Work Text:
Sungho’s favorite movies are Dead Poets Society, La La Land, and About Time—that basically sums him up as a person.
He likes movies that feel like a warm hug, but something that slightly hurts at the end. He’s always been drawn to that kind of softness—the kind that holds your hand and then lets go before you’re ready. It’s what he loves most about stories: how they can be beautiful and devastating in the same breath.
He once said, half-jokingly, that he watches movies to feel something that won’t ruin him completely. He likes that safe ache, the kind that reminds him he’s still human, still capable of caring. He likes the way Dead Poets Society makes his chest tighten at “O Captain, my Captain,” the way La La Land leaves him silent during the epilogue, and how About Time feels like a slow exhale after a long day.
When he watches Dead Poets Society, he always sits closer to the screen. He mouths along to the words he memorized years ago: “That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” He likes to believe that his verse could be his art, his brushstrokes, or the way he loves people so quietly it almost hurts.
He watches La La Land when he’s lonely. He won’t admit that, but everyone knows. There’s something about the bittersweetness of it—the way dreams cost something, the way love doesn’t always mean staying. Sometimes, he imagines himself sitting in that jazz bar, the piano playing City of Stars, wondering if someone would ever look at him the way Sebastian looked at Mia that one last time.
And then there’s About Time. He never finishes it without crying. It’s the kind of movie that feels like home to him—the small, ordinary moments, the love that lingers in every day. It’s the kind of life he wishes he could have: simple, sincere, unafraid to love fully.
He says he likes movies with beautiful endings, but that’s not true. Sungho likes endings that hurt a little, the kind that stay with him long after the credits roll. Maybe because it reminds him that he’s still waiting for his own.
He always thought college would be one of those movie-like experiences. The kind where friendships form over shared coffee cups, where laughter fills dorm hallways, where late-night drives feel like the world is spinning just for you. The kind of life that looked golden in the soft blur of cinema—messy but beautiful, hard but worth it.
He thought there would be a soundtrack following him, that maybe the rain would pour right when he felt sad, or that the light through his classroom window would hit him like a scene out of Lalaland.
He’s in his 2nd year now, and no movie magic has happened to him—except for those block screenings his film class would hold. He sits in the middle row, same seat every time, notebook half-full of doodles and observations that never make it to the final paper. The air always smells faintly of popcorn and dust. Sometimes the room feels too dark, other times, too bright.
He wonders if everyone else feels it too—the way real life never quite lives up to what movies promised. That ache after the credits roll, when you go back to being just a person.
Still, he watches. He watches everything. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s habit. Maybe he’s still waiting for his scene, the one that finally feels like it means something.
Because even if nothing cinematic ever happens to him, he thinks there’s something quietly tragic, and maybe a little beautiful, about sitting in the dark and believing that one day it will.
And so there he was, watching another movie in the block screenings—one that everyone seemed to love, the kind that made people whisper about cinematography and symbolism as if they were tasting poetry. But for some reason, it just didn’t do it for him.
The film rolled on, golden and loud, and the whole room seemed enchanted—except him. He slouched in his chair, chin resting on his hand, eyes half-focused on the screen. It wasn’t that it was bad; it was just too perfect. Too curated. The kind of story that didn’t know how heavy real silence could feel.
He watched as the main characters fell in love under city lights, words blooming between them like rehearsed lines. The audience giggled, sighed, whispered. Someone near him even wiped away a tear. Sungho didn’t. He only thought about how movies never showed the aftermath—the lonely train rides home, the arguments that started small but ended in distance, the ache of realizing that love didn’t always feel like a melody.
He thought of La La Land, the way it hurt him the first time. That ending—when they looked at each other and smiled as if saying, we loved, but we couldn’t stay. Maybe that’s what he wanted in a film: something that didn’t try to fix things. Something that just was.
But this movie didn’t give him that. It gave him hope he didn’t ask for, and he didn’t know what to do with it.
So he stared at the flickering light, eyes reflecting the screen but not really seeing it. The laughter around him felt distant, muffled. And for a brief moment, as the protagonist kissed the girl under fake rain, Sungho wondered if maybe some people were just meant to be the ones watching—never the ones being watched.
So when they talked about it in class—it was him versus everyone else.
The lecture hall buzzed with voices, full of caffeine and confidence. Film students were the type to speak like every sentence could change the world, and this was one of those days. Everyone seemed to love the movie—calling it poetic, visionary, heartbreakingly human.
Sungho didn’t see it that way.
He sat there, elbows on the table, pen resting between his fingers. “I mean,” he started slowly, almost testing the air, “I get what the director wanted to say, but don’t you think it’s a little… too aware of itself?”
That caught attention. Heads turned. The professor gave him that smile—the kind that said go on, prove your point.
He leaned forward. “Every shot feels calculated. Like it’s begging to be analyzed. You can’t just sit and feel the story—you have to decode it. It’s all aesthetics, no real pulse. Pretty, sure. But hollow.”
Someone scoffed quietly. Another student, sitting across the room, raised their hand and countered, “But that’s the point. It’s detached on purpose. That’s what makes it beautiful.”
Sungho just shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe we’re giving too much credit to something that just looks good.”
That shut the room up for a bit. Then the arguments started again—phrases like “visual metaphor” and “subtextual tension” flying through the air, each more self-assured than the last.
He didn’t argue after that. He just sat back, watching the words ricochet around the room like static, detached but quietly burning inside. It wasn’t that he wanted to be right. He just wanted to be understood.
But by the time class ended, he realized maybe that’s why he always liked movies that hurt a little at the end—because they never needed to explain themselves. T in hey just stayed with you, quietly, like something unsaid.
“It’s not like in My GIrl where the last shots say everything,” Sungho said, his voice calm but firm. “There was no quiet scene in the movie. No pause. No moment where the characters just… existed.”
The room fell silent again, the kind of silence that made his words linger heavier than he meant them to. He fiddled with his pen, gaze lowering to the corner of his notebook where he’d absentmindedly drawn little smudges of color earlier.
“In La La Land,” he continued, softer this time, “you could feel everything in that final look between them. The silence said more than all the music combined. But this movie—” he shook his head, lips twitching in frustration “—it just never stopped talking. Every scene had to mean something. Every line had to scream for attention.”
Someone near the back murmured, “That’s just the director’s style,” but Sungho didn’t bite. He wasn’t trying to start a debate anymore. He was thinking aloud, really—trying to understand why it felt so wrong to him.
He looked up again, eyes unfocused, almost distant. “Maybe that’s what I didn’t like about it. It didn’t trust the audience enough to feel things on their own. It told us what to think, what to feel—like it couldn’t bear the idea of being misunderstood.”
He leaned back in his seat, sighing through his nose. “The best stories leave space for silence,” he said finally. “That’s what makes them stay.”
No one spoke for a while after that. The discussion moved on eventually—someone started talking about lighting and camera angles—but Sungho barely listened. He was too lost in thought, thinking about all the moments in life that had gone quiet, all the scenes that never said anything but meant everything.
He got tired of debating. His head was pounding by the time he stepped out of the lecture hall—too many voices, too many opinions that all started to blur into static. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from the body but from having to explain yourself over and over again to people who only listened to respond.
By the time he got back to the dorm, it was already dark. The hallway lights buzzed faintly, the kind of noise that somehow made the quiet worse. He unlocked the door, and there was Jaehyun—half-slouched in his chair, headphones hanging off one ear, fingers moving lazily across his keyboard as loops of unfinished melody filled the air.
Sungho dropped his bag onto the couch and sat down without a word.
Jaehyun turned slightly, one eyebrow raised. “How was class?”
“Don’t.”
There was a beat of silence before Jaehyun chuckled softly, hands still tapping at the keyboard. “No questions. Got it.”
The melody playing in the background was soft, unfinished—something that could’ve been beautiful if it weren’t looping endlessly, stuck on the same few notes. It mirrored how Sungho felt, really. Repeating the same thoughts, the same arguments, the same tired ache that never led anywhere.
He leaned back, closing his eyes. “You ever get tired of talking?” he muttered, mostly to himself.
Jaehyun hummed, still scrolling through samples. “Not really. I like talking. I just end up turning half of it into songs anyway.”
Sungho let out a small, dry laugh. “You’d hate film class, then.”
Jaehyun’s mouth tugged into a knowing smile. “Already do. You tell me way too many stories from it. Sounds like everyone’s trying to one-up each other with metaphors and misery.”
“Feels like one,” Sungho said, voice low, almost weary.
Jaehyun finally looked up from his laptop, studying him for a second. The tension in Sungho’s shoulders, the faint blue paint still smudged on his fingers from earlier. “You keep fighting wars that don’t exist,” he said softly. “You should just make your own film already.”
Sungho opened his mouth to argue, but then sighed instead, head falling back against his bed. “Maybe one day.”
Jaehyun stopped typing for a moment, finally turning to look at him. His eyes softened, the teasing fading just a bit. “Want me to play you something?”
Sungho hesitated, then nodded faintly. “Yeah. Just… something quiet.”
Jaehyun pressed a few keys, and the sound that came out was slow, almost tender—notes that felt like the kind of silence Sungho had been craving all day. For once, neither of them said anything. The music filled the gaps, and it was enough.
Sungho sighed again, heavier this time, and dropped his bag to the floor with a dull thud. “They don’t get it,” he started, rubbing at his temple. “It’s not that the film was bad—it’s just that everyone keeps pretending it’s some profound masterpiece when it’s literally just so… loud.”
Jaehyun said nothing, just kept typing something on his laptop, the faint hum of the melody he was working on threading quietly through the room.
“They kept saying it was raw emotion,” Sungho continued, pacing now, his voice sharper with each word. “But it wasn’t. It was chaos. There was no pause, no silence, no breathing. It’s like they’re all afraid of stillness, like a movie can’t be good unless it screams every second.”
Jaehyun looked up briefly, expression unreadable, before going back to his screen. He wasn’t ignoring him—Sungho knew that. Jaehyun had this quiet way of listening, like he was letting every word find its place in his head before reacting.
“And then that one guy said it was a metaphor for life—” Sungho groaned, throwing his hands in the air. “Like no, sometimes it’s just bad pacing! Not everything is a metaphor!”
He stopped by the window, looking out into the dark courtyard. “I just— I don’t know. Maybe I’m too cynical. Or maybe I just want something real, something that doesn’t feel like it’s trying too hard to matter.”
When he turned around, Jaehyun was watching him quietly, elbows resting on his knees, the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Sorry,” Sungho muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to turn your workspace into a therapy session.”
Jaehyun shook his head slowly, still looking at him. “Don’t be. Keep going.”
And for the first time that day, Sungho exhaled—just a little, just enough to let himself exist in the silence Jaehyun offered without demanding anything in return.
“It just felt so… loud,” Sungho said at last, his voice quieter now, the edges of his frustration softening into something else—something that almost sounded like hurt. He sat down on the floor by Jaehyun’s bed, his back against the wall, knees drawn loosely to his chest. “Everything about it—every line, every shot—was screaming. Like they were trying so hard to prove that love means noise. That if it isn’t loud, it doesn’t count.”
Jaehyun tilted his head, putting both his legs up on his work chair.
Sungho stared at his hands for a long moment. “But I don’t think love should be that way,” he went on, his words slower now, hesitant, as if he was still tasting them. “I feel like… love shouldn’t be loud all the time. It should breathe, you know? It should have space to exist without begging to be noticed.” He swallowed, a small, tired laugh escaping his throat. “But maybe that’s just me being stupidly sentimental.”
Jaehyun finally spoke, his voice calm but steady. “Doesn’t sound stupid to me.”
Sungho looked up, meeting his gaze. Jaehyun’s expression was quiet—thoughtful in that way that always made Sungho feel like he was being seen, not just heard.
“You ever notice,” Jaehyun continued, “how in all your favorite movies, the best parts are the quiet ones? When no one’s talking, no one’s proving anything—it’s just… there. The moment.”
Sungho blinked, a breath catching in his throat. He wanted to respond, to say exactly, but the word stayed trapped behind his teeth.
The room felt smaller suddenly. Softer. The hum of Jaehyun’s computer, the faint buzz of the lights above, the quiet between them—it was all there, filling the silence that didn’t need to be broken.
“Yeah,” Sungho said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I just like the quiet kind of love.”
Jaehyun smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair. “Then maybe that’s what makes you different from everyone else.”
“You think so?” Sungho asked, almost shyly this time—though he’d never admit it out loud. His voice had lost that sharpness from earlier, replaced by something softer, almost uncertain.
Jaehyun looked up from his guitar, the strings still humming faintly beneath his fingers. “I’ve known you since seventh grade, Park Sungho,” he said, smiling in that familiar, lopsided way that made Sungho’s chest ache. “Obviously I do.”
Sungho rolled his eyes, but the faint tug at the corner of his lips betrayed him. “You make it sound like I’m that easy to read.”
“You are,” Jaehyun said simply, strumming another lazy chord. “You talk with your silences, you know? When you’re mad, you paint. When you’re sad, you clean. When you’re overthinking, you start pacing. And when you talk about movies—really talk about them—you start sounding like you’re describing the person you want to love.”
That made Sungho pause. The air in the room felt heavier suddenly, like it understood what neither of them could quite say aloud.
He exhaled, slow, steady. “That’s a little creepy, Myungjae.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Jaehyun laughed quietly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “But it’s true.”
Sungho didn’t respond right away. He just looked at him—the way Jaehyun’s hair fell into his eyes, the way the light from his desk lamp cut across his jaw, the way everything about him always felt so damn easy.
It was infuriating, really.
And yet, there was comfort in that—like coming home to something he didn’t realize he’d been missing.
“…You still play too loud,” Sungho muttered after a while.
Jaehyun chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You like it.”
Sungho didn’t deny it this time.
And then at one point, both their phones got a notification at the same time.
dongmin
my roommate just renamed me to taesan
me
amazing first day stuff going for you
myungjae ❣️
LMFAO???
dongmin
I might crash out.
why am i already a whole new personality..
Sungho leaned back in his chair, trying not to laugh but already failing. “God, he’s been in college for what—five hours? And he’s already being rebranded?”
“Oh, Dongmin,” Jaehyun said, shaking his head fondly. “Kid barely made it through eighth grade without giving himself an identity crisis, and now he’s getting one forced on him.”
Sungho reached for his phone to look at the message again, squinting at the message like it would somehow make more sense if he stared long enough. “At least it’s not Nuwanda,” he muttered finally, almost under his breath.
Jaehyun laughed—loud, full, the kind that made the room feel alive again. “You did not just bring up Dead Poets Society in the middle of this.”
“Come on,” Sungho said, pretending to sound offended. “If his roommate’s going around renaming people, it’s giving heavy Nuwanda energy.”
“Yeah, well,” Jaehyun replied, smirking. “If Dongmin’s gonna start standing on desks and shouting ‘O Captain! My Captain!’ next, I’m blocking him.”
Sungho laughed, a soft, genuine sound that melted the tension from earlier. “You won’t,” he said, smiling faintly. “You’d write a song about it.”
Jaehyun pretended to think about it. “…Yeah, probably.”
The two of them fell into an easy silence after that—the kind only long friendships could carry.
Neither of them knew, of course, that somewhere in another building, Dongmin—now Taesan—was about to lose his mind. Unaware that this small, random message would one day be one of the things they’d all look back on with an ache so deep it almost felt holy.
It went silent for a bit.
Then a quiet “Sungho?” came out of Jaehyun’s mouth.
He was halfway through cleaning his brushes, the smell of acrylic and turpentine mixing faintly with the cold air from the open window. He didn’t even look up. “Yeah?”
Jaehyun paused. There was a stretch of quiet—soft, fragile—like the moment before a song fades out. His voice came out smaller than he meant it to. “Nevermind.”
Sungho glanced over his shoulder, one brow raised. “What?”
“Nothing,” Jaehyun said again, shaking his head and forcing a crooked smile. “Forget it.”
Sungho rolled his eyes, setting his brush down on the edge of the jar. “Fucking loser.”
Jaehyun laughed under his breath, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Whatever.” he murmured.
The sound of the running tap filled the silence, water slapping softly against the sink as Sungho washed the paint from his hands. The blue-violet streaks faded into the drain, disappearing just like the words Jaehyun never said.
Outside, the night pressed itself against the glass—heavy, patient. And between them, something quiet lingered, unspoken but alive.
“Wanna watch a stupid movie tonight?”
Sungho’s voice came from the corner of the room, muffled slightly by the brush handle between his teeth as he rummaged through his box of paints. He didn’t look up, but Jaehyun could hear the faint grin in his tone—the one that always came out when Sungho was too tired to be serious.
Jaehyun, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor with his laptop balanced on his knees, looked up. “Yeah, sure. What kind of stupid?”
Sungho finally straightened, brush still in hand, smudges of dried green paint on his knuckles. “Adam Sandler type of stupid movies,” he said, flicking his wrist like he was making an announcement to a crowd instead of just one person.
Jaehyun leaned back against the bed frame, the glow from his screen casting soft light across his face. “Alright, then.”
There was a small pause. The kind that made the air feel heavier in a way neither of them addressed. Sungho tossed the brush aside and sat beside Jaehyun on the floor, too close for it to be casual, too natural for it to be deliberate. Their knees brushed, barely, and neither moved away.
“What’s this one?” Sungho asked, glancing at the screen as Jaehyun scrolled through one of the many not-very-legal sites they both use when Sungho asked him if they could watch a movie for his next class.
“Does it matter?” Jaehyun said, half-smiling. “You’ll probably fall asleep halfway.”
“I don’t fall asleep during movies,” Sungho scoffed, leaning in just a bit to jab his shoulder against Jaehyun’s. “You’re just boring.”
Jaehyun tilted his head, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You keep calling me boring but you never hang out with anyone else.”
“That’s because everyone else is more boring.” Sungho’s tone was light, teasing, but there was a softness behind it—a quiet fondness that slipped through the cracks of his sarcasm.
Jaehyun laughed quietly, shaking his head as he pressed play. The opening credits flickered across their faces in flashes of gold and white.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The room filled with the sound of dialogue from the movie, the faint hum of the radiator, the rhythm of their breathing falling in sync. Sungho’s head tilted slightly toward Jaehyun’s shoulder, almost unconsciously, and Jaehyun glanced at him from the corner of his eye—how the light made his features softer, how he bit his lip when trying not to laugh.
“Hey,” Jaehyun whispered, voice barely audible.
Sungho hummed in response without looking up.
“You look—” Jaehyun stopped himself. Too much. Too honest. “You look like you’re actually enjoying it.”
Sungho chuckled, eyes still on the screen. “Told you. I like stupid movies.”
Jaehyun smiled, slow and quiet. “Yeah,” he said softly, “me too.”
And when Sungho’s laughter filled the room a few seconds later, Jaehyun realized it wasn’t the movie that made the night feel lighter—it was him.
They were watching Click.
It was stupid—exactly the kind of stupid Sungho wanted to see. Cheap laughs, awkward humor, and those overly sentimental Adam Sandler moments that made you question why you were suddenly tearing up over a remote control.
At first, Sungho was loud about it. He kept making sarcastic comments under his breath, throwing popcorn into Jaehyun’s hair, groaning every time the main character did something dumb. Jaehyun didn’t mind; he liked hearing him talk, and liked how his voice filled the quiet corners of the room that would’ve otherwise been empty.
But somewhere halfway through the movie, something shifted.
The laughter softened. The jokes stopped. The remote—meant to rewind and fast-forward through life—had started to become something more than a joke.
Jaehyun noticed the way Sungho’s smile faded. He was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes caught somewhere between the screen and his own reflection in it. His voice, when he finally spoke, was small. “It’s stupid, but… it kind of hurts, doesn’t it?”
Jaehyun didn’t answer right away. He just hummed softly, watching the glow of the movie play across Sungho’s face. “Yeah,” he said finally. “The kind that sneaks up on you.”
Sungho chuckled weakly, shaking his head. “It’s supposed to be funny, but it feels like it’s making fun of me instead.”
Jaehyun smiled faintly at that. “You’d probably try to pause time too.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Sungho turned to him then, eyes tired but curious. “Just to fix things before they fall apart?”
Jaehyun hesitated. He looked at Sungho’s face—the faint paint stains still on his cheek, the sadness that lingered under the dim light—and exhaled. “No,” he said softly. “I think I’d rather just… stay where I am.”
Sungho blinked, something unreadable passing through his expression. “Even if it hurts?”
“Especially if it hurts,” Jaehyun murmured.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The movie played on, the world outside forgotten. It wasn’t about Adam Sandler anymore. It was about the quiet in between them—the way the air felt heavier, slower, like the universe had given them both a remote and hit pause.
When the credits rolled, Sungho leaned back, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, laughing under his breath. “God, I can’t believe I cried over Click.”
Jaehyun smiled faintly. “You always cry when it’s real.”
Sungho looked at him then, really looked—eyes soft, lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
Instead, he laughed again, this time quieter. “You make everything sound deeper than it should be.”
Jaehyun tilted his head, smile small but lingering. “Maybe you just feel things more than you think you do.”
And as the screen dimmed to black, neither of them reached for the remote.
For once, neither of them wanted to fast-forward through the quiet.
The credits had stopped rolling a while ago, but neither of them moved.
The only light left came from the laptop’s faint blue glow, washing the room in a kind of softness that made everything look slower, quieter—like even the air was holding its breath.
Sungho was half-lying against the armrest, his hoodie bunched up under his chin. His eyes looked heavy, not from sleep, but from something deeper, something he didn’t have the words for. Jaehyun sat beside him, one knee drawn up, hand loosely holding the remote he’d forgotten about ten minutes ago.
“Still thinking about it?” Jaehyun asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Sungho hummed, low and tired. “Maybe.” He turned his head toward him, a strand of hair falling across his eyes. “It’s stupid, I know. But the part where he just… ran out of time—” He stopped there, laughing softly to himself. “Never mind.”
Jaehyun’s eyes lingered on him a moment too long. He didn’t say anything, but something in his chest ached a little. He set the remote down on the couch between them, gently, like even that small sound might break the silence they’d built.
“It’s not stupid,” he said finally.
Sungho looked at him. Really looked this time. His gaze lingered somewhere near Jaehyun’s mouth before he looked away again, exhaling through his nose. “You always say that, dummy.”
“Because it’s always true.”
The air between them shifted—barely, but enough. The faint hum of the fridge from the kitchen, the sound of the city through the window, even the quiet static from the TV—it all seemed to fade.
Jaehyun turned his head slightly, resting his chin on the back of the couch. “You ever think about that? How easy it is to lose time?”
Sungho’s throat moved when he swallowed. “Sometimes,” he said. “But right now feels… slow enough.”
Jaehyun smiled at that, soft, almost invisible. “Good.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was full. Warm.
Jaehyun’s hand brushed against Sungho’s when he reached for the popcorn bowl, not by accident this time.
Neither of them pulled away.
Outside, it started to rain, faint at first, then steadier—gentle taps against the window, syncing with the quiet rhythm of their breaths.
Sungho leaned back into the couch, eyes half-closed, voice quiet enough that Jaehyun almost missed it. “You ever wish moments could stay like this?”
Jaehyun’s reply came just as softly. “They do. Sometimes.”
And maybe it was the rain, or the way Sungho’s shoulder brushed his when he shifted closer—but the world felt paused again, just for them.