"Welcome home," Sieun replies automatically, and he doesn't realise that sometimes he smiles back too.

At most, the dream surfaces at inconvenient times—whenever Sieun is half-asleep, or whenever the apartment is too quiet and empty. But sometimes, it returns with a persistence that unsettles him, confusing him into thinking it isn't just a delusion created by his twisted mind.

On more nights that they drink at home, or whenever they end up sharing a bed or the couch, whenever there’s that gentle, unspoken intimacy as their fingers reach for each other in the dark—Sieun always dreams of Suho leaning in and pressing fleeting kisses. Then he dreams of himself reaching up for more, reaching to feel fire and electricity on his skin.

“Sieun, we should sleep,” Suho hums dreamily, pulling his lips away from Sieun’s cheeks.

Sieun pouts as he shakes his head. Tonight, he drank one too many glasses after losing a ridiculously rigged drinking game. So it’s not his fault that he’s feeling childish and clingy.

Suho chuckles. “You’re such a baby.”

“I thought I was a kid… now I’m a baby?”

“Yeah that’s right, you’re a baby.” Suho retorts, then lowly, dotingly, “You’re my baby.”

Sieun likes the way that sounds. “Again.”

“Hm?”

“Call me baby again.”

Suho cups his cheeks and kisses him on the mouth this time. His lips feel softer there, all warm and buttery. The sensation slips through Sieun too easily—his restraints loosening, his body going pliant in Suho’s hold, as if he’s melting into the touch without resistance.

Suho whispers, “Baby." 

Because it’s only a dream, Sieun lets himself give in before he has to wake. The wanting builds needily, insistently, until he loops his arms around Suho’s neck and kisses him back with all his being.

Those dreams come in fragments, disjointed and hazy, yet surreal enough to linger the next day. He tries to ignore them each time; it's simply impossible.

*****

With some difficulty—that being their project member Harin disappearing and dropping out of university entirely—Sieun and his remaining group, Juntae and Minseo, manage to wrap up and submit their first semester’s research project. After many meetings to redistribute the workload and one final nerve-wracking presentation in front of their cohort, they finally emerge from the faculty building with that weight lifted off their shoulders. Sieun stands outside with Juntae and Minseo, laptop tucked under his arm, expression composed in that distant way he gets after finishing something. Juntae is mid-sentence about formatting, and Minseo is laughing at him, when a loud, booming voice cuts through the yard.

“Oi, you’re all still alive!" Baku hollers as he runs over and smacks Juntae on the shoulder. Behind him, Suho hangs half a step back, eyes already on Sieun and scanning him in a way that feels dissective.

“What are you guys doing here?” Juntae exclaims.

"Well, we've never been on your side of this fancy university so we decided to swing by," Baku replies, before turning to Minseo. "And you must be Minseo, they never mentioned how pretty you are."

Minseo’s smile falters almost immediately, her nose wrinkling just slightly as if put off by the bluntness. She moves without thinking, edging a step closer behind Sieun as she lets out a small, awkward laugh.

Baku either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “Great, then it’s settled,” he says, clapping his hands once like the decision has already been made. “We’ll grab food first, then drinks. Juntae, call up Gotak. I know a place nearby—”

Minseo perks up at that, a little surprised but not opposed. “Actually that sounds nice,” she says, looking at Sieun and Juntae. “We deserve to treat ourselves after that hellishly long project.”

Sieun doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking once to Suho without meaning to, checking with him. Suho is still quiet, but there’s something off in the way he’s standing now, shoulders a little too tight, eyes set wrongly.

“Yeah, sure,” Sieun says finally, because there’s no reason not to. “We can—”

“No.”

It cuts in too fast and sharp. Everyone turns to Suho.

He steps forward now, closing that half-step distance in a single motion and his hand is already catching Sieun’s wrist before anyone can react. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough that it feels like a decision made for him.

“We can’t,” Suho says roughly. “We have to go back.”

Baku looks almost offended. “Huh? Why?”

“Forgot something,” His words come too quickly and smoothly. “Important.”

“What did you—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he cuts in again, not even looking at Juntae, his attention fixed entirely on Sieun. “We need to go. Now.”

An abrupt, brittle tension intensifies over the group. Even Baku, who usually laughs everything off, tilts his head slightly, watching the two of them with a flicker of interest.

Sieun frowns, not pulling his hand away, but not moving either. “Suho, we just—”

“I said we have to go.” This time it’s quieter, but heavier. Not loud or angry, just certain in a way that leaves no space to argue.

For a second, Sieun almost does argue. His words sit at the back of his throat, that instinct to question, to resist being told what to do. But something about the way Suho is looking at him directly, intently, makes the words dissolve before they can form. “…Okay,” he says instead, before he can think too much about it.

Minseo glances between them, confused and edging towards Juntae. “Wait, you guys aren’t coming?”

“Next time,” Suho says, already turning and pulling Sieun away with him like the conversation is over, like it was never really a discussion to begin with.

“Hey—” Juntae starts, half-laughing, half-protesting, but Baku just hums, amused, like he’s watching something play out exactly the way he expected.

“Let them go,” Baku says lightly, though his eyes stay on Suho’s hand wrapped around Sieun’s wrist. “Seems urgent.”

Sieun stumbles a step behind before matching up to Suho's pace, the grip on his wrist unrelenting as they move across the courtyard, past the gates, out onto the street. Only when they’re far enough that the others are out of sight does Suho slow, but he still doesn’t let go.

“What did we forget?” Sieun asks. His breath is a little uneven from walking too fast.

There’s no answer. Suho keeps walking for another few steps, then stops abruptly. For a moment he just stands there, still holding on, like he’s only just realised what he’s doing.

“…Nothing,” he says finally.

“What?”

Suho exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through now that there’s no one else around to see it. “We didn’t forget anything.”

“Then why—”

“I didn’t want to go.”

Sieun stares at him. “You didn’t want to go, so you just—dragged me away?”

Suho clicks his tongue in annoyance. “You didn’t have to come.”

“You were holding my hand.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t say no.”

Sieun almost laughs at that, sarcastically and with disbelief. “You didn’t give me time to.”

The tension spreads thin between them. Suho looks away first, then mutters, like he's forcing the words out, "... I didn't like it. Didn’t like her.”

Sieun blinks. “Minseo?”

“Yeah.”

“…Why?”

Suho’s face tenses for a moment, as a conflicted look passes through before he shuts it down and reaches for the easier answer. “She was annoying.”

It’s a terrible lie, worse than the first. Sieun knows it, can hear it in the way the words don’t quite sit right. He wants to understand because Suho hardly ever lies to him, but instead he just says awkwardly, "You're being weird."

“Yeah,” Suho admits. “I know.”

Neither of them move at first. Suho’s hand is still around his wrist but then he slowly unbinds his fingers like he’s forcing himself to remember how. The absence of it feels just as noticeable as the grip.

“Let’s just go home,” Suho says, voice back to something almost normal, pretending nothing just happened. “I’m hungry.”

Sieun watches him for a second longer, as if staring might give him clarity or comfort, something to ease the strangeness that just happened. But when they start walking again, the space between them stretches wider than he's used to.

*****

They return to the apartment without speaking. The door shuts softly behind them, and yet the sound echoes like something slammed. The place looks the same—a mess, the way Suho always leaves it. He mumbles an apology as he starts to clean up after himself, and Sieun helps without his usual nagging.

It’s almost strange to see Suho clean, like watching wilderness try to tame itself. Sieun should appreciate it but at the moment he can’t, not when things feel wrong in a different way, and not when Suho doesn’t spare a glance at him.

Once the place looks decent enough (but not by any of Sieun’s standards), Suho heads to the kitchen without another word. He pulls things from the fridge and sets them down with careful, controlled motions that don’t match him. There's no idle chatter, just the quiet rhythm of a knife against a board, water running and the soft clink of dishes.

Sieun sits at the dining table and watches him like a hawk. His gaze doesn’t leave Suho’s back, tracking every movement like he’s trying to relearn something familiar that’s suddenly out of reach. Suho doesn’t turn around once.

Lunch consists of rice and side dishes, something quick and efficient. Suho's eyes are still fixed downwards even as they face each other at the dining table. The scrapes of their utensils are the only thing that makes noise between them. Sieun finishes first, setting his chopsticks down too neatly. Suho is still eating, slower than usual, like he’s buying time.

“I’m going to the gym,” Suho announces.

Sieun looks up immediately. Suho hasn’t been to the gym in a while, despite having a gym membership and despite the gym only being a fifteen-minute walk away. He hardly ever goes unless Baku is asking him to. “You don’t go to the gym,” Sieun states. “You work out here.”

Suho’s hand pauses for a fraction of a second, then continues. “I feel like going today.”

His lie feels hurtful this time, suffocating and unbearable. Knowing that his best friend is lying to him twists deep inside Sieun’s chest. His ache throbs at the point of breaking, like he might actually cry if he lets himself feel it.

Quickly, he comes up with an excuse to hold himself together—to keep Suho here, as pathetic as it comes out. “… I want to watch a movie," he mumbles.

Suho looks up then, properly this time. His face has pained hesitation written all over it.

“A movie?”

Sieun nods pathetically.

“…Okay,” Suho sighs.

They move to the living room. But Suho leaves a deliberate seat of empty space between them, taking one end of the couch while Sieun has the other. The TV flickers to life. Suho picks something without thinking, some melodrama Sieun would usually follow closely, one with too many close-ups and swelling music.

It plays but he doesn’t register a single scene. The TV fills the room, softening nothing in its noise. If anything, it makes the silence between them louder. Sieun’s aware of everything else instead—the way Suho shifts uncomfortably and the distance that normally isn't there. Someone on screen is crying. Someone is confessing something important. The voices fade into irrelevance.

For once, Sieun can’t stand the silence between them. It feels wrong, and like any equation, he needs to understand the root dilemma and correct it. He starts, “Suho…”

It’s barely a whisper, but it cuts through everything.

“What?” Suho grunts, reluctant to speak.

Carefully, Sieun asks, “Why are you acting like this?”

“I’m not—”

“You are.” He doesn’t raise his voice. “Since earlier, about Minseo.”

The words fill the gap between them. After another silence that stretches far longer than it should, Suho says quietly, "I said I didn't like her... But that's not it."

Sieun frowns. “Then what is it?”

Suho exhales, rough and loud, like he’s stepping over an active mine. “I didn’t like the way you were with her.”

Sieun turns and is struck by how tense Suho looks—jaw tight, gaze distant and unfocused, like he’s holding back anger. 

“With—what?”

“Standing close. Talking like that.” Suho’s fists are clenched too. “Letting her hide behind you.”

Sieun goes very still. “That’s normal,” he explains. “We’ve been in the same group for months. I already—I rejected her."

“I know.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

Suho looks at him properly now. “You are.”

His answer knocks the air out of the space between them. Sieun opens his mouth, then closes it again. 

“I don’t like it,” Suho says again, quieter. “I don’t like seeing you with other people like that. I don’t like…” He trails off, like the rest of it is harder to admit. “I don’t like it when it’s not me.”

The meaning hangs there, clear enough that it doesn’t need to be spelled out. Sieun’s pulse spikes, uneven and loud in his ears. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does to me.”

“That’s not—” Sieun cuts himself off, frustration and confusion tangling together. “You’re being weird again.”

“Yeah, I know,” Suho lets out a short, humourless breath. Then he looks up at the ceiling. "I've been trying to ignore what we've been doing, pretending it never happens."

Sieun’s throat goes dry. “What—”

"But it's never just been whenever we drink," Suho continues. "I—I've always wanted more between us. I've wanted you."

Oh. Sieun’s mind spirals at the revelation. His thoughts collapse over themselves too fast for him to hold. All along, he thought they were just recurring dreams—clandestine moments in the dark, the weight of Suho’s hands on him, the press of their lips coming together. All along, he had denied the possibility that any of it could be real, because it was impossible to him. If that was real, then—

Before he can fully process it, before he can stop himself, he says it aloud. "Those were just dreams."

Suho frowns at him, confusion flickering first, then shock takes over. “Dreams?” he says incredulously, a disbelieving breath leaving him. “That’s so fucked up, Sieun. How can you say I’m being weird when you’ve been writing everything off as dreams?”

Sieun feels himself losing control, spiraling as a sharp panic rises within him.

“Then we were drunk.” The excuse comes out fast, defensive, because he needs something to hold the ground under him together.

“…Right,” Suho says cautiously. “We were drunk.” Then he shifts from uncertainty into sudden resolve, looking at Sieun with unflinching eyes. “But we’re not drunk right now, and I still feel the same.”

Sieun’s breath catches.

“I’m in love with you, Sieun-ah,” Suho confesses, simple and clear. “Not like a friend. I haven’t for a long time.”

For a second, Sieun thinks he misheard him. That this is another misunderstanding, something he can clear up or correct. But Suho doesn’t look like he’s joking at all. He looks certain, in the same way that he always knows what he wants to eat, in the same way he watches movies with rapt attention—in the same way he used to lay in hospital bed, eyes fixed on Sieun like looking away would mean losing him again.

And it breaks Sieun. Because the problem is that despite everyone’s best efforts, despite how much kindness and affection he receives from Suho or their friends, he still struggles to reciprocate it. Because love is strange and shapeless and you don’t learn it like instinct when you don’t grow up with it.

“No,” he says hastily. "You don't mean that."

Suho’s eyes dim, confusion flickering into hurt.

But Sieun continues, because he has to. If he doesn’t push back, this will become something real and irreversible. “You’re just… confused. It’s because we live together. We’re around each other all the time.”

Suho interjects, “That’s not it.”

“It is.” Sieun’s voice tightens. “You’re mixing things up. This—” he gestures vaguely between them, like he can define it if he tries hard enough, “—this is just how we are. It doesn’t have to be anything else.”

Because they're best friends. And best friends don’t kiss. Forget the rumours and the way people always look at them like they already know, forget the way his chest aches every time Suho gets too close, and forget the way he's remembering how electrifying it feels to kiss him. Best friends aren’t supposed to want each other in a way that defies rules.

“We’re fine like this,” His refusal again is almost instinctive, quieter now but no less firm. He can't look at him anymore. “We don’t need to… complicate it.”

“Complicate it,” Suho repeats, testing the word and hating it immediately. “That’s what you think this is?”

Sieun swallows. “If we cross that line and it doesn’t work—”

“It will.”

“You don’t know that. Because if it doesn’t, then what? We lose our friendship, everything about us. I’m not—” he stops himself. “I’m not risking that.”

All of Sieun's fears and anxieties are laid bare now, whether he wants them to be or not. He feels stripped raw, like skin peeled back to nerves, every single one of his flaws exposed and defenseless. And Suho sees it, of course he does—he sees everything about Sieun all the time and understands him with a clarity so unwavering it leaves no room to hide.

“So you’d rather pretend this isn’t happening. Even if it is.”

“Yes.” 

Suho looks at him for a long moment as he wants for something to change, for Sieun to take it back, to say anything different. But Sieun stays quiet, afraid to expose anymore of his terrible, distorted self.

“…Okay,” Suho says at last. “Then I can’t do this.”

Sieun’s chest tightens. “Do what?”

“This.” Suho gestures vaguely in the same way, small and controlled. “Act like nothing’s changed when it has."

“We can just—”

“I can’t,” Suho breaks in, still calm and it feels worse. “I’ve been trying. It doesn’t work.”

Sieun grips the edge of the couch. “So what are you saying?”

Suho stands. His movement feels abrupt after sitting still for too long. “I’m saying I need space.”

“Space,” Sieun repeats, the word landing wrong. He doesn't understand because Suho never asks for space—he takes it, fills it, pushes into every corner of Sieun’s life without permission or hesitation. He’s never wanted or needed to be apart.

“Yeah. I’ll stay with my grandma for a bit.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is for me.”

Sieun’s eyes well up, panic creeping in again as he tries to regain control of something that’s already slipping. “We can just go back to how things were.”

“…You can. I can't.” he says. Suho looks at him then, really looks, and this time he looks like he's going to cry as well. “I love you too much."

Sieun hates this.

The TV is still playing in front of them, voices rising and falling in a story neither of them is watching anymore. After Suho turns it off, the silence that follows is absolute.

“I’ll come back to grab my stuff another time." He's already moving away, since staying any longer would make things worse. “You can have the place to yourself for now.”

Then the front door slams shut, and Suho is out of the door of their apartment. Left behind, there's only Sieun sitting alone in the living room—in a space that feels too large now, too hollow with its most vital pulse ripped out of circulation. Left behind, there's only the shell of everything that’s been ruined.

*****

The next morning feels distant, like everything happened to someone else. Sieun wakes up hoping that was a dream too. The apartment is clean and quiet—there's no clatter, dull thud of weights or the rhythm of someone's inconveniently early workout. The air feels still, untouched, like nothing has been disturbed for hours.

He tries to get ready on autopilot, but the moment he steps into the bathroom he pauses at the sight of the two matching toothbrushes by the sink. For a second, Sieun just stares as the memory resurfaces—Suho grinning in the store aisle and joking about their “newlywed home" like it meant nothing. Somehow, it doesn't feel like nothing anymore.

When Siuen lived with his parents, neither of them even kept toothbrushes at home; they were always away on work trips, brushing their teeth and spending their mornings in different corners of the world. The house had no noise, mess or expectations. Nothing to account for. It was in that absence that Sieun built his system of control, his preference for quiet and order.

But Suho is the opposite of his parents. He fills the void with his peculiar habits—loud movements in the early hours, the unspoken assumption that they’ll eat together, and a knack for getting them into trouble with their eccentric landlady—all before eight in the morning. It is careless, inconsistent and entirely unreliable.

And yet, it is constant—and that, more than anything, unnerves Sieun. Constancy implies a kind of permanence, a quiet expectation that things will remain as they are, and that is a false hope he long learnt to distrust. Because anything that lingers long enough to feel certain can just as easily be taken away. He thinks coldly, even newlyweds get divorced, right?

The thought sits poorly with him, heavy and intrusive, so he quickly pushes it aside before it can fully take shape. This is ridiculous. It’s just a shared apartment, a temporary arrangement like any other. Like everything else, this will eventually unravel. Routines will break or circumstances will shift, and whatever fragile order they’ve built will give way to the same inevitable disorder he’s come to expect from life. It’s thermodynamic entropy in application. Maybe Suho returns, maybe he never will—Sieun has to adjust either way. It's not within his control anymore.

He finishes getting ready with the rest on autopilot. When it’s time to leave, it feels almost strange to skip breakfast and walk out without saying anything.

Campus is loud in a way that doesn’t reach him. Voices pass, footsteps echo, laughter breaks somewhere in the distance, but it all feels muted, like he’s hearing it through water. People move around him and he moves with them, slipping into routine without awareness. He doesn't remember walking into class or listening to the lectures.

At some point, he’s sitting outside with Juntae and Gotak, a coffee in front of him that has gone untouched. Gotak is the first to say something.

“…You look like shit," his friend tells him harshly.

Juntae nudges lightly. “Don’t say it like that.” Then, softer, “Sieun… did something happen?”

Sieun doesn’t answer immediately. He’s staring at nothing, gaze fixed somewhere past them. The question takes a second to register, like it has to travel a longer distance to reach him.

“…Suho left yesterday,” he says.

Gotak straightens. “What? Like he's left home? ...Or you?"

“He said he needed space.”

“That makes no sense,” Gotak frowns. “You two are basically glued together.”

"Have you tried texting or calling him?" Juntae asks. 

"No," Sieun replies. "I don't usually call him..." He usually calls me, Sieun realises. He doesn't need to call him because Suho always reaches out first or is already with him. Suho is always there, making a mess and distracting him from his studies, pestering him to watch a movie, or making him smile with one of his ridiculous, cocky jokes, or... Sieun is just used to him being around.

Sieun figured it would always be that way, before Suho uprooted the world beneath them. His best friend is selfish as always, obnoxious to his core.

Juntae watches Sieun with a concerned look on his face. “Why did he leave?”

Sieun’s fingers curl slightly against the table. Exactly, why? Why did he have to ask for space and leave? When you bring chaos and demand attention, asking for space suddenly feels unfair.

“He said…” He pauses, the confession catching in his throat. “…he said that he’s in love with me.”

Gotak stalls, processing. “So he finally told you,” he says. “And how did you respond?”

Sieun looks up at his friends then, their expressions are awkward but unsurprised. He’s the only one bewildered, and it feels his grasp on things is slipping further. There’s a momentary silence as Gotak and Juntae glance at each other in a no-you-say-something way.

“You guys knew?” Sieun asks.

“We sort of thought you knew, until then. Since high school, he….” Gotak tries, a deep flush on his face. He’s not usually good with this kind of thing, it’s too many words and not enough action—Sieun can relate to that much at least. “You never really turned down his advances and then you moved in together, so we assumed….”

“You thought I felt the same.” The realisations spill down like rainstorms. Sieun has never felt more blind and embarrassed in his life. “Did… did Baku know too? Did everyone know but me?”

Gotak scoffs. “Oh he knows—sometimes—but most of the time he likes girls too much to understand any of this,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. “I should’ve kicked his ass for trying to set Suho up that day.”

Sieun swallows what feels like a stone in his throat as another clarity comes for him. “That day,” he says meekly, looking into his still untouched coffee. “That day… he kissed me.”

“WHAT?” Gotak coughs loudly, nearly spits out his.

Even Juntae is caught off guard now. He opens his mouth then hesitates, choosing his words considerately, “… What did you think of the kiss then?”

Sieun contemplates telling them that he thought his best friend kissing him senseless was a dream, that every time after that as well were more dreams—but he doesn't think he can handle any more embarrassment right now.

“... It was nice,” he admits instead. There's a furiously red blush on his face regardless.

Gotak runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck. So what happened after that? What did you say to him?”

Sieun exhales slowly. “I told him we shouldn’t complicate things.”

“You rejected him?” Gotak blinks again and then repeats, “Wait—you actually rejected him?”

“I didn’t—” Sieun stops, then corrects himself, quieter. “I did.”

Juntae speaks calmly. “Why?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense,” Sieun answers with an air of certainty. “We’re fine as we are. There’s no reason to change anything.”

Gotak lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You think nothing’s changed? He literally confessed to you and left.”

“That’s exactly why it shouldn’t—”

“No,” he cuts him off. “It already has.”

Sieun’s brows draw together slightly, like he’s trying to solve an equation that should be straightforward but isn’t. But quietly, he's forced to think about how true it is—the empty apartment, the silence, the way everything felt wrong the moment Suho walked out. He tried to stop him yet there was nothing he said that made him stay; everything has already changed.

"You’re asking him to stay in something that hurts him," Juntae says bluntly. “Would you actually be okay with that?”

Would he be okay with hurting him? Of course not. Sieun would rather rip his heart out than hurt Suho in any way. But he stays quiet, because he fears that he already has. His gaze stays fixed on the table, knowing that if he looks up, something will give.

Gotak leans forward, eyes narrowing on him. Something has to give now. “What are you so afraid of?”

Sieun’s fingers curl tightly in his lap. His admission is almost muted but it’s one of the most difficult things he’s ever said out loud, “Things like relationships don't last… They'll break, like bones when a blow lands too hard. And when they do, you don’t just lose that—you lose everything before and after it too.”

“So you’d rather not risk your friendship…” Gotak sighs deeply, disappointment clear in his voice. “The Sieun we know wouldn't be such a coward, he would be afraid to risk anything whether in a fight or in life.”

Sieun’s eyes widen at that, a sharp, almost instinctive reaction. His shoulders tense like he's just been provoked. And perhaps Gotak meant to do that; his friend's expression looks suddenly taunting as an action clicks into place. 

“Let me ask you this too,” he continues, with one more blow ready, “If things were to not break—if it could last—would you want a relationship with him?”

The question swings deeper than the others. Sieun has never really thought about what he wants, only what he believes is needed. A right hook to attack his opponent, a good dodge to protect himself, or a desperate move to save his friendship.

“But he's my best friend,” Sieun says, as if that answers everything. “He’s too important."

His thoughts start racing. His hand clenches the fabric of his jeans now. Suho kissed him because he wanted more between them, and Sieun reciprocated because—maybe… Sieun realises, hands slowly unclenching, he wanted more too. The walls of his mind come crashing down slowly.

“Love is important too,” Juntae cuts in. “Sometimes it's worth the risk, especially for what you two have... and that's always been special.” His voice is gentle and careful. “Suho has been in love with you for as long as we've known him. If he finally confessed to you... it must be because he believes it's worth it. He believes it won't break you two.” Then he reels back, adjusting his glasses as it slips down. “Ah! But—I'm just assuming things here! It's based on my observations, so…”

“You said it well, Juntae-ah,” Gotak tells him assuringly. Then he turns. “Sieun, you don’t have to figure out how you feel all at once. As long as you try to figure it out.”

*****

Back at home, Sieun takes a long shower, letting the hot water wash away the chill from the bus ride home. He doesn’t feel much better when he emerges, clean and cold, wrapped in a towel. 

He goes to the refrigerator to eat dinner, only to find empty containers that were once full of Grandma’s side dishes and a pot of uncooked rice. She promised they would never run out, he remarks painfully, but maybe this is another lesson on promises and hope. Sieun could try to fix something up, but he remembers the one time he did—how Suho fell so sick from his terrible cooking that he joked, poorly, about going into a coma again, and then made Sieun promise to never cook.

He wonders if he should order takeaway as he usually does in this situation, but he decides he doesn’t really want to open the door to a stranger he doesn’t care for. Instead, he makes do with his last resort: a cup of instant noodles that had been collecting dust on the top shelf of the pantry. Simple enough, no real cooking required. He prepares it and sits alone at the dining table to eat.

It tastes terrible. It tastes bland, like it’s missing real flavour.

He then moves on instinct, reaching for the nearest object and starting to clean. Suho’s stuff is still all over the apartment, and everywhere Sieun looks he finds something Suho hasn’t put back into its proper place. There are pieces of him everywhere he looks, and Sieun has the urge to distract himself by doing all the tidying that Suho always undos within a day. But instead all he can see and touch are proof of how his life now is just like this apartment, littered with evidence that Suho is all-consuming presence that he can’t just shove into a box, stick a label on it and hope that Suho himself won’t find his way back into Sieun’s hands.

Near the bathroom, Sieun picks up Suho’s sweaty shirt inside the wrong hamper. He holds the shirt in his hands, the scent of perspiration and aftershave seeping into the air. “This belongs in the other hamper,” he says aloud, like it’ll summon Suho to its defense.

It doesn’t.

If Sieun imagines his life without Suho’s messiness, his intrusion, his clingy touches and delicious food, it'll be a life he once believed he was destined to have—quiet, simple, stable yet completely devoid of warmth. In truth, he has already once known a life with Suho. During that time he would see glimpses of Suho in everyone else, in Baku’s strength, Gotak’s compassion and Juntae’s kindness. His friends pulled him out of that darkness and gave him hope, but in the end glimpses of the boy he missed paled in comparison to seeing Suho across that lawn in a wheelchair.

Would he want something more with him? A relationship that surpasses the depth of their friendship? His friends asked, and Sieun thought he didn’t know. But the truth is that maybe he does. Maybe what Sieun truly wants is what he’s unknowingly had all along. Maybe he wants to spend his mornings cleaning up after the most infuriatingly messy and kind and lovable person in his life, spend his afternoons missing him, and his evenings cuddling with him and so much more.

Now if he takes things a step further and thinks about Suho with someone else… the idea of it grates him immediately, severely. He knows it’s irrational—Suho has always been kind and generous with his attention; he’s easy to like, to want, and there’s nothing exclusive about him. And yet, when Sieun tries to picture him standing too close with another person, offering the same warmth, kissing them on the fucking lips—he thinks he’d rather combust than let that affection belong to anyone else but himself. Sieun has never wanted to claim anything, never held onto something that could be taken away. Except Ahn Suho.

Because, of course, there’s nothing more important or constant than him. His best friend, of whom he has known through the very worst and very best, of whom he had prayed to every higher being in the universe to bring back to him. His Suho. And if that means it's love—Fuck, Sieun must've been so stupidly blind, because as he stares down at the sweaty gym shirt, he thinks "I'm in love with him too, aren't I?"

From time to time, there’s a rare, almost stupefying chance of a phenomenon—one that arrives without warning, at the exact moment a person lets their guard down. It happens in the span of seconds, or days, or even years, when someone who should have remained a stranger suddenly isn’t. The veil slips with a quiet hiss, and something unseen falls away. In that instant, there is recognition—a strange, intoxicating clarity. They understand you as you are, as you understand them, and in your hands rests something you never knew you were missing: the gift of an impossible intimacy with someone who could have remained nothing more than chance. It is absurd, really—this quiet collision that feels as immense as a universe being born. A force that should take something as vast as the earth to measure, and yet it exists here, contained within a phenomenon as small and fragile as love.

Sieun has only ever seen that kind of oddity in movies. Maybe he felt something like it once, in the distant memory of his parents before they became strangers to each other. But that kind of love had always seemed too convenient, too unrealistic to exist outside fiction. Love, and hence dating, always felt distant and impractical. He never understood why anyone would want something as easily broken as a stupid shower curtain.

But as his thoughts return, unbidden, to their friends’ knowing words, to the look in Suho's eyes when he told him he loves him, to the inescapable traces of him embedded everywhere in their apartment—only then does it dawn on him. Sieun finally realises what that ache in his chest meant all along. It was never irritation or confusion, never something to be controlled or compartmentalised. With his entire being, he understands now that he’s always had the capacity to love and desire, and be jealous and possessive, and feel such an overwhelming, physical yearning that breaks through all his carefully crafted walls. The world might move towards entropy and inevitable demise, but Sieun’s heart already revolves around Suho.

He should have known that Ahn Suho is a love who’s always worth fighting for, waiting for. If their bond transcends platonic bearings and carves into deeper affections, then so be it.

“I’m in love with Suho,” he says aloud this time, accepting it into existence. He loves his best friend.

Realisations settles into steadiness, one Sieun doesn't try to fight with this time. He places Suho’s shirt in the right hamper and finishes the chores with his usual precision, not to distract himself but because it feels right. It's what he has always done for them but for the first time, it doesn't feel like maintenance or control but something chosen out of love.

When all is done, the apartment is clean again, too clean as if it's just waiting to be messed up. He sits on the couch, knees drawn slightly in, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Time passes in a slow, unbroken stretch, but he doesn’t reach for his phone, doesn’t try to calculate when Suho might come back or whether he will at all. His certainty is quiet yet it holds. He knows that Suho will come home no matter how far he goes, no matter how long it takes—to this apartment, to him.

When the knock finally comes, it’s exactly the same. Three loud bangs, a pause, followed by two more to announce his stupidity.

Sieun is already on his feet before the last one fades. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t stop to think about what he’s about to say or how it might change everything, because that’s the point—he’s done thinking about what’s safe or needed. There’s no more weird ache in his chest, just an all-consuming urge to be honest and free. His hand closes around the doorknob firmly, and when he opens the door, Sieun doesn't give him a chance to speak first.

“Welcome home,” he says, the words coming easy and familiar, the same as always—and then, just as steady, “I love you.”