Chapter Text
———
Kim Donghyun found him one late afternoon during their first term lounging by the bleachers trying to pass time with his free period.
Sanghyuk remembered the exact moment he became close to the younger man. Donghyun became Woonhak's roommate beginning last year after some changes in their dorm situation and naturally Woonhak had adopted him into their small friend group where Donghyun just happened to fit right in. He'd been outgoing enough, sometimes even too much, to make Sanghyuk eventually open up to him where otherwise he would have just drifted along the lines of acquaintance.
And here they were, Donghyun's head on Sanghyuk's shoulder while he closed his eyes under the sun finding comfort in their shared silence.
That was until Donghyun spoke.
"You don't like him much, do you Sanghyuk hyung?"
"Hm? What are we talking about?" Sanghyuk hummed, still content to be resting his eyes.
"Park Sungho. You don't like him very much."
"What makes you think that?" He peered one eye to look at the man sitting close next to him.
Donghyun shrugged. "I don't know. You don't really speak to him."
"I speak to him when I need to."
"Okay? Then how do you feel about him?"
"I think he's amazing."
"What?" Donghyun whispered almost in confusion.
"He's good at sports, he's smart too. He's a good guy," Sanghyuk supplied easily.
"How do you know all that when you don't hang out together?"
"I don't have to. That's just how he is as a person and it shows."
"Oh!" Donghyun then moved from where he rested against Sanghyuk, enough to startle him. "Oh, I get it."
Sanghyuk raised his eyebrows in question. "What do you get?"
"This is what Woonhak was talking about." Donghyun grinned sheepishly. "That you don't really speak your feelings much and you're happy to just be around someone."
"Is that so? You think I should smile more?" Sanghyuk tilted his head to the side.
"You smile enough, Hyung. You laugh aloud, too. I just think saying your feelings for someone will do you good sometimes." Donghyun patted him on the shoulder.
"Oh you're giving me love advice, huh?" Sanghyuk nudged the younger one playfully.
"You and Park Sungho would look good together," Donghyun chirps. "Take it from me."
Sanghyuk made a strangled noise. "I can't believe Kim Donghyun is all grown up now."
"Hey! I can be when I need to." He pouted.
"I know. Thanks for telling me that anyway." Sanghyuk ruffled Donghyun's hair.
"Anytime, Hyung." He smiled brightly at him. "So, how about that dinner with Han Dongmin and I?"
"Let me check my schedule."
"You don't have one. I checked with Woonhak beforehand," Donghyun said. And of course he has.
"Okay, okay," Sanghyuk chuckles. "Let me just attend my last class then I'll come after."
As promised, after his last class, Sanghyuk found Donghyun waiting by the building entrance as if to ensure Sanghyuk would not slip past him. Donghyun was leaning against one of the pillars, hands tucked inside the pocket of his hoodie, scanning the stream of students leaving the lecture hall one by one. It wasn’t until he spotted Sanghyuk that his entire face lit up.
“Hyung, over here!”
Sanghyuk barely had time to raise his hand in greeting before Donghyun was already walking towards him.
“So where are you dragging me to this time?”
“That’s a secret.” Donghyun giggled before looping one of his arms into Sanghyuk’s.
“Don’t tell me it’s far.”
“Well… Maybe… Dongmin said he knew a place with cheap skewers so we gotta get there before the last order.”
“Can’t we go somewhere else?” Sanghyuk asked just as an attempt though deep down he knew he was mostly likely just going to end up relenting.
Donghyun simply smiled the sweetest he could and shook his head, grip tightening around Sanghyuk’s arm. “Aboslutely not.”
By the time they reached the campus gate, Han Dongmin was already there, occupied with his phone and holding a black plastic bag.
“What took you so long?”
“My class just ended five minutes ago,” Sanghyuk said.
“That’s late by your standards, Hyung,” Dongmin teased making Sanghyuk snort. “I got us some cola for the walk there.”
Donghyun accepted his drink with a pleased sound while Sanghyuk muttered a quiet ‘thank you’ to Dongmin. He watched the two immediately fall into an argument whether the place Dongmin picked was actually underrated or just usually empty due to its horrible quality of food. Sanghyuk let them walk ahead of him, preferring to observe and occasionally shake his head at their silly antics, voices overlapping in a way that made sense for the two of them.
Joined at the hip, as he and their other friends would say. It had been that way ever since Woonhak introduced him to Donghyun and Dongmin properly. Donghyun had been the first to attach himself to Sanghyuk with the determination of someone who always saw quietness not as a warning but as an invitation. Dongmin had followed in a more subtle way, less bright but just as present. And somehow, without Sanghyuk realizing, they had become part of the rhythm of his days.
The place Dongmin brought them to was small and tucked into a street corner blocks far from campus, with fogged windows and laminated menus stuck on the wall that clearly survived more than a few generations of university students.
The food was good and Sanghyuk spent half the meal watching the two bicker across the table while he laughed or scolded them at times.
Just like that, Sanghyuk cannot help but think how the semester had been bearable for him so far. There were still early training sessions, bruises blooming in places he had not even realized he hit during practice, deadlines that sometimes stretched long into the night. There were still days when the dance studio felt too empty with only him left carrying what used to be a proper team.
For the meantime, Sanghyuk let himself believe that the rest of the term would continue that way. Busy but manageable. Full enough to keep him from lingering too long in the dangerous spaces of his own thoughts.
One afternoon, after lunch and a rushed walk all the way from the campus gates, Sanghyuk arrived at the study hall, hair a bit damp from sweat and a lingering ache in his back from early morning practice.
The class had been divided into groups for an upcoming presentation which meant the study hall was buzzing more than usual. Sanghyuk slipped right into the set beside his groupmates and opened his bag to take out his laptop.
“Hey, you’re here,” one of them greeted. “We were just checking our parts.”
“Did you see my slides? I sent it yesterday.”
“Yup, it was good. We’re thinking you go after Huijun.”
“That’s fine by me.”
Sanghyuk was pulling up their shared document from his laptop when someone called from the doorway.
“Lee Sanghyuk? Hey, is Sanghyuk around?”
His fingers paused above his keyboard. Sanghyuk knew that voice even before he looked up. Apparently, so did the rest of the room, as three people immediately turned toward the door.
It wasn’t every day you have Park Sungho showing up looking for someone in the study hall, still in his team jacket, one strap of his bag hanging from his shoulder, hair slightly windswept like he had come straight from practice or from somewhere he hurried out of.
“In here!” One of Sanghyuk’s classmates called.
Sungho stepped inside.
For all that he was known as the university’s golden boy, Sungho never entered a room like he knew everyone’s attention would all be on him. There was always a carefulness to him, a polite hesitation that made his presence feel less like an imposition and more of a question being asked. Sanghyuk had noticed that about him before. He may have noticed too many things about him before but no one had to know that.
Sungho’s gaze eventually found him making Sanghyuk sit a little straighter without meaning to.
“Good afternoon,” Sungho said. The greeting was directed generally but his eyes stayed on Sanghyuk.
A few people answered him back. Sanghyuk, on the other hand, closed his laptop halfway and stood up from his seat. “Good afternoon. Did you need something, Sungho?”
Sungho shifted his grip on his bag strap. “Yeah, one of the coaches wanted to talk to you. I was heading to the library so I thought I should let you know while I’m at it.”
Something small and cold settled behind Sanghyuk’s chest. He kept his expression even. “Right. Thank you.”
It had come sooner than he expected. The coaches had been quieter than usual these past few days. Some of the administrative staff had been stopping by the training center more often. There had been conversations that ended too quickly when Sanghyuk entered the room, glances toward empty practice mats, and questions about his competition calendar that felt less like planning and more like inventory.
A part of him hoped he was just reading too much into it. Sanghyuk should have known better.
He turned to his groupmates with a tight smile. “I’m heading to the training center for a while. You can start without me. I’ll cover whatever’s left.”
One of them frowned. “Is everything okay?”
“It should be,” he assured with a nod.
Sanghyuk then packed his things quickly, sliding his laptop into his bag with the practiced calm of someone who learned long ago that appearing composed made people ask less questions.
Sungho had been by the door when Sanghyuk got there.
“What do you think it’s about?” Sungho wandered aloud.
The question was casual enough. For a second, he thought of answering Sungho with all honesty. He wanted to say that he had been trying not to know. That being the last competitive dance athlete in the university made every conversation with coaches feel like standing on a stage waiting for the audience to throw tomatoes at you.
Instead, Sanghyuk gave him a small smile. “I think I have an idea. I’ll see you later, Sungho.”
Sungho blinked as if he had expected more. Then he nodded. “Later, Sanghyuk.”
Sanghyuk left before his face could betray anything else. He felt Sungho’s gaze on his back all the way down the hall.
Meanwhile, Sungho remained standing outside the study hall for several seconds after Sanghyuk disappeared. That had not gone how he expected. Not that he was expecting much. He was on his way to the library when one of the coaches passed him near the athletics office and asked if he happened to know where Sanghyuk might be at that hour to which he answered immediately without thinking.
The coach gave him a mild look of surprise. Sungho pretended not to notice. It wasn’t his fault he knew Sanghyuk’s schedule by heart. Well… It was a little his fault. Maybe entirely his fault actually.
But Sungho was not about to go on a long-winding explanation to the coach about how they shared spaces often enough like the training center, the physical therapy center, the varsity meetings, and the occasional event where all university athletes were paraded in front of administrators and sponsors as proof of institutional excellence. No. And he was totally not about to argue that Sanghyuk was not exactly hard to notice either, no matter how quietly he carried himself, which of course explained why he knew his schedule.
Sungho noticed him first during their first year.
Not dramatically. Not in the way people described in romance books and films with slow motion and some cheesy background music. It had been simpler than that. Sanghyuk had been stretching alone in one corner of the training center, it was tryouts day. The afternoon light had caught the side of his face and Sungho had thought that he had never seen someone look so still and powerful at the same time. He remembered thinking Sanghyuk would make a good winger with proper training only for him to find out he was there for dancesport.
After that, noticing Sanghyuk became a habit. Then a slight problem. And eventually a secret one which Sungho was horrible at keeping if Jaehyun and Woonhak were to be believed.
He should have gone straight to the library, instead he replayed their brief conversation in his head. Sanghyuk had been the same as always but something shifted at the mention of the coach as if he had been expecting this very encounter.
It bothered Sungho. He did not like that he wanted to know what it meant because he was nosy and curious like that but also because it was Sanghyuk. He did not like that he cared so much when they weren’t even friends. Not really.
They were acquaintances at most. Varsity athletes. People who exchanged greetings in hallways when they happen to pass by and who nodded at each other across training spaces. Sometimes they shared the gym in silence, Sanghyuk with a compression wrap around his knee and feet, Sungho with ice taped around one ankle, and him pretending not to glance at the other too often.
That was all.
Except Sungho was apparently capable of memorizing Sanghyuk’s schedule and recognizing his mood from half a sentence and just by looking at him briefly. So perhaps that was not all.
By the time he reached the library, he was still thinking about it.
He climbed the stairs to the second floor where the tables near the far shelves were usually occupied by students who really digged studying. Jaehyun and Woonhak were exactly where he expected them to be, tucked into a corner with two laptops and an alarming number of sticky notes spread between them.
“Yo, Yeppi,” Jaehyun called, lifting a hand upon seeing him.
Sungho immediately dropped into the chair next to Jaehyun and immediately let his forehead hit the table. “I almost died.”
Woonhak made an amused noise. “What happened now, Sungho hyung?”
Sungho lifted his head just enough to speak. “I talked to Lee Sanghyuk just before getting here.”
Jaehyun’s mouth slowly curved. “That explains why you’re red as kimchi then.”
“Shut up.” Sungho sat up properly and pressed the back of his hand against his cheek which was unfortunately warm. “He’s so handsome. I’m so gay.”
Woonhak smirked. “We can tell.”
“I hate you both.”
“No you don’t, Yeppi.”
“You greeted him properly, right?”
Sungho rolled his eyes at them. “Of course I did. I’m not stupid.”
“Progress.” Woonhak clapped.
“Let’s not call basic manners progress.”
“For you, Hyung? Around Sanghyuk hyung? Of course it’s progress.”
Sungho pointed at Woonhak. “You are too young to be this annoying.”
“I learned from Jaehyun hyung.” Woonhak shrugged.
Jaehyun beamed. “And he learned well.”
Sungho let his head fall back on the table again. “I hate it here.”
“So? What did you guys talk about?” Jaehyun nudged him.
“Nothing much. One of the coaches asked me to tell him they have to talk if I saw him. It seemed he has some business with them.”
“Huh.” Woonhak said. “Maybe it’s true then.”
Sungho lifted his head up. “What is?”
Woonhak tapped his pen lightly against his notepad. “I heard they’re dropping some teams that are not getting enough sponsors and those with zero stats in competitions.”
Sungho stared at him. “What?”
“Just something I heard. Nothing official.” Woonhak added quickly.
“How come I don’t know about that?”
“No offense, Yeppi,” Jaehyun chuckled sheepishly. “But they likely wouldn’t want you to worry about those matters.”
The chair scraped sharply against the cold hard floor as Sungho stood up. “But if that’s true…”
Jaehyun looked up at him. “Sungho.”
“I have to go.”
“What? Where?”
“I need to find out if that’s true.”
Woonhak frowned. “What are you gonna do about it, Hyung?”
“I don’t know!” Sungho had already grabbed his bag. “I’ll see you guys later.”
The two called for his name but he could no longer wait to hear the rest. Sungho rushed out of the library, down the stairs, and through the main doors right under the afternoon heat of the sun. Students turned as he passed but he barely had the mind to take notice.
He told himself he was only going to confirm the news. That was reasonable. Responsible, even. Sanghyuk was part of the team. And if the administration was dropping teams, then it would affect everyone. It affected morale. It was not just about Sanghyuk.
Sungho repeated that to himself as he crossed the courtyard. It was not just about Sanghyuk. But then he remembered him standing in the doorway as if already braced for impact. Fine. So maybe Sungho could not stand the thought of him receiving bad news alone in an office. Maybe he hated the idea of Sanghyuk walking back to class afterward with that same composed demeanor like it was nothing. Maybe he had spent too long admiring him from across training rooms to pretend he did not care what happened to Sanghyuk.
By the time Sungho reached the athletics building, he was out of breath. He made it there too late as well it seems.
The training center was just quieter than he expected it to be, the kind that settled after something had already happened. Still, he pushed through the doors.
The main room except for one of the coaches near the storage shelves, arranging equipment and checking something off on a clipboard. A few cones were stacked near his feet. A box of resistance bands sat open on the floor.
Sungho stopped just inside the entrance, breath caught somewhere between his chest and throat.
The coach looked up. “Oh, Sungho!” His expression brightened with the easy warmth most of the athletics staff reserved for him. “What brings you here, son?”
He forced himself to step farther inside. Sungho suddenly felt foolish. What had he exactly expected to do? Burst into the room and defend Sanghyuk from a decision that was likely already made? Demand explanations for a matter he technically had no right inserting himself into?
So, he asked the first thing that left his mouth. “Is it true you’re dropping teams?”
The coach’s face changed. Sungho had spent years reading the smallest changes in coaches’ expressions. He saw the shift immediately.
“Where’d you hear that?” He asked.
When Sungho did not answer, the coach sighed and tucked the clipboard under one arm. “There’s nothing for you to worry about, son. We're simply weighing the odds.”
The words were mild, almost reasonable. Sungho did not like it though.
“Plus,” the coach continued, turning slightly toward the shelves again, “it’s better for the others to focus on their studies instead of idling about waiting for nothing.”
The phrase landed wrong on him. Sungho swallowed. “Then what about Lee Sanghyuk? Is he being dropped, too?”
The coach paused before looking at Sungho with something like surprise. “You heard that too, huh?”
Sungho’s fingers tightened around the strap of his bag.
The coach shook his head. “He quit on his own.”
“He what?”
“He quit,” the coach repeated, not unkindly. “It’s something he’s talked about since last year. Said something about his other goals.”
“What?” Sungho said, quieter this time. “That can’t be…”
The coach gave him a small, tired smile. “Sanghyuk is a good kid. Talented too. But sometimes talent isn’t enough to keep a program alive and sometimes students know when they’re ready to step away.”
Sungho did not know what to say to that. A part of him wanted to argue, another part wanted to ask what Sanghyuk had looked like when he said it. If he had been upset, relieved. If he had the same unreadable smile he gave whenever someone tried to ask him something too personal.
Then there was the selfish, ridiculous part of Sungho that could not get past one thing. Sanghyuk had been thinking about quitting since last year. How? How come he did not know? Better yet, why would he? Admiring someone from a far did not entitle him to the private griefs they carried after all.
Still, the realization stung.
“Anyway,” the coach cleared his throat pulling Sungho back to the room, “we have a gathering tonight. You’ll be there, right?”
Sungho blinked. “Yes, sure.”
“Good. There’s nothing for you to worry about, son.”
Sungho just nodded automatically. “I have to go. Thank you, Coach.”
“Don’t stress yourself out, Sungho!” The coach called again as he turned away. Sungho lifted a hand in acknowledgment but he did not trust himself to answer.
He left the training center feeling strange.
Then he spent the rest of the afternoon thinking about Sanghyuk. He did not see him again that day. By evening, Sungho had attended the gathering the coach mentioned, nodded at the right moments, faked his laugh when it was necessary, answered when spoken to, and remembered almost none of it.
All he could think about was Lee Sanghyuk walking away from the team alone.
Sanghyuk, for his part, did not walk into the athletics building expecting to be surprised. He had been expecting the conversation for a while.
Perhaps that was why his steps were steady as he crossed the hallway toward the coaches’ office. Perhaps that was why his hand did not shake when he knocked on the partially open door. Or perhaps he had simply worn out the sharper edges of his fear by imagining this moment too many times before it actually arrived.
The coach looked up from his desk. “Sanghyuk. Come in, I was hoping to see you before the day ended.”
Sanghyuk entered and closed the door quietly behind him.
There was another coach seated near the shelves, but she stood after a moment and excused herself, leaving Sanghyuk alone with the man who had trained him through most of his years in the university. That kindness made his chest ache more than any harshness would have.
The conversation had been brief. Only because there was very little left to say.
There had been discussions before this. Suggestions. Promises that the administration was considering ways to strengthen the dancesports team in the coming semester. Mentions of possible recruitment drives, sponsorship appeals, maybe even a showcase to attract new members. Sanghyuk had listened to all of it.
He had wanted to believe it too. For a while, he had.
But false hope still had weight. It still tired his body. It still asked him to show up to practice rooms that felt emptier each month and pretend the future had not already started closing its doors.
At the beginning of the semester, Sanghyuk had formally expressed his desire to quit.
Not because he hated dancing. That would have been easier, maybe. He still loved it. And that was the most difficult part.
He loved the discipline of it, the language of movement, the way his body could say what his mouth rarely knew how to express. He loved the music and the precision and the impossible feeling of hitting the exact right line at the exact right beat.
But he no longer loved waiting for a team that did not exist. He no longer loved being proof that a program was still alive simply because he had not yet left.
That afternoon, the approval finally came.
“We’re really sorry to see you go, Sanghyuk,” the coach said.
Sanghyuk lowered his gaze briefly, then nodded. “Thank you for all this time, sir.”
The coach leaned back in his chair, studying him with a softness that made Sanghyuk look away again. “You were a good athlete. You still are.”
Sanghyuk smiled faintly. “Thank you, sir.”
“You can inquire about your new accommodations at the student center,” the coach continued, more practical now. “They’ve already been informed of the change in your status.”
Sanghyuk nodded.
“Let us know when you’ll be moving out so we can have maintenance collect your things.”
“Alright.” Sanghyuk adjusted the strap of his bag. “Is it okay if I head out now? We have a presentation in class today.”
“Of course.” The coach stood. “Thank you, and good luck in your studies, Sanghyuk.”
Sanghyuk bowed. “Thank you, sir.”
And that was it.
Sanghyuk stepped out of the coaches’ office with the strange sensation of having put down something heavy without realizing how long he had been carrying it. His chest felt hollow in places, yes, but not empty. Not devastated. If anything, there was a quietness inside him he had not felt in months.
A heart at peace.
He had expected grief to be louder. Maybe it will come later. Maybe it would find him the next time he passed the dance studio and did not have to go in. Maybe it would arrive when he packed his old practice shoes or cleared out the locker that had held spare shirts, tape, and years of small, stubborn hopes.
But for now, he was simply tired.
And his group still had a presentation to prepare for. So Sanghyuk walked back to the study hall.
When he entered, one of his groupmates looked up immediately. “Everything okay?”
Sanghyuk slipped back into his seat and opened his laptop. “Yes,” he said.
And for once, it was not a lie.
The next morning, Dongmin pestered him into joining them for breakfast.
That was the only proper way to describe it.
It began with one message from their group chat asking whether Sanghyuk had eaten. Then another asking where he was. Then a third that simply said, cafeteria, stat. Donghyun followed it with several pleading stickers, and Woonhak sent a picture of an empty seat beside him with the caption, reserved for our beloved hyung.
Sanghyuk considered ignoring all of them.
Then Dongmin privately messaged him saying he knew he was awake. So he had no choice but to go.
The cafeteria was already buzzing when he arrived, full of the noise of students trying to wake themselves up with coffee, rice, and gossip. Morning sunlight stretched across the tables. Someone near the entrance was handing out flyers. The smell of fried eggs and toast mixed with the sharper scent of cheap iced coffee.
“Sanghyuk hyung! Over here!”
Woonhak was waving and shouting from a table near the windows, loud enough that several people turned to look in his direction. Donghyun sat beside him with a tray already half-finished, while Dongmin leaned back across from them, looking smug in the way only someone who had successfully dragged another person into breakfast could.
Sanghyuk approached with a small smile. “Hey, thanks guys.”
Donghyun immediately pushed a carton of milk toward him. “For you.”
Dongmin raised an eyebrow. “So? What’s up, Hyung?”
There was no point delaying it. Not with them. Sanghyuk placed his bag on the empty chair beside him and folded his hands loosely on the table. “I quit the team.”
Woonhak’s eyes widened. “What?”
Donghyun, without missing a beat, said, “Congratulations, Hyung.”
Dongmin turned to him. “Is that something to congratulate him about?”
“Yes, please,” Sanghyuk said before Donghyun could answer.
All three of them looked at him.
He kept his voice gentle but firm. “And I don’t want any of you getting upset because I’m not. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while anyway.”
For a moment, the table was quiet.
Then Donghyun’s expression softened, the playful edge giving way to something more sincere. “Okay, good.”
Woonhak was still frowning slightly, but not in judgment. More like he was rearranging the new information in his head and trying to decide where his concern should go.
Dongmin studied Sanghyuk for another second. “You’re sure?”
Sanghyuk nodded. “I’m sure.”
“Then congratulations,” Dongmin said at last. The words were dry, almost casual, but Sanghyuk heard the care inside them anyway.
Donghyun brightened again. “This does mean you have more time to hang out with us, right?”
Sanghyuk picked up the carton of milk Donghyun had given him. “I’m not sure. Give me some time to think about it.”
“Come on, Hyung…”
“Just let me know,” Sanghyuk said, chuckling lightly. “I’ll be there.”
Donghyun seemed satisfied enough with that, though he still pouted into his rice.
The conversation shifted after that, or at least tried to. Woonhak told them about a professor who had apparently banned the phrase “weaponized incompetence” during class introductions. Dongmin complained about someone in his group project who kept sending voice messages instead of typing like a civilized person. While Donghyun made it his personal mission to steal a piece of everyone’s breakfast.
Sanghyuk let the noise settle around him. It was easier like this. Not being asked repeatedly if he was okay when he had already answered. He thought maybe they understood that.
A sudden swell of noise near the cafeteria entrance drew their attention.
A group of students had gathered near the doors, handing out branded drinks and what seemed to be photocards printed with a familiar face. Several of them wore matching shirts with the logo of a sports drink company on the back. A banner had been set up near the side wall, bright and impossible to ignore.
Dongmin glanced over. “Hey, look. It’s Park Sungho’s fanbase.”
Sanghyuk followed his gaze before he could stop himself.
Park Sungho smiled from the printed cards, clean and golden under professional lighting, one hand holding the sponsor’s drink while the other rested casually at his waist. Whoever took the photo knew what they were doing. Sungho looked every bit the university’s star midfielder. Confident. Bright. Untouchably well-loved.
A few students near the entrance were already taking selfies with the display.
“What are they doing here?” Donghyun asked.
“They’re marketing for his new sponsorship,” Woonhak said.
“Is that why the free drinks?” Sanghyuk asked, glancing at their table which had the same bottled drinks which he only properly noticed since he sat down.
“Seems like it,” Dongmin replied.
Sanghyuk watched as one of the students handed out another drink and card to someone passing by. The image of Sungho flashed again between moving bodies.
There were people who fit naturally into attention. Sungho was one of them.
Sanghyuk did not think that bitterly. It was simply true. Some athletes became the face of things because the university knew where to place its light. Some programs attracted sponsors because they won games people attended, because they had stats that could be printed on posters, because their victories could be turned into campaigns.
Dancesport had never been that for the school. Maybe in a different life, Sanghyuk would have minded.
“That could’ve been you in a different life, Hyung,” Woonhak said, as if plucking the thought from the air.
Sanghyuk looked back at him. “I don’t really care about that, and you know it.”
Woonhak smiled faintly. “I know.”
“Ever the angel,” Dongmin said.
Sanghyuk rolled his eyes. “Hardly.”
“You are though, Hyung,” Donghyun said through a mouthful of food.
“Chew first before praising people, Donghyun-ah.”
Donghyun obeyed with exaggerated seriousness, making Woonhak laugh and Dongmin sigh like he was personally responsible for everyone’s behavior. Sanghyuk smiled into his drink.
Across the cafeteria, students continued lining up for free sponsored beverages beneath Park Sungho’s shining face. Sanghyuk looked once. Then he looked away.
After breakfast, Sanghyuk went to the student center.
The process was much easier than he expected. Too easy, almost.
He filled out a form, submitted the clearance from athletics, answered a few questions, and waited while the staff member checked availability in the regular dormitories. She was kind, professional, and efficient in a way that gave Sanghyuk very little time to feel strange about the fact that he was officially leaving the athletes’ residence hall.
“You’re in luck,” she said after a few minutes, scanning something on her computer. “A slot is open in one of the regular dorms. Shared unit, two bedrooms. One current occupant.”
“That’s fine.”
“You can pick up the key after your last class today. The room is ready.”
“Already?”
She smiled. “No one's been around to claim the slot since last year. Maintenance has cleared it.”
Sanghyuk nodded. “Thank you.”
By the time he left the student center, he had a new room assignment written on a slip of paper and a strange sense of having been moved by a system that did not need to pause for sentiment. One status changed. One accommodation adjusted. One key prepared.
Simple.
Clean.
Final.
He spent the rest of the day attending classes. Not that Sanghyuk can confidently say he was present for them all. At least not in the mind.
He kept thinking about what has happened so far. Practical reality kept arriving in small, inconvenient waves. He would need to pack. Tell maintenance. Sort through old practice clothes. Decide what to do with the shoes he no longer needed to keep in his locker. Update people who needed to know. Get used to a new building, new routines, new distances from class.
And, somewhere between those thoughts, Park Sungho’s sponsored poster kept appearing in his mind. Sanghyuk did not want to know why.
After his last class, he returned to the student center and picked up the key.
The staff member gave him directions, though he recognized the dorm building as soon as she named it. He had been there before. A classmate stayed in the same building, and once, during a particularly awful week of deadlines, their group had spent nearly an entire night there finishing a paper with convenience store coffee and shared despair.
It was not far from the main campus. The building itself was older than the athlete residence hall, with narrow stairways, dull hallway lights, and notice boards crowded with announcements, tutoring flyers, and passive-aggressive reminders about cleaning schedules.
Sanghyuk found the room number on the third floor.
He stopped in front of the door, adjusted the strap of his bag, and took out the key. For some reason, it did not fit smoothly. He tried again.
The key turned halfway, then stuck.
Sanghyuk frowned and tried to pull it back, then push it in again. The lock resisted with the stubbornness of something that had been broken long enough for everyone else to simply accept it as personality.
He was trying for the third time when a voice spoke behind him.
“Hey. What are you doing over there?”
Sanghyuk turned.
Park Sungho stood a few steps down the hallway with a sports bag slung over one shoulder and a towel around his neck. His hair was slightly damp, probably from practice or a shower at the training center. He looked tired, but the kind of tired that still carried energy underneath it, as if his body had not yet accepted the day was ending.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other.
Sanghyuk was the first to speak. “Park Sungho? Is this your dorm?”
Sungho blinked. Then his eyes dropped to the key in Sanghyuk’s hand. Then to the paper slip tucked between his fingers. Then back to Sanghyuk’s face.
“What?” His voice shifted, surprise overtaking everything else. “Why are you here, Sanghyuk?”
Sanghyuk looked at the door. Then at the room number. Then, slowly, back at Sungho. “It seems I’m your new roommate.”
The silence that followed was so complete that Sanghyuk could hear someone’s television playing faintly behind a closed door farther down the hall.
Sungho’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “What?”
Sanghyuk lifted the key slightly. “I was transferred.”
“You’ve been transferred from the athlete residence hall?”
“Yeah.” Sanghyuk glanced back at the lock, choosing practicality because it was easier than standing there under the full weight of Sungho’s stunned expression. “Sorry, do you mind? I can’t seem to open it with the keys they gave me.”
That appeared to startle Sungho back into motion. “Yeah, hang on.”
He stepped closer. Not too close, but close enough for Sanghyuk to catch the faint scent of soap and grass clinging to him. Sungho set his sports bag down and reached for the key.
“You give it a little push and pull before twisting the knob,” he explained, demonstrating with the ease of someone who had fought the same lock too many times. “It’s tedious like that.”
“I can see that.”
“There.” The lock finally clicked.
The door opened inward. Sungho pushed it wider and picked up his bag again, but he did not move inside immediately. He looked at Sanghyuk as if still waiting for the rest of the explanation to appear between them. Sanghyuk stepped in first.
The unit was modest but clean. A small common area with a low table, two chairs, a narrow kitchenette, and shoes lined neatly by the entrance. Two doors stood on opposite sides of the room. One was slightly open, revealing what must have been Sungho’s room: a glimpse of a desk, a soccer bag, and a jacket hanging over the back of a chair.
The other door was closed.
Sanghyuk assumed that one was his.
“Do you need help with your things?” Sungho asked.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“You don’t have boxes?”
“Not yet. I’ll move properly tomorrow or the day after.”
“Oh.” Sungho rubbed the back of his neck. “Right.”
Sanghyuk walked a few steps farther in, then turned toward the closed door. “Is that my room?”
“That’s the one.” He nodded.
There were things he should probably say. That he hoped the arrangement would not be inconvenient. That he would keep the common space clean. That he was not expecting anything from Sungho just because they knew each other. That he understood this was unexpected for both of them. But his body felt suddenly heavy.
The day had been too long. The official conversation, breakfast, classes, paperwork, the key, the new dorm, Sungho appearing in the hallway like some strange punchline the universe had saved for last.
Sanghyuk could feel his composure thinning. Just thinning enough that he wanted a door between himself and the world.
“I think I’m just gonna head to bed,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Sungho watched him for a second. Then he nodded, softer than before. “Good night then.”
“Good night.” Sanghyuk entered the room and closed the door behind him.
Only then did he let his bag slide from his shoulder to the floor.
The room was plain. Bed. Desk. Cabinet. Bare window. Nothing that belonged to him yet. It smelled faintly of cleaning solution and unfamiliar air. The mattress had no sheet, and the desk was empty except for a folded dorm guideline paper.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
For the first time that day, Sanghyuk covered his face with both hands and breathed. He was relieved. Awkward. Free. Tired.
And now, somehow, roommates with Park Sungho. Of all people.
The golden boy. The soccer star. The person Sanghyuk had promised himself to admire from a distance because distance was safe and quiet and asked nothing from either of them.
A soft thud came from outside the room, followed by the sound of Sungho moving around the common area.
Sanghyuk lifted his head and stared at the closed door. Distance, apparently, had other plans.
Outside, Sungho stood in the common area holding his sports bag like he had forgotten what it was for.
Sanghyuk was in the other room.
Lee Sanghyuk was in the other room.
Not in the training center, not across the physical therapy room, not passing him in the athletics hallway with a polite nod, but inside his dorm unit. Behind the door that had been empty for more than a year. With a key. As his new roommate.
Sungho slowly lowered his bag to the floor. Then he crouched down beside it and pressed both hands to his face.
“This is fine,” he whispered.
It was not fine.
It was, in every possible direction, not fine.
It was awkward and sudden and deeply unfair to his ability to function like a normal human being. It was also, against all reason, a relief so strong it almost hurt.
Because Sanghyuk had not disappeared.
Because after an entire day of not seeing him, after hearing from the coach that he had quit, after imagining him alone with whatever that meant, Sungho now knew exactly where he was.
In the next room. Probably exhausted. Probably trying to pretend he was okay even if he truly was.
Sungho dropped his hands and looked toward Sanghyuk’s closed door.
He thought again of the coach’s words.
He quit on his own.
He thought of Sanghyuk’s calm face in the study hall. He thought of the breakfast campaign still scattered around campus, his own face printed on cards and drinks while Sanghyuk quietly arranged new accommodations after leaving behind a team the university had never known how to support properly.
Guilt twisted in him, though he knew it was not that simple. Still, it sat there.
Sungho stood and moved quietly around the room, careful not to make too much noise. He set his bag near his door, placed his used towel in the laundry basket, and turned off the brighter overhead light, leaving only the small lamp near the kitchenette on.
Then he paused again.
“Good night, Sanghyuk,” he murmured, too quietly for the other to hear.
His face warmed immediately after, as if even the empty common area had caught him doing something embarrassing.
Sungho went into his room and shut the door.
For both of them, the night settled strangely.
Awkward in all the worst ways. A relief in all the best ones.