Chapter Text
Ryujin sat cross legged on his couch, his phone lighting up with notifications. He had the final episode of DMD Friendship3 playing on his TV, the volume loud enough to fill his living room.
On screen, the final segment of the finale was unfolding. There it was. The moment. The camera panned to Ryujin’s face, expectant and open, and then to Pat’s. When Pat finally reached out and gave him a small hug, Ryujin felt a physical jolt, the same one he’d felt on set. To the viewer, it was the climax of a reality show romance. To Ryujin, it was the moment his best friend finally chose him.
He hit pause, staring at the frozen image of their shoulder and hug. He traced and a foolish, wide smile breaking across his face.
“Thank God”, he thought, the words echoing in his mind. He actually chose me.
He knew the rumors. He knew the fans were constantly pushing their own agendas, tagging Pat in "PatjiFifa" edits, constantly trying to compare their chemistry to others. But none of that mattered now. Pat had picked him. He had reciprocated the chase. Ryujin felt a surge of pure, unadulterated hope. He started drafting a message to Pat, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard. “Did you watch it? I think it turned out really well, right?” before deleting it, scared of sounding too eager. He just wanted to be the partner Pat deserved. He was ready to give his everything to this relationship.
Kilometers away, Pat sat in the dim light of his room, the TV volume muted. He was watching the same moment, but his expression was clinical, almost detached.
When the clip reached the "hand holding" scene, Pat didn't see a romantic milestone. He saw a business transaction. He remembered the director’s sharp glare from the side of the set, and the way the CEO had stood, arms crossed, waiting for them to "sell it." Reciprocate. That was the unspoken command.
Everyone knew Ryujin was chasing him. The fans were watching, the company was watching, and if Pat didn't lean into it, the entire narrative would collapse. He wasn't "shy", he was a professional who knew when to play his part. He had moved his hand toward Ryujin’s because it was the logical, necessary step to satisfy the production team. It wasn't a choice of the heart; it was a choice of the career.
Pat leaned back, the blue light of the screen casting long shadows across his face. He watched himself on screen. The reserved, calm expression he had perfected. He looked so collected, so in love. It was a terrifyingly good performance. He felt a tightness in his throat. He looked at his own hand, then back at the screen. He had given the company what they wanted, but in doing so, he felt like he had handed over a piece of his own autonomy. He didn't want to be the "Uke," and he certainly didn't want to be the prop in someone else’s love story.
Did I choose the right one? he wondered, the question haunting the quiet of his room. Or did I just choose the easiest way to make everyone else happy?
Pat leaned back, the blue light of the monitor catching the moisture in his eyes. He wasn't crying, exactly. He was just mourning. He closed his eyes, the memory of DMD Friendship2 flooding back with painful clarity.
He remembered the day Ryujin had walked into the studio halfway through the season. He remembered the genuine, unscripted jolt of electricity he’d felt and it is not because of cameras, but because a friend had arrived. He had been so relieved to see a familiar face that he hadn't cared about the lens or the lights. He had smiled until his cheeks ached, his eyes crinkling in a way that felt entirely, dangerously real. Back then, they were just two guys navigating a reality show, but they were together.
He remembered the way Ryujin used to lean into his space, and how natural it felt to lean back. There was no pressure to "reciprocate." There was no "Seme" or "Uke" label hanging over their heads like a guillotine.
But now?
He opened his phone, his thumb hovering over the Twitter app. The feed was flooded with tags, fanedits, and threads analyzing his every move. “Look at how Pat is playing the push-and-pull game!” one tweet read, accompanied by a slow-motion video of him pulling his hand away from Ryujin on set. “He’s so good at making Ryu chase him. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Pat let out a sharp, cynical breath that rattled in his chest. I’m not playing, he thought, his thumb gripping the edge of his phone until his knuckles turned white. I’m not playing games. I’m just trying to figure out how to breathe when you’re constantly holding my hand.
He wasn't playing push-and-pul. He was drowning. He wasn't waiting for the chase; he was waiting for the friendship to come back. But every time Ryujin looked at him now with those eyes that were so full of a terrifying, earnest hope. Pat felt a wall of glass rise between them. He felt like a coward for not saying anything, but he felt like a puppet if he kept saying yes.
He wasn't playing with Ryujin’s heart. He was mourning the loss of his own. He looked at his hands, those same hands that had reached out for Ryujin on screen, and felt a profound, aching hollow. He wanted the chase to end, but he was terrified that if it did, the friendship. Tthe only thing that had ever been real would dissolve along with it.
He switched off his phone, the screen going black. He wondered if Ryujin missed that Season 2 version of them, too. Or if Ryujin was so blinded by the cameras and the applause that he couldn't even see that the boy he loved was disappearing.
Pat pulled his knees to his chest, the silence of the room pressing heavily against his ears. He sat in the dark, caught between two lives. The one the world demanded he lead, and the one he was slowly forgetting how to live.
I didn't choose this, Pat realized, a single, cold tear finally slipping over to hit the dark screen of his phone. I didn't choose him.
I just ran out of ways to say no.