Work Text:
Sieun had always been precise.
Every movement calculated, every step placed exactly where it needed to be. It was the only way to survive all of this the lights, the cameras, the expectations pressing down on him from every direction.
There was no room for hesitation.
Not now. Not with the comeback this close.
“Again.”
The music started over without pause.
The bass echoed too loudly through the empty practice room, vibrating through the floor, through his bones. Sweat clung to his skin, soaking through the fabric of his shirt, but he didn’t stop.
He never did.
Step. Turn. Perfect timing.
Again.
His reflection stared back at him from the mirror sharp, controlled, almost detached. As if, by continuing to move, he wouldn’t have to think about how exhausted he really was.
“From the chorus,” someone said behind him.
He nodded once.
The music stopped.
And he moved.
Faster this time.
Sharper.
Pushing just a little harder.
Just enough to make it perfect.
---
It happened in a second.
One wrong step.
Or maybe not.
Just… too much.
His foot hit the ground at a slightly different angle, the weight of his body following before he could correct himself.
A sharp sound.
Not loud.
But wrong.
Pain shot up his leg so quickly that at first it didn’t even feel real.
Then it did.
Sieun staggered.
The music kept going.
His reflection shattered, perfect lines breaking apart into something unstable, uneven. He tried to steady himself, to keep going like he always did, but his leg gave out.
This time he couldn’t stop himself.
He hit the floor.
The music cut off.
Voices replaced it too many, too fast.
“Sieun—”
“Don’t move.”
“I’m fine,” he said immediately.
Automatic.
Even while the pain pulsed sharp and relentless, climbing higher and higher until the edges of his vision blurred.
He tried to stand.
Didn’t get far.
His leg wouldn’t respond.
Not weak.
Not tired.
It just… didn’t work.
And that was when he truly understood it.
Not the pain.
Not the fall.
That.
The loss of control.
“Stop,” someone said, firmer this time, pushing him back down.
Hands on his shoulders.
Holding him still.
Sieun clenched his jaw.
“I said I’m fine.”
No one answered.
And somehow, that was worse.
---
For a moment, no one really moved.
Then everything happened at once.
“Call an ambulance.”
“No need…” Sieun tried to say, but his voice came out quieter than expected.
Someone grabbed his wrist, someone else crouched beside him. Too many hands, too close.
He hated that feeling.
“Don’t move,” a voice repeated, steadier this time.
Sieun gritted his teeth.
“I can stand.”
He tried again.
Mistake.
The pain exploded sharper this time, stealing his breath for a second. His leg gave out before he could really try.
This time he didn’t insist.
But he didn’t stop trembling.
---
The sound of the sirens came too quickly.
Or maybe too late.
Time had lost all meaning.
Someone slid something under his head, voices kept talking to him, but the words blurred together, overlapping.
“Sieun, can you hear me?”
He nodded faintly.
He didn’t want to talk.
He didn’t want to make this situation any more real than it already was.
When they lifted him, the pain bit deeper, higher up his leg. A sound escaped his lips before he could stop it.
He stiffened immediately afterward.
He hated that.
Hated not being able to control it.
---
The ambulance smelled like disinfectant and plastic.
Too clean.
Too cold.
The lights above him were blinding, flickering as the vehicle moved. Someone was talking to him, asking questions: name, age, what happened.
He only answered when he had to.
In short replies.
Trying to ignore the feeling of his leg being… wrong.
He couldn’t move it without pain shooting through him.
He couldn’t ignore it.
---
The hospital was worse.
Too much light.
Too much noise.
Too many people looking at him.
They moved him from one stretcher to another, pushed him through hallways that all looked the same. Doors opening and closing, voices calling numbers, names.
Not his.
Not yet.
“We need to run some tests,” someone said.
He didn’t ask which ones.
He didn’t care.
Until they mentioned the scan.
The cold surface beneath his back.
“Don’t move.”
Again.
Always that.
Sieun stared at the ceiling.
White.
Empty.
He tried to focus on that instead of the tension in his body, the way every small movement felt wrong.
Time stretched.
Then snapped apart again.
---
When they finally brought him back to a room, everything had become quieter.
Not really.
But enough.
Someone talking outside.
Someone inside.
Footsteps.
A monitor.
Breathing.
---
The doctor entered with a chart in his hands.
Sieun only looked at him when he stopped beside the bed.
“Sieun, right?”
A nod.
“We’ve seen the scans.”
Pause.
Too long.
Sieun felt something tighten in his stomach.
“It’s a significant injury,” the doctor continued, with that controlled calm Sieun already hated. “Ligaments. Possibly involvement of other structures as well.”
Technical words.
Cold.
Distant.
“How long,” Sieun interrupted.
He didn’t want details.
He wanted that.
The doctor looked at him for a second.
As if weighing how much to tell him.
Then sighed quietly.
“You won’t be returning to training anytime soon.”
Not enough.
“How long.”
Silence.
“…Several months.”
The world stopped.
Not completely.
But enough to make everything else feel far away.
“And after?” he asked.
His voice lower now.
More controlled.
The doctor hesitated.
Mistake.
Sieun noticed immediately.
“After,” the doctor finally said, “it will depend on how you respond to rehabilitation.”
Rehabilitation.
The word hung in the air.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
“How long before I can go back on stage?” Sieun insisted.
This time, the doctor didn’t answer right away.
And that was enough.
---
Sieun looked away.
Toward the ceiling.
Always that.
White.
Empty.
The loss of control returned.
Stronger than the pain.
---
“You’ll need to start physical therapy as soon as possible,” the doctor continued. “It’s essential.”
Sieun didn’t respond.
Didn’t nod.
Didn’t react.
Because in his head there was only one thing.
Not the pain.
Not the fall.
Not even the word rehabilitation.
But time.
Months.
Maybe more.
Standing still.
While everything else moved on without him.
---
The days after blurred together.
Same room.
Same artificial light.
Same white ceiling.
Sieun started to hate it.
He didn’t really sleep.
He closed his eyes, but his body stayed tense, like it was waiting for something. Pain, maybe. Or simply the moment he’d have to face reality again.
Every movement reminded him.
Every slight shift of his leg felt wrong.
Not his.
---
“You should try moving it a little,” a nurse said one afternoon.
Sieun didn’t respond.
“Even just slightly. It’s important.”
Silence.
Then, sharper:
“I know.”
But he didn’t do it.
---
His phone vibrated every now and then.
Messages.
Calls.
Managers. Staff. Group members.
He didn’t always answer.
Sometimes he read them.
Sometimes he left everything there, the dark screen beside him.
---
They’d told him not to worry, that he could do the comeback after he recovered.
Don’t worry.
Right.
---
On the third day, someone tried talking to him about rehabilitation again.
This time it wasn’t a nurse.
“We should start soon.”
Sieun didn’t even look at him.
“Not yet.”
“The sooner you start, the better.”
“I said not yet.”
His voice was flat.
But sharp enough to end the conversation.
---
He stayed like that for days.
Still.
Not motionless, because he couldn’t really be.
But still enough to feel trapped inside his own body.
---
The pain changed.
At first it was sharp, constant.
Then it became duller.
More insidious.
Always there.
And the worst part was not being able to do anything about it.
---
One morning, he tried standing up on his own again.
Without calling anyone.
Without help.
Slowly.
Controlled.
Like always.
It didn’t work.
His leg gave out before he could even fully stand.
Pain shot through his body in a flash, forcing him to grip the edge of the bed too hard.
His breath broke.
For a moment he thought he could ignore it.
That he could push through anyway.
---
He didn’t.
He let himself fall back down.
Hard.
The mattress creaked beneath his weight.
He stayed there.
Staring at the ceiling.
Again.
---
When someone knocked, he didn’t answer.
Didn’t say “come in.”
Didn’t say anything.
The door opened anyway.
“If you keep doing this, nothing’s going to change.”
The voice was unfamiliar.
Calm.
Too calm.
Sieun didn’t turn immediately.
“Who are you?”
It wasn’t really a question.
Light footsteps.
Controlled.
They stopped beside the bed.
“The person who’s supposed to help you walk again.”
A pause.
“If you let me.”
Sieun finally turned his head.
Looked at him.
For the first time.
He didn’t look the way he expected.
No white coat.
No authoritative attitude.
Just calm.
Too calm.
“I don’t need it,” Sieun said.
Automatic.
The other man watched him for a second.
Then tilted his head slightly.
“That’s not what your leg says.”
Silence.
Something tightened in Sieun’s jaw.
“I said I don’t need it.”
This time, the other man didn’t answer immediately.
He didn’t get offended.
Didn’t insist.
He took a step back.
“Alright.”
Sieun frowned slightly.
“We can wait,” he continued with the same calm tone. “But it won’t change the outcome.”
Another step toward the door.
“Sooner or later, you’ll have to start.”
He stopped with a hand on the doorknob.
Then, without turning around:
“Suho.”
Pause.
“My name.”
And he left.
The silence he left behind felt different.
Sieun stared at the closed door for a few seconds.
Then looked away.
But something had changed.
---
The next day, Sieun didn’t say yes.
But he didn’t say no either.
Suho came back.
Same time.
Same calm way of walking in, as if he had already decided this was going to happen.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, closing the door behind him.
Sieun didn’t answer.
Suho didn’t seem to care.
He placed something on the chair beside the bed—a folder, resistance bands, things Sieun didn’t immediately recognize.
“We can start with something simple,” he said.
As if it had already been decided.
“I didn’t say yes.”
Sieun’s voice was low.
Tired.
Suho glanced up slightly.
“But you didn’t say no.”
Silence.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then Suho stepped forward.
“Just an evaluation,” he added. “Nothing complicated.”
Sieun stared at him.
Considered.
Then looked away.
“…Make it quick.”
It wasn’t permission.
But it was enough.
Suho didn’t say anything.
He approached the bed with controlled movements, unhurried. He didn’t try to fill the silence, didn’t ask unnecessary questions.
He stopped beside Sieun’s leg.
“I need to check your range of motion,” he said simply.
A pause.
“I’m going to touch you.”
It wasn’t a request.
But it wasn’t an order either.
Sieun gave a slight nod.
Rigid.
The first touch was light.
Too light.
Suho’s fingers settled just beneath his knee, stabilizing, while his other hand moved along his leg, measuring, assessing.
Professional.
Precise.
Sieun held his breath without realizing it.
“Relax.”
Automatic.
“I am.”
He wasn’t.
Suho didn’t contradict him.
But his gaze lowered slightly, observing the obvious tension in his muscles.
“Let’s try bending it.”
Slow movement.
Controlled.
The pain came almost immediately.
Dull at first.
Then sharper.
Sieun’s fingers clenched into the bedsheet.
“Stop.”
Suho stopped immediately.
His hands still there.
“Too much?”
“I said stop.”
Sharper this time.
Silence.
Suho let go.
Pulled back a few inches.
Not completely.
“If you stop at the first sign of pain, we won’t get anywhere.”
Sieun looked up sharply.
“It’s not the first.”
A beat.
Something passed through Suho’s expression.
Not pity.
Not surprise.
Just understanding.
“I know,” he said.
Quietly.
And somehow that was enough to make him angry.
“You don’t know,” Sieun shot back immediately. “You’re not the one who—”
He stopped.
Breathing faster now.
Suho didn’t move.
“Go on.”
“It doesn’t work,” Sieun said instead, colder now. “You saw it. End of story.”
He tried to shift.
To pull his leg back.
Mistake.
Pain surged again, stronger this time, cutting the movement in half.
A low sound slipped from him involuntarily.
This time Suho moved.
Faster.
One hand returned to stabilize his leg, stopping him from moving the wrong way.
“Not like that.”
Too close.
Sieun stiffened.
“Let go—”
“If you move like this, you’ll only make it worse.”
Suho’s voice was still calm.
But firmer now.
His fingers tightened slightly.
Not to hurt.
To hold.
“Breathe.”
Silence.
Sieun’s chest was rising too fast.
Uneven.
“Breathe,” Suho repeated, softer this time.
Something shifted.
Just slightly.
Sieun inhaled.
Forced.
Then again.
The pain didn’t disappear.
But it stabilized.
Suho’s hands didn’t move right away.
He waited.
Until the tension eased at least a little.
Then he pulled away.
Slowly.
“That’s enough for today.”
Sieun didn’t answer.
But he wasn’t looking at him anymore.
“It’s normal,” Suho added after a moment.
No response.
“Not getting it right the first time.”
Silence.
Sieun clenched his jaw.
“That’s not it.”
Suho watched him.
Waited.
“…It’s that it doesn’t work,” Sieun finished.
This time, Suho didn’t answer immediately.
Then:
“It will.”
Too confident.
Sieun looked up.
“And how would you know?”
A beat.
Suho held his gaze.
For the first time, really.
“Because it’s not the first time I’ve seen it.”
Pause.
“And not the first time I’ve felt it.”
Silence.
Sieun frowned slightly.
But he didn’t ask anything else.
Suho gathered his things.
Calmly.
As if that session hadn’t been a complete failure.
Before leaving, he stopped.
“We’ll try again tomorrow.”
It wasn’t a question.
The door closed behind him.
This time, Sieun didn’t look at the ceiling.
He looked at his leg.
And for the first time, he didn’t just look angry.
He looked uncertain.
---
The next day, Sieun was already awake when Suho walked in.
He wasn’t doing anything.
Wasn’t training.
Wasn’t trying to move.
He was waiting.
He’d never admit it.
But it was obvious.
Suho noticed.
He didn’t mention it.
“How are you feeling?” he asked instead, closing the door.
“The same.”
Short.
Suho nodded slightly, as if he had expected that answer.
He placed the folder on the chair, arranging his things with the same calmness as the day before.
“Good,” he said. “Then we can continue.”
Sieun grimaced.
“I didn’t say—”
“I know.”
Silence.
Suho stepped closer.
Same spot.
Same distance.
“I’m going to touch you.”
This time, Sieun didn’t nod.
But he didn’t pull away.
Suho’s hands were warm.
Steady.
They settled exactly where they needed to, without hesitation. Beneath the knee, along the leg, guiding without forcing.
Professional.
Always.
“Relax.”
Sieun let out a quiet scoff.
“If you say that one more time—”
“I’ll say it again.”
A beat.
Then, almost imperceptibly, something loosened.
Not enough.
But less than before.
“Let’s go slowly,” Suho continued.
The movement began.
Slower.
More controlled.
The pain still came.
But differently.
Less sudden.
More manageable.
Sieun’s fingers still clenched into the bedsheet.
But he didn’t say stop.
Suho noticed immediately.
Didn’t comment on it.
“Breathe.”
This time, Sieun did it before Suho had to say it again.
He inhaled.
Held it.
And let it go.
The movement continued.
Just a little.
Only a few more centimeters.
Then it stopped.
Silence.
Sieun blinked.
His breathing still uneven.
“…That’s it?”
Suho slowly released his leg.
“For today, yes.”
Too little.
Sieun frowned.
“It’s pointless.”
“No.”
Immediate.
A beat.
“It’s progress.”
Sieun looked at him.
Skeptical.
“It’s not.”
Suho tilted his head slightly.
“You didn’t stop.”
Silence.
“…That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means everything.”
Too direct.
Sieun looked away.
Suho stepped back half a step.
Not too far.
Never too far.
“Do you want to try on your own?”
Mistake.
Sieun looked up immediately.
“I can’t.”
Too fast.
Too honest.
Suho didn’t correct him.
Didn’t say yes, you can.
He said:
“Then do it with me.”
And stepped closer again.
This time, the contact felt different.
Not just guidance.
One hand returned beneath his knee.
The other higher up.
Stabilizing.
Holding.
“Look,” Suho said softly.
Sieun hesitated.
Then lowered his gaze.
“Not against you,” Suho continued. “With you.”
Movement.
Slow.
Sieun tried.
Really tried this time.
The pain came.
But it didn’t stop him immediately.
“Like that,” Suho said.
His fingers tightened slightly.
Not to force him.
To support him.
“Don’t push.”
Another centimeter.
Then another.
And then enough.
Sieun let go suddenly.
Breath breaking.
Body tense again.
But it wasn’t like before.
It wasn’t failure.
“…I did it,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Suho didn’t smile.
But something in his expression changed.
“You did.”
Too simple.
Sieun looked up.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“…Like it’s something important.”
Pause.
“It is.”
This time, Sieun didn’t argue.
Suho stepped away.
Gathered his things.
“Tomorrow we increase it.”
“Tomorrow?”
“If you want to improve.”
Sieun grimaced.
But he didn’t say no.
Suho stopped at the door.
“If you keep fighting it,” he added without turning around, “it’ll take twice as long.”
Pause.
“If you start trusting—”
He stopped himself.
“…it’ll take less.”
Silence.
Sieun stared at his back.
“And if I don’t want to trust?”
This time, Suho turned around.
Looked at him.
Really looked at him.
“You don’t have to.”
A beat.
“…Not yet.”
And he left.
The silence returned.
Sieun stayed still.
Then lowered his gaze.
Toward his leg.
And slowly, he tried again.
Just one centimeter.
But this time, it didn’t feel impossible.
---
The next morning, Suho didn’t come at the usual time.
At first, Sieun told himself he hadn’t noticed.
But when the clock passed the hour he normally arrived, his gaze kept drifting toward the door anyway.
Once.
Then again.
And again.
Annoying.
He hated that he noticed at all.
The room felt different without him in it. Too quiet. Too still. The silence stretched longer than usual, settling under his skin in a way he didn’t like.
His phone buzzed on the bed beside him.
Manager.
Sieun stared at the screen for a second before answering.
“How are you feeling?” came the immediate question.
“Tired.”
“You sound irritated.”
“I’m in a hospital.”
A sigh crackled through the speaker. “Right. Listen, the articles are getting worse.”
Sieun closed his eyes briefly.
Of course they were.
“How bad.”
“People saw the ambulance that night. Someone leaked photos from outside the practice building.” A pause. “Now everyone’s speculating.”
Sieun stayed silent.
“They’re saying you might not come back for the tour.”
His jaw tightened immediately.
“They don’t know anything.”
“I know that.” His manager sounded calmer than usual, careful. “But the company wants a statement soon.”
Another thing he couldn’t control.
Another thing moving without him.
Sieun leaned back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling.
White.
Still white.
“I’ll recover,” he said flatly.
“I know.”
But there was hesitation underneath it.
Tiny.
Enough.
Sieun hated that too.
“We’ll handle it,” the manager continued quickly. “Just focus on rehab right now.”
Rehab.
The word irritated him more than before.
As if his entire life had shrunk down into that.
Exercises.
Pain.
Waiting.
“Sieun?”
“…Yeah.”
“Don’t disappear on me, okay?”
The line went quiet for a second.
Then:
“I’ll try.”
When the call ended, the silence returned immediately.
Heavy.
Sieun exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand over his face.
Then the door opened.
And Suho walked in.
Late.
For the first time.
Their eyes met immediately.
Something in Sieun’s chest loosened before he could stop it.
Annoying.
“You’re late,” he said automatically.
Suho blinked once, clearly not expecting that to be the first thing he heard.
“…Sorry.”
The word sounded genuine.
Too genuine.
Sieun looked away first.
“It doesn’t matter.”
But it had.
Suho seemed to notice anyway.
He closed the door quietly behind him, then approached the bed slower than usual.
“You look irritated.”
“My manager called.”
“Ah.”
Silence settled briefly between them.
Then Suho glanced at him more carefully.
“What happened?”
Sieun scoffed softly. “Apparently the entire internet thinks my career is over.”
Suho didn’t react immediately.
Didn’t say empty things like no it’s not or don’t think like that.
Instead, he asked:
“And what do you think?”
The question caught him off guard.
Sieun frowned slightly.
“I think…” He stopped.
The words felt heavier out loud.
“…I don’t know.”
There it was.
The truth.
Raw and ugly.
Suho stepped closer.
Not enough to touch him.
Just enough to stay there.
“That feeling passes slower than the injury,” he said quietly.
Sieun looked up at him immediately.
“You really talk like an old man sometimes.”
A small breath of laughter escaped Suho before he could stop it.
Soft.
Brief.
It changed his entire face.
Sieun stared a second too long.
Then looked away.
Again.
“…You still came.”
Suho tilted his head slightly. “What?”
“You were late.” Sieun swallowed once. “But you still came.”
The room went strangely quiet after that.
Suho’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
Softer.
“I said I would.”
Something in Sieun’s chest tightened again.
Different this time.
Before he could respond, Suho moved closer.
“Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s work.”
The exercises were harder that day.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Sieun was distracted, frustration simmering too close to the surface. Every movement felt heavier, every mistake more irritating.
By the third repetition, he hissed through his teeth and stopped abruptly.
“I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No.” His voice sharpened. “I’m tired of this.”
Suho stayed calm.
As always.
“That doesn’t mean you stop.”
“It does if I’m not improving fast enough.”
Silence.
Then:
“You’re improving.”
“Not enough.”
The words came out harsher than intended.
But Suho didn’t react.
Didn’t step back.
“If you only measure yourself against who you used to be,” he said quietly, “you’ll never see the progress.”
Sieun clenched his jaw.
Easy for you to say.
The thought appeared instantly.
But before he could throw it at him, Suho added:
“When I woke up from my coma, I couldn’t even hold a cup properly.”
Silence.
Immediate.
Sieun looked at him.
Suho rarely talked about it first.
Usually only when asked.
Now his gaze stayed lowered slightly, focused on adjusting Sieun’s posture.
Calm.
Controlled.
But his voice had changed.
Just a little.
“I hated everyone who told me to take my time,” Suho admitted. “I hated hearing it so much I stopped talking to people altogether.”
Sieun stayed still.
Listening.
“I kept thinking if I pushed harder, faster, I’d go back to normal immediately.” A small pause. “Instead I kept hurting myself.”
The room felt smaller suddenly.
Closer.
Suho finally looked up.
“And the worst part wasn’t the pain.”
Sieun swallowed slowly.
“It was needing help,” he said quietly.
Suho nodded once.
“Yeah.”
Something fragile passed between them then.
Quiet.
Real.
Sieun looked down at his hands.
“…I don’t like it either.”
“I know.”
The answer came too quickly.
Too softly.
Before Sieun could think too hard about that, Suho adjusted his grip on his waist again.
“Stand.”
Sieun exhaled sharply.
“You always say it like it’s easy.”
“It’s not.”
A beat.
“But you still do it.”
Sieun glared at him weakly.
Then pushed himself up anyway.
The moment his weight shifted, Suho’s hands steadied him automatically.
One at his waist.
One against his back.
Firm.
Warm.
Too familiar now.
Sieun’s breathing turned uneven almost immediately.
Not just from effort.
They were close again.
Too close.
Suho noticed the way his hands tightened against his shirt.
“Easy,” he murmured.
The lowness of his voice made something twist low in Sieun’s stomach.
Annoying.
Dangerous.
He tried focusing on his balance instead.
Didn’t work.
Suho stepped even closer to stabilize him better when his knee trembled.
Their chests almost touched.
The heat between them felt immediate.
Real.
Sieun’s breath caught.
Suho froze too.
Just for a second.
Then their eyes met.
And stayed there.
Neither moved.
Neither looked away.
The air changed.
Shifted.
Sieun became suddenly, painfully aware of everything: Suho’s hand at his waist, the steady pressure against his back, the warmth radiating through his clothes.
Too much.
His heart pounded harder.
Suho’s fingers tightened slightly.
Instinctive.
“Sieun,” he said quietly.
It sounded like a warning.
Or maybe a question.
Sieun wasn’t sure.
He only knew he couldn’t breathe properly anymore.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
Suho’s gaze flickered.
“…Don’t what?”
Sieun swallowed.
He didn’t know.
Don’t move closer.
Don’t stop touching me.
Don’t make this worse.
The problem was he wanted all of it anyway.
The realization hit too fast.
Too hard.
And Suho saw it.
Clearly.
Something shifted in his expression immediately, restraint pulling tight beneath the surface.
Then footsteps echoed faintly outside the room.
Reality crashed back in.
Suho stepped away first.
Too quickly this time.
The loss of contact felt immediate.
Cold.
Sieun sat back down slowly, breathing harder than he should have been.
Neither spoke for several seconds.
Then Suho cleared his throat softly and looked away.
“…Good work today.”
The professionalism of it almost made Sieun laugh.
Instead, he stared at the floor and muttered:
“Coward.”
Silence.
Then, unexpectedly a quiet laugh.
Low.
Real.
When Sieun looked up, Suho was smiling slightly.
Small.
But genuine.
And somehow that felt even more dangerous than almost kissing him had.
---
---
The next day, Sieun didn’t have time to prepare.
The door opened before Suho arrived.
“Finally found you awake.”
The voice was familiar.
Sharp.
The manager walked in without waiting for an answer, phone already in hand.
Sieun grimaced.
“…Hyung.”
“I don’t have much time,” he said, walking closer. “And neither do you.”
Silence.
This wasn’t a visit.
Not really.
It was work.
“The news is spreading,” he continued, holding up the screen. “Someone talked. Photos, rumors, speculation.”
Sieun didn’t take the phone.
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
The tone turned harsher.
“They’re saying it’s serious.”
Pause.
“That you might not come back.”
Silence.
Hearing those words out loud hurt more than the pain.
“They don’t know anything,” Sieun said.
“Neither do we.”
Direct.
Too direct.
Sieun clenched his jaw.
“I’m working on it.”
“Not fast enough.”
The hit landed precisely.
Silence.
Heavy.
“The group is on hold,” the manager continued. “Investments are on hold. Everything is paused.”
A step closer.
“Do you understand what that means?”
Sieun didn’t answer.
He didn’t want to.
“It means you need to come back.”
His voice lowered.
“…Soon.”
The door opened again.
Suho.
He stopped in the doorway.
Took in the scene in a second.
Said nothing.
“Perfect,” the manager said, barely turning toward him. “You need to get him walking.”
Not a request.
An order.
Suho looked at him.
Calm.
“I’m working on helping him recover.”
“I don’t need theory,” the other replied. “I need results.”
Silence.
Suho didn’t move.
“He’s not a machine.”
The sentence came out flat.
Firm.
The manager paused.
Studied him.
Then looked back at Sieun.
“We don’t have time for this.”
A beat.
Then he turned away.
“Keep me updated.”
And left.
---
The silence he left behind felt different.
Heavier.
Tighter.
Sieun didn’t move.
His gaze fixed somewhere empty.
“Don’t listen to him,” Suho said.
Quietly.
“…He’s right.”
Suho took a step forward.
“No.”
Sieun looked up.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t know!” Sieun snapped, his voice breaking more than he expected. “You don’t know what this means to me—”
He stopped.
Breathing unevenly.
Too fast.
“If I can’t come back…” he continued, quieter now. “Then it’s over.”
Suho didn’t answer immediately.
“You’re not only that,” he said finally.
“I am.”
Immediate.
Sieun looked away.
His hands tightened in the sheets.
“If I can’t stand on that stage, then what’s the point of everything else?”
That was the truth.
Raw.
His breath trembled.
And this time he didn’t stop it.
“I can’t even—”
He cut himself off.
His voice gave out.
Suho moved.
Not slowly.
Not like always.
He stepped closer.
“Look at me.”
Sieun shook his head.
“No.”
“Sieun.”
The voice was different.
Firmer.
Suho’s hands came up to his face.
Not for therapy.
To hold him still.
“Look at me.”
This time, Sieun did.
His eyes were glassy.
Too much.
“You’re not finished.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Too close.
Too direct.
Sieun’s breathing broke.
“I’m scared.”
The words stayed between them.
Exposed.
Suho didn’t pull away.
Didn’t move back.
“I know,” he said softly.
And that was what finally broke him.
His breathing gave out.
His shoulders dropped.
All the tension shattered at once.
He didn’t really cry.
Not loudly.
But enough.
Suho said nothing.
He just pulled him closer.
A real hug.
Not necessary.
Chosen.
Sieun’s hands closed against him.
Tight.
Like he was the only thing keeping him steady.
Time stopped.
Then slowly his breathing calmed.
Sieun didn’t pull away immediately.
Neither did Suho.
They were still close.
Too close.
Sieun’s face was only inches from his.
Their eyes met.
Different now.
More open.
More honest.
Sieun’s fingers shifted slightly against his shirt.
A small gesture.
But deliberate.
Suho noticed.
He froze.
Didn’t move away.
Didn’t move at all.
Waited.
Sieun inhaled slowly.
Then leaned in.
This time without hesitation.
The first contact was light.
Just for a moment.
Like he could still stop.
He didn’t.
The kiss deepened almost immediately. More urgent than either of them expected.
Sieun’s fingers tightened in his shirt.
Suho pulled him closer.
Like it still wasn’t enough.
Their breathing broke between them.
But they didn’t stop.
When they finally pulled apart, it was only for air.
They stayed close.
Too close.
Their breathing still uneven.
“…This shouldn’t have happened,” Sieun murmured.
But he wasn’t moving away.
Suho looked at him.
“…I know.”
Then, quieter:
“But it did.”
And neither of them really tried to deny it.
---
The kiss didn’t really stop.
It only broke for a second, just long enough to breathe, but when their lips found each other again, it was different.
More certain.
More aware.
Sieun didn’t hesitate this time. He moved first, closing the distance with more confidence, fingers tightening in Suho’s shirt like he needed something real to hold onto. Suho responded immediately, one hand returning to his back, sliding slowly upward, stopping where Sieun’s breathing still trembled.
The contact deepened, less uncertain now.
There was no longer that moment of testing.
Only need.
Their breathing kept breaking between them, uneven, too close to ignore. Sieun leaned forward slightly, pushing Suho back a few centimeters without really thinking about it, without stopping to wonder if it was too much.
It wasn’t.
Or at least, not enough to stop.
Suho’s hands tightened slightly, holding him there, but not to restrain him. To keep him close. To not let him go.
The world outside disappeared.
No room.
No time.
Only warmth, contact, the way his heart pounded too hard to be just exhaustion.
When they separated again, it was slower this time. Their lips brushed once more for a moment, like neither of them wanted to truly be the first to let go.
Sieun’s breathing trembled.
“…We should stop.”
But he didn’t move.
Suho looked at him.
Up close.
Too close.
“…Do you want to?”
Silence.
Sieun didn’t answer immediately.
His fingers still twisted in Suho’s shirt.
His body still too close.
“…No.”
Almost a whisper.
Almost surrender.
Suho inhaled slowly.
And this time he didn’t hold himself back.
The kiss returned, slower but deeper, carrying everything they had avoided until now. Their hands moved slightly, more certain now, less hesitant, following the contact instead of limiting it.
There was no rush.
But there was no distance left anymore either.
When they finally stopped, it felt different.
Not abrupt.
Not sudden.
Just… inevitable.
They stayed there.
Only inches apart.
Their breathing still tangled together.
The silence full.
And for the first time, neither of them tried to pretend it had only been a mistake.
---
The silence stayed between them.
Dense.
Warm.
Too much.
Sieun hadn’t moved away.
Not even by an inch.
His breathing was still uneven, his fingers still tangled in Suho’s shirt, as if letting go now was harder than before.
“This is… a problem,” he murmured, but there was no conviction in his voice.
Suho looked at him.
“…Yeah.”
But he didn’t move.
Sieun’s body was still too close, the warmth passing between them without space, without barriers. He could feel everything. The breathing, the heartbeat, the tension that wasn’t only emotional anymore.
Sieun’s fingers moved slightly.
They slid just a little, as if trying to figure out how far they could go.
Then they stopped.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he had to.
He inhaled slowly.
“…If we keep going—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
Suho lowered his gaze for only a second.
Then looked back at him.
“…I know.”
Silence.
But neither of them moved.
Still.
One second too long.
Then Sieun pulled away slightly.
Just enough to breathe easier.
Not enough to truly break the contact.
“When I get out of here,” he said quietly, his eyes still on him, “I’m not letting you run away.”
It wasn’t a joke.
Suho let out a short breath.
“…Heal first.”
But there was something in his tone.
Something that didn’t contradict him.
Sieun smiled faintly.
Tired.
But real.
Then, slowly, he let himself fall back onto the bed.
His body was still tense.
But different.
Suho didn’t move away.
He stayed there, sitting beside him.
Too close to be necessary.
Close enough to be a choice.
The silence changed.
It became calmer.
But not empty.
Sieun turned his head slightly toward him.
“…Earlier.”
Suho didn’t move.
“What you said.”
A pause.
“About the coma.”
Silence.
Suho lowered his gaze to his hands.
Then, slowly, he adjusted himself on the bed, turning slightly toward him.
He wasn’t someone who talked.
Not like this.
But he didn’t pull away.
“…It happened suddenly,” he said.
His voice low.
Steady.
“An accident.”
Sieun didn’t interrupt him.
He never could have.
“I don’t remember much,” Suho continued. “Only before.”
A small breath.
“…And after.”
Silence.
“Two years.”
The words stayed hanging there.
Heavy.
“When I woke up…” he paused, searching for the words. “…it wasn’t how I imagined.”
Sieun watched him.
Carefully.
Too carefully.
“My body wouldn’t respond.”
A faint smile appeared.
Bitter.
“…Just like yours.”
Silence.
“And everyone kept telling me it would come back. That it just needed time.”
His fingers moved slightly, as if they remembered on their own.
“I didn’t believe them.”
Another pause.
“…Not at first.”
Sieun swallowed.
“It’s scary,” he said quietly.
Suho nodded faintly.
“Yeah.”
Silence.
Then:
“But that’s not the worst part.”
Sieun frowned slightly.
“Then what is?”
Suho stayed still for a second.
Then he looked up.
“…Feeling useless.”
The word came out softly.
But precise.
“Like everything you were before doesn’t matter anymore.”
Silence.
Too close to something real.
Sieun lowered his gaze.
His hands tightened slightly.
“…Yeah.”
Almost a whisper.
Suho looked at him.
Then, slowly, he moved.
Not like before.
Not for work.
His hand rested beside Sieun’s.
Not over it.
Not yet.
“…Then it passes.”
Sieun shook his head slightly.
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“It never does.”
A pause.
Then, softer:
“Until it happens.”
Silence.
Sieun’s fingers moved slightly.
They brushed against his.
Almost by accident.
Almost.
Suho didn’t move them away.
“Why did you stay?” Sieun asked.
The question came out more fragile than expected.
Suho didn’t answer right away.
“…Because someone stayed with me.”
Silence.
“And didn’t let me fall.”
The words stayed between them.
Full.
Sieun looked up.
Stared at him.
Differently now.
“…So that’s what this is?”
A small movement of his fingers.
“You’re just returning the favor?”
Suho watched him.
For a long time.
Then shook his head slightly.
“…At first.”
Silence.
One second.
Then, lower:
“Not anymore.”
Sieun’s heart sped up.
Again.
But differently.
Not from fear.
Not this time.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t say anything.
But he didn’t look away either.
And he stayed there.
Close.
As if, for the first time, he wasn’t in a hurry to run from anything.
---
The next day, Sieun waited. He didn’t say anything when Suho arrived, didn’t joke, didn’t ask questions. He followed the routine, and that alone was already strange. Suho noticed, but didn’t say anything. “Let’s try standing,” he said simply. Sieun nodded too quickly.
This time he got up more easily. His body responded better, his legs still trembling but less, his breathing steadier. Suho was there, as always, one hand on his back and one at his waist, a constant, steady presence.
“Okay. Now one step.”
Sieun gave a small nod, but didn’t move immediately. He lowered his gaze to Suho’s hand, still on him. He stared at it for one second too long. Then, slowly, he moved it away.
Suho stiffened slightly. “Sieun—”
“I can do it.”
It wasn’t a question.
Silence.
Suho looked at him, assessed him, then took half a step back. Not far. Enough.
“Go.”
Sieun inhaled deeply. One step. His leg responded, unstable but present. His heart beat faster. Another step. His body swayed, but he stayed standing. For a second, something inside him lit up.
A third step mistake.
His weight shifted wrong. His leg gave out without warning. His body tilted forward too fast.
“Sieun—”
But this time Suho was too far away.
He fell.
The sound was sharp, ugly, his breath leaving him all at once as pain shot through his leg like electricity. For a moment, he couldn’t even move.
Suho was beside him immediately. “Hey—” he crouched down, one hand already ready to lift him. “I told you—”
“Don’t touch me.”
The words came out harsher than expected.
Suho stopped.
For a moment.
“Sieun—”
“I’m fine.”
He wasn’t.
He tried to move on his own, but his body wouldn’t respond the way he wanted. The pain was too much, his leg unstable, his breathing still broken.
“Let me help,” Suho said, calmer, but firmer.
“No.”
Sharp.
Finally, Sieun looked up.
There was something different there.
Frustration.
Anger.
“I don’t need you holding me every single time.”
Silence.
Suho didn’t answer immediately.
“If you can’t even stand on your own—”
“I know!” Sieun snapped, his voice cracking somewhere between anger and something worse. “I already know that, you don’t have to keep reminding me!”
His breathing sped up.
His hands clenched against the floor.
“You don’t have to stand there all the time like—” he stopped, swallowing hard, “…like I can’t do anything without you.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Suho looked at him.
Not angry.
Worse.
Calm.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
The answer came immediately.
Too quickly.
Sieun looked away.
“…I don’t want to depend on you.”
The words came out quieter.
More honest.
A moment of silence.
Then Suho spoke.
“You’re not depending on me.”
Sieun let out a humorless laugh.
“Oh really?”
“You’re recovering.”
Direct.
“It’s different.”
“Not to me.”
Silence.
Sieun’s breathing trembled now, not just from pain.
“…If this keeps happening,” he said quietly, “I’ll never go back.”
The words stayed there.
Exposed.
“If every time I try on my own it ends like this…” he stopped, jaw tightening, “…then what’s the point?”
Suho didn’t answer immediately.
Then, slowly:
“This is the point.”
A gesture toward the floor.
Toward him.
“Falling is part of it.”
“Not for me.”
Too fast.
Too harsh.
“I can’t afford that.”
Silence.
Suho took a small breath.
“…You’re not on stage right now.”
Mistake.
Sieun looked up sharply.
“No.”
His voice lowered.
Dangerously.
“But it’s the only place that matters.”
Silence.
Too much.
“If I can’t go back there,” he continued, quieter but sharper, “then I’m nothing.”
The sentence fell between them.
Heavy.
Irreversible.
Suho moved.
Closer.
This time he didn’t stop.
He crouched down in front of him, at the same level.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s not.”
“It is to me.”
They looked at each other.
For too long.
Then, without waiting for an answer, Sieun tried to get up again.
Mistake.
His leg gave out instantly.
His body lost balance—
and this time Suho didn’t hesitate.
He caught him.
Immediately.
His hands firm on Sieun’s arms, pulling him up decisively.
Too close.
Again.
Sieun’s breath stopped.
“Enough.”
Suho’s voice was low.
Firm.
Different.
“You don’t have to prove anything like this.”
Sieun tried to pull away.
“Let go.”
“No.”
Direct.
For the first time.
“Not like this.”
Silence.
Sieun’s body went still.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he couldn’t.
His breathing trembled.
The anger still there.
But underneath it, something was breaking apart.
“…I hate this,” he murmured.
Quieter.
More honest.
His fingers tightened in Suho’s shirt.
Again.
Like before.
“I know.”
This time, Suho’s voice wasn’t hard.
It was close.
Too close.
And Sieun didn’t move away.
Suho sat him back down on the bed without saying anything.
The silence stayed between them while he checked his leg, his hands steady, precise, too professional now. Sieun watched him without making it obvious, noticing the way he avoided his eyes, the way his expression had gone calm again.
Too calm.
And it irritated him more than it should have.
Suho grabbed the ice pack and carefully placed it against his knee.
“Keep it like that for a while.”
Flat voice.
Controlled.
Sieun tightened his jaw slightly.
“…Are you angry?”
Suho didn’t answer immediately.
“No.”
Lie.
Obvious.
Sieun let out a short laugh without humor.
“You’re terrible at lying.”
Finally, Suho looked up.
Only for a second.
“I’m not angry because you yelled.”
Silence.
“Then why?”
One moment too long.
Then:
“Because you waited until I stepped away.”
The words hit him harder than expected.
Sieun looked away.
“…I wanted to try by myself.”
“I know.”
“Then what?”
Suho inhaled slowly.
“You were already tired.”
Direct.
“And you knew you could fall.”
Silence.
Sieun tightened his fingers slightly around the ice pack.
“…I don’t want to depend on you.”
The sentence came out quieter this time.
More fragile.
Suho stayed still.
“Why?”
Sieun grimaced.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A simple one.”
Silence.
Sieun’s breathing slowed slightly.
“…Because if I get too used to you…” he stopped, swallowing. “…then what happens?”
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Suho didn’t move.
Didn’t speak immediately.
And that silence was worse than any answer.
Sieun lowered his gaze.
“Forget it.”
He tried to shift slightly on the bed, but Suho grabbed his wrist before he could really move away.
The touch made his breath stop.
“I don’t want you to stop relying on me.”
Suho’s voice was low.
Too honest.
Sieun slowly lifted his eyes.
“…That doesn’t help.”
One corner of Suho’s mouth moved slightly.
“I know.”
Silence.
His fingers were still wrapped around Sieun’s wrist.
Warm.
Present.
Sieun could feel his heartbeat pounding too fast.
Again.
“When you’re not here,” he said quietly, not really thinking about the words before saying them, “the room feels wrong.”
Suho froze.
Completely.
Sieun’s breath trembled slightly.
Too late to take the sentence back.
Suho’s eyes slowly dropped to his lips.
Mistake.
Or maybe not.
The silence changed immediately.
Heavier.
Warmer.
The fingers around his wrist tightened slightly.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to make him shiver.
“Sieun…”
His voice sounded different now.
Lower.
More dangerous than before.
Sieun couldn’t answer.
Not when Suho was this close.
Not when he kept looking at him like that.
“Tell me to stop.”
His heart jumped into his throat.
Because that was the problem.
He didn’t want to.
Suho moved closer slowly.
Giving him time.
A chance to pull away.
Sieun didn’t take it.
The kiss came softly this time, but it didn’t stay controlled for long. After the first touch, something between them gave in immediately—weeks of tension crashing back all at once, stronger, hungrier.
Sieun’s fingers tightened instantly in Suho’s shirt, pulling him closer before he even realized he was doing it. Suho let out a breath against his lips before kissing him again, deeper this time, slower and more intense at once.
There was no gentleness now.
Or rather—
there still was.
But underneath it was something else.
Frustration.
Fear.
Need.
Suho’s hands slid up to his hips, stopping there like he was holding himself back from doing more. And Sieun felt it. Felt that control, that restrained tension that somehow made everything worse.
Or better.
He didn’t know anymore.
His breath broke when Suho pulled him even closer, enough to feel him completely against him.
Too much.
The kiss only broke because they needed air.
Both of them breathing too hard.
Eyes still close.
Foreheads nearly touching.
“…This is really a problem,” Sieun murmured.
Suho closed his eyes for a second.
“Yeah.”
But he wasn’t moving away.
If anything—
his hands were still there.
And the way he was looking at him—
made Sieun want to completely forget where they were.
That was exactly what made him stop.
He took a deep breath and let his head fall back for a second.
“…If we keep doing this in the hospital, it’s going to end badly.”
A small breathless laugh escaped Suho’s lips.
The first real one in hours.
“Probably.”
Silence.
Then, quieter:
“When you get out of here…”
The sentence stayed unfinished.
But it didn’t need to be.
Because the way they looked at each other said the rest.
---
The last few weeks passed faster than Sieun expected.
Maybe because he could finally see real progress.
He could walk without support now, even if Suho still stayed close out of habit more than necessity. Physical therapy had become less intense, the sessions shorter, the pain less constant.
Not gone.
But manageable.
And months ago, that would have felt impossible.
His discharge came almost suddenly.
A signature.
A few final instructions.
The doctor talking while Sieun nodded without really listening.
Because he was looking at Suho.
Standing beside the window.
Calm as always.
Too calm.
“So I’d say that’s it,” the doctor concluded. “Keep doing the exercises at home and don’t push yourself too hard for the next few weeks.”
Sieun nodded again.
Then the doctor left.
And the room suddenly became quiet.
Different.
For some reason, that silence filled him with a strange uneasiness.
Like something was really ending.
Suho slowly gathered a few papers from the desk.
“I’ll walk you downstairs.”
Normal.
Professional.
Sieun’s chest tightened slightly.
“Right.”
The word came out emptier than he intended.
Suho glanced up briefly.
As if he noticed something.
But he didn’t say anything.
---
The walk to the exit felt strangely short.
Too short.
For months, that hospital had been his entire world.
Now everything suddenly seemed to move too fast.
When they stopped in front of the entrance, Sieun halted.
So did Suho.
Silence.
People passing by them.
Cars.
Noise.
But it all felt far away.
“…So that’s it?” Sieun asked before he could stop himself.
The question came out too quickly.
Too honestly.
Suho looked at him.
“What is?”
“This.”
A vague gesture between them.
“The sessions. The hospital.”
A pause.
“…Us.”
Silence.
Sieun’s heart was beating too hard now.
Suho stayed still, watching him for a few seconds.
Then:
“Do you want it to be?”
Mistake.
Or maybe not.
Because Sieun’s breath caught immediately.
“No.”
Too fast.
Too honest.
Suho’s eyes dropped briefly to his lips for a second.
Then lifted again.
“Good.”
Silence.
Different this time.
Warmer.
Sieun swallowed.
“…Then come have dinner with me.”
The words came out almost suddenly.
But once he said them, he didn’t regret them.
Suho studied him for a moment.
“Are you asking me out?”
“Don’t get cocky.”
One corner of Suho’s mouth lifted slightly.
Small.
But real.
“How romantic.”
“I can still take it back.”
“No.”
Too fast this time.
And now it was Sieun who smiled a little.
---
That evening came too quickly.
Sieun stared at his apartment like he didn’t actually live there.
He had changed shirts three times.
Ridiculous.
Pathetic, even.
And yet he kept doing it.
When the doorbell rang, his heart jumped into his throat in the stupidest way possible.
He opened the door.
And for a second completely forgot what he was supposed to say.
Suho was there.
Casual clothes.
Slightly messy hair.
No clipboard.
No uniform.
No hospital.
Just him.
And somehow that was worse.
“You planning to stare at me much longer?”
Sieun snapped out of it immediately.
“Get in.”
Too abrupt.
Suho noticed instantly.
Of course he did.
He stepped inside slowly, looking around.
The apartment was elegant, organized, exactly like Sieun.
But there were small details that broke that perfection.
Hoodies tossed on the couch.
Mugs left behind.
Sheets of song lyrics scattered across the table.
More lived-in.
More real.
“So you actually live here.”
Sieun scoffed.
“You thought I slept at the studio?”
“A little.”
Silence.
Then Suho took off his jacket.
And Sieun’s brain immediately stopped functioning.
Because this was a terrible idea.
An awful one.
Being alone there.
Without the hospital.
Without excuses.
Without forced distance.
He realized it even more when their hands brushed by accident while reaching for the glasses.
Barely any contact.
Ridiculous.
But both of them stopped.
Just for a second.
Too long.
Sieun pulled his hand back immediately.
“…We should order food.”
“You can’t cook?”
“I can survive.”
“Very reassuring.”
The tension eased just enough.
Enough for them to breathe again.
But it stayed there.
Underneath everything.
Constant.
Present.
And the way Suho kept looking at him wasn’t helping at all.
---
Dinner technically arrived.
But neither of them was really eating.
The takeout sat almost untouched on the coffee table, abandoned between half-full glasses and conversations interrupted too often by silences that no longer felt uncomfortable.
Sieun sat on the couch with one leg folded beneath him while Suho occupied the corner beside him.
Too close.
Not close enough.
The television was on without sound, just light filling the room.
“So,” Suho said after a while, “when are you starting again?”
Sieun let out a slow breath.
“Light training next week.”
“And?”
Silence.
“…And I’ll probably be back in front of a camera before I’m actually ready.”
The honesty of the statement lingered between them.
Suho lowered his gaze slightly.
“They’re going to push you.”
“They always do.”
“And you let them.”
Sieun smiled faintly.
Bitter.
“It doesn’t exactly work the same way it does for normal people.”
Silence.
Then, quieter:
“Neither does this.”
Suho’s eyes returned to him.
Direct.
Sieun’s heart sped up immediately.
“This?”
A small gesture between them.
Everything they had become.
“All of it,” Sieun admitted. “You. Me. The fact that I’m…” He paused. “…me.”
Famous.
Always watched.
Always exposed.
Suho stayed silent.
Sieun looked down at his hands.
“I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”
“That you’re scared.”
Too direct.
As always.
Sieun let out a short humorless laugh.
“Yeah.”
Silence.
“Because it’s going to be complicated,” he continued. “People already talk about everything I do. And you—”
“I don’t care.”
Sieun looked up immediately.
Suho was serious.
Completely.
“You should.”
“Maybe.”
A pause.
“But not enough.”
Sieun’s chest tightened.
Because nobody said things like that to him.
Nobody stayed like that.
“…I could disappear for months,” he said quietly. “Tours, promotions, training.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
Suho nodded slightly.
“It doesn’t change what I want.”
Silence.
Sieun’s breathing slowed just a little.
“…And what do you want?”
The question came out more fragile than he intended.
Suho looked at him for a few seconds.
Then:
“You.”
Simple.
Direct.
Devastating.
Sieun immediately looked down again, laughing softly like that could somehow hide the way his heart was practically exploding in his chest.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.”
Silence.
Then Suho shifted slightly, closer.
“But you still want me.”
Mistake.
Because it was true.
Too true.
Sieun swallowed slowly.
“…Yeah.”
The room suddenly felt too small.
The silence changed again.
Warm.
Heavy.
But this time neither of them tried to break it.
Suho leaned back more comfortably against the couch, his arm brushing against Sieun’s.
“When I woke up from the coma,” he said quietly out of nowhere, “I thought no one would ever look at me the same way again.”
Sieun turned toward him immediately.
Suho’s voice was calm.
But different.
More open than usual.
“I couldn’t do anything on my own,” he continued. “Walking, eating properly, even talking for too long exhausted me.”
Silence.
“I hated myself.”
The words hit Sieun harder than expected.
Because he could picture it.
Too clearly.
“I was angry at everyone,” Suho said with a small, tired smile. “The doctors. The people trying to help me.”
A pause.
“…Mostly at myself.”
Sieun didn’t say anything.
He just listened.
Carefully.
“Then one day,” Suho continued, staring into space for a second, “I realized I kept waiting to become the person I used to be.”
Silence.
“But it doesn’t work like that.”
His eyes slowly returned to Sieun.
“You don’t go backward.”
His voice dropped lower.
“…You move forward.”
Sieun’s heartbeat slowed for a moment.
Then sped up again when Suho continued:
“And I think somewhere during all of this…” a small gesture between them. “…I stopped being afraid.”
Silence.
“Why?”
The question came out barely above a whisper.
Suho looked at him.
Directly.
“Because you were there.”
That was it.
That alone was enough.
Sieun’s breath trembled slightly.
Then he moved.
This time without hesitation.
His hands came up to Suho’s face, and the kiss followed immediately after, already deep from the very first second, as if they were making up for everything they’d held back for months.
Suho let out a breath against his lips before pulling him closer, one hand firm against his waist, the other sliding slowly behind his neck.
There was no rush.
But there was hunger.
The kiss deepened within seconds, broken breaths, fingers gripping fabric, Sieun ending up practically on top of him on the couch without either of them fully realizing it.
Too close.
Finally.
Suho’s hands slid slowly along his back, making Sieun shiver instantly.
“Suho—”
His name came out broken when Suho’s lips brushed along his jaw, slow, warm, enough to make him lose track of every thought in his head.
“Tell me to stop,” Suho murmured against his skin.
Sieun closed his eyes for a second.
“…I don’t want to.”
And that was basically the end of whatever self-control they had left.
The kiss returned immediately, deeper, slower and more intense at the same time, while their hands kept searching for each other without hurry but without hesitation anymore.
There was no doubt left now.
Just them.
Finally without hospitals.
Without monitors.
Without fear of what would happen the next day.
Just the way they kept pulling closer and closer together, as if months of tension were finally finding somewhere to go.
---
The kiss only slowed when both of them ran out of breath.
Sieun still had one hand twisted in Suho’s shirt, his heartbeat pounding so hard he could practically feel it in his throat. Their foreheads stayed close for a few seconds, warm breaths mixing in the silence of the room.
Neither of them pulled away.
If anything—
Suho slowly brushed his fingers along Sieun’s side beneath his shirt, barely touching him, and that simple gesture alone made him shiver.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured softly.
“Your fault.”
A small smile finally appeared on Suho’s lips.
Real.
Warm.
Something tightened in Sieun’s chest at the sight of it.
Because that was the problem.
He had really fallen in love.
And by now it was far too late to pretend otherwise.
Suho’s fingers slid slowly up his back while he looked at him in that way that completely ruined his ability to think.
“Are you sure?” he asked quietly.
The question hit him harder than expected.
Because Suho always asked him.
During rehab.
When he was in pain.
When he was frustrated.
When he was scared.
And even now—
he was still letting Sieun choose.
Sieun inhaled slowly.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
His voice came out low.
Honest.
This time Suho kissed him first.
Slower.
Deeper.
Like there was no reason to hold back anymore.
Sieun’s hands slipped under his shirt almost without thinking, stopping against the warm skin of his back. Suho let out a soft breath against his lips, and the sound sent a shiver all the way down Sieun’s spine.
Too much.
Too good.
They moved without hurry, still close, still unable to fully let go of each other while the kisses grew slower and more intense, interrupted only by uneven breaths and wandering hands.
When Suho stood up from the couch, pulling him along with him, Sieun laughed softly, breathless.
“Where are we going?”
“To your bedroom,” Suho answered simply.
And the way he said it made Sieun’s heart race all over again.
They made it to the bedroom almost stumbling, laughing softly between kisses. The tension of the past months seemed to melt away all at once now, leaving behind something softer, warmer.
More real.
This time, when they fell onto the bed, there was no hospital around them.
No monitors.
No fear of being interrupted.
Just the sound of their breathing and the way they kept drifting closer and closer together, as if after all this time neither of them could quite believe they were finally allowed to do this.
Suho paused for a moment just to look at him.
Messy hair.
Red lips.
Eyes still glossy.
Beautiful.
Heat rushed immediately to Sieun’s face.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like...”
The rest of the sentence disappeared when Suho kissed him again.
Softer this time.
Almost careful.
Their fingers intertwined.
Their bodies close enough for him to feel Suho’s heartbeat matching his own.
And for the first time in months, Sieun felt completely still.
Not perfect.
Not fully healed.
Not fearless.
But steady.
In the right place.
With the right person.
The rest could wait.
That night, it was only them.
As they made love, while Suho prepared him with his fingers and Sieun moaned beneath him, Suho thought he had finally found the love of his life. Then, when Sieun opened his eyes as he came, crying out his name, Suho realized he definitely had.
---
The sound of the crowd was deafening.
Lights.
Screams.
Music vibrating through the floor of the stadium.
Suho stood still near backstage, his pass hanging around his neck as he watched the giant screen in front of him.
Sieun was at the center of the stage.
And he looked like he had been born for it.
Every movement precise, elegant, confident. The lights slid across him while the audience screamed his name loud enough to shake the air itself.
Months ago, he couldn’t stand without help.
Now he was running across a stage in front of thousands of people.
Something tightened immediately in Suho’s chest.
Pride.
Relief.
Something bigger.
Gotak nudged him lightly with his elbow.
“You’re making that face.”
Suho didn’t look away from the stage.
“What face?”
“That lovestruck one.”
Baku snorted beside them.
“It’s serious now.”
Juntae nodded way too enthusiastically.
“Very serious.”
“Shut up.”
But there wasn’t any real irritation in his voice.
Because the problem was that they were right.
Completely.
On stage, Sieun stopped at the center during the final ment, still slightly out of breath from the performance.
“It’s been a long time,” he said into the microphone while the crowd slowly quieted down. “And honestly… I wasn’t sure I’d ever come back here like this.”
Silence.
The audience lights swayed softly.
“There were moments when I thought I’d lost everything.”
Suho’s heartbeat slowed slightly.
Sieun smiled.
Small.
Real.
“But I had someone who stayed beside me even when I made it very difficult.”
Baku slowly turned toward Suho with a scandalized expression.
“Oh my God.”
“Shut up.”
“He’s talking about you!”
“I know.”
But his heart was beating way too hard now.
On stage, Sieun lowered his gaze slightly before continuing.
“And I think…” he paused briefly, almost embarrassed. “I think I managed to come back here because someone taught me that moving forward doesn’t mean becoming the person you used to be again.”
Silence.
Then he smiled again.
Brighter this time.
“So… thank you.”
The crowd immediately exploded into screams and applause.
But for one second, Sieun looked directly toward backstage.
Toward him.
And Suho instantly felt the breath leave his lungs.
“Okay,” Gotak muttered. “That was disgustingly romantic.”
“I’m gonna throw up,” Baku added.
Juntae literally had tears in his eyes.
“You guys don’t understand true love.”
“YOU shut up.”
Suho laughed for real this time.
Small.
Unable to stop himself.
On stage, Sieun was still smiling.
And when the lights slowly began to fade for the end of the concert, Suho realized something.
For months, he’d been afraid that once Sieun recovered, he wouldn’t need him anymore.
But that had never been the point.
Because now Sieun was there.
Standing.
Shining.
Finally back on stage.
And he was still searching for him in the crowd.
---
After the concert, the chaos lasted nearly an hour.
Staff running everywhere, managers talking too fast, idols changing in a hurry, half-empty water bottles abandoned across every surface.
Sieun disappeared backstage as soon as the final ment ended, and for a few minutes Suho completely lost sight of him.
Then a hand grabbed his wrist.
“Come on.”
Sieun.
Still wearing makeup.
Hair slightly damp with sweat.
Still breathing a little too hard from adrenaline.
Beautiful.
Suho barely had time to answer before being dragged down the hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“Away from Baku.”
“Hey!” came a protest from somewhere behind them.
Sieun didn’t even slow down.
He kept pulling him until they reached an empty room near the dressing rooms, shutting the door behind them with an exhausted sigh.
Finally silence.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
They only looked at each other.
And Suho saw everything all at once.
The exhaustion.
The adrenaline.
The happiness.
And the way Sieun’s eyes always softened whenever he looked at him.
“You were incredible,” Suho said quietly.
Sieun laughed softly, still breathless.
“I couldn’t stop looking for you.”
Suho’s heart did something stupid inside his chest.
“I saw you.”
Silence.
Then Sieun slowly stepped closer, stopping right in front of him.
“When I was in the hospital,” he said quietly, “I thought that if I could get back on stage, everything would go back to normal.”
Suho listened without interrupting.
“But now…” Sieun lowered his eyes slightly before smiling. “I don’t think I want to go back to who I was before.”
A pause.
“I’m better like this.”
Suho’s hands slowly settled on his waist.
“Like what?”
Sieun looked directly into his eyes.
“With you.”
And this time, when they kissed, there was no desperation.
No fear.
No need to hold anything back.
Just calm.
Slow.
Certain.
Like coming home.
When they finally pulled apart, Sieun rested his forehead against Suho’s and let out a small, tired laugh.
“This is ridiculous.”
“What is?”
“That all of this happened because you got mad when I didn’t want to use your help.”
Suho smiled faintly.
“Technically, it happened because you fell.”
“Details.”
They both laughed softly.
Then the silence returned once more.
But it wasn’t empty.
It never really had been between them.
Outside the room they could still hear distant voices, footsteps, the fading noise of the concert slowly coming to an end.
But inside, everything felt still.
And Suho thought that maybe that was the point.
Not the stage.
Not the hospital.
Not the coma.
Not the injury.
But the fact that somehow, they had found each other exactly when they both needed someone who would stay.
Sieun slowly intertwined their fingers.
“Come home with me?”
The question came out so naturally that Suho smiled immediately.
“Always.”
And this time, he truly meant it.